Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

Way back in the early, heady days of their relationship, when he had been head over heels in lust — and in love — with Shirley, she would often show off a new dress to him when he came home from work. And back then, each time she did so, he would hold her in his arms, kissing her neck and gently reaching around behind her to unzip or unbutton the dress, until it slid down to the floor. Then he’d nuzzle her ear and tell her that the dress a man most liked to see on a woman was the one he most wanted her to take off.

That was then. Now, when he saw each new one, he desperately wanted her to keep it on. All night if possible. Even in the bath.

But Clive was sustained by his plans. The ones he carefully nurtured for life after the cruise. The plans for his new life. While Shirley continued relentlessly shopping for her cruise wardrobe, Clive wrote down another list altogether. His secret list. The requirements that he would be giving to the DreamWife Corporation.

And finally the big day arrived!

On their first night at sea, as the SS Gloriana sailed from Southampton, Clive and Shirley — who was wearing a particularly slinky first-night-at-sea gown — found themselves sharing a table with a grim couple. Plump, bald and boastful, Harry Tucker, was a self-made mail-order-cutlery tycoon, and his even ghastlier wife, Doreen, a peroxided sixty-year-old blonde who wore a frou-frou miniskirt and high-heeled leopard-skin bootees.

‘Nice watch!’ Harry Tucker said to him admiringly.

‘Thank you,’ Clive said, and dutifully admired back the large chunk of male bling attached to the fat man’s wrist, realizing it was almost identical to his own.

‘We’ve obviously got the same taste in watches,’ Tucker said. ‘I collect them, actually.’

‘I like watches, too,’ Clive said evasively.

‘I’ve got two Breitlings. A Tag. A vintage Rolex Oyster, three Cartiers and a Patek Philippe.’

‘Very nice,’ Clive replied, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation about the provenance of his own watch.

Helped by the fact that Clive had secretly been lacing Shirley’s drinks, in the hope that she would pass out later before making any demands on him in bed, she began flirting shamelessly with Harry — while Doreen started flirting with him. Clive became a little worried about where this might be going. The ship’s photographer, who had already taken one snap of Clive and Shirley entering the dining room, now took another of the happy foursome at the table. Well, to be strictly accurate, happy threesome.

Their first night at sea was calm. For a change, it was Shirley, in an alcoholic stupor, who kept Clive awake by snoring, instead of the other way around. But he was fine with that. It gave him the excuse, not that he needed one, to dislike her even more intensely. They awoke to a gentle Atlantic swell, and when they were showered and dressed, they went down to breakfast. Shirley ate modestly for a change, just a few mouthfuls of a chocolate-coated cereal, her complexion a tad pale, while Clive happily munched his way through a full English. They whiled away the morning, checking out the geography of the ship, with Clive showing a particular interest in the stern, before having a Bridge lesson, accompanied by their new best friends, Harry and Doreen.

Clive couldn’t help noticing that Harry seemed to have taken a bit of a shine to Shirley, and she to Harry, and that was fine by him. Flirt away, baby, he thought.

By lunchtime the swell had increased. Shirley, increasingly pale now, managed a few mouthfuls of chicken salad, while Clive ate a lobster, followed by fillet steak and chips and then chocolate cake. In the afternoon they sat through a dull lecture on the Caribbean islands. Clive ate a hearty tea, while Shirley managed to down a cuppa and a solitary mouthful of dry toast.

By early evening, as they headed out towards the mid-Atlantic, the weather had deteriorated to a Force 7 gale. Shirley, lying back on their bed, her face the colour of alabaster, said, ‘Clive, darling, maybe you should go to dinner on your own.’

‘Nonsense, my love! Get dressed and a stiff brandy will sort you out!’

Holding her pudgy hand, he helped her up to the bar, where they met Harry and Doreen, both of them already quite smashed on Martinis. ‘Shirley’s feeling a bit off-colour!’ Clive announced.

‘A stiff brandy’s what you need! Brandy and ginger ale!’ Harry told her, and insisted on buying her a very large one. Followed by another. And then another. All of which was perfect, Clive thought. Harry was, unwittingly, doing his work for him. A short while later, in the dining room, Harry and Shirley were engrossed in conversation, and that was fine by Clive, too, as they downed first a bottle of fine white burgundy, then a bottle of red. What was less fine was the ghastly Doreen’s legs entwining themselves around his ankles, and her constant winking at him.

He played along with it, happy to see Shirley so distracted, drinking more and more as the Atlantic swell worsened. All around them, one at a time, people were getting up from their tables and staggering towards the exit. One old man fell over and had to be helped up and out by two Filipino waiters. As their puddings arrived, a huge, silver-haired woman, wearing what could best be described as a chiffon wigwam, fell over close by them and vomited on the carpet. As the stench reached their table, Shirley turned towards him and slurred, ‘Clive, darling, I shink I need shome fresh air.’

Excusing himself, he helped Shirley to her feet and escorted her, holding her tightly, towards the exit and up the stairs. Then he took her out onto the blustery deck in the pitch darkness.

‘Better, my darling?’ he asked.

‘Sh’I’m not shure.’

Slowly, steadily, he escorted her towards the rear of the ship, until they reached the stern rail. Below them was the turbulent wake, with flashes of phosphorescence dancing on it. He could feel the pitching and yawing of the great ship, its stabilizers increasingly ineffective against the rough sea. After a couple of hundred yards, the wake became invisible in the inky, moonless darkness.

‘Stare at the horizon, my love,’ he said, looking around at anything but. He was checking out the deck behind and above them. Checking carefully. Oh so carefully. Making sure there were no witnesses.

‘I–I shhhcnan’t see it,’ she said.

‘Maybe this will help,’ he replied, lowering his arms down to her waist. Then, with one swift movement, he hefted her heavy body up in the air and pitched her over the rail. She vanished without a sound. He listened for the splash, but never heard it. He stared down at the wake, but could see no sign of her. He stood for several minutes, shivering with cold, then turned around, looking about him, then up and around him again.

Then, stealthily, avoiding his face being seen by any crew or passengers, he made his way back down to their deck and along to their cabin.

In the morning, after a mostly sleepless night in which the sea had become even rougher, he climbed out of bed, showered and shaved, picked up the daily copy of the Gloriana News that had been slid under their door, hung the DO NOT DISTURB notice on the door handle, then made his way along to the dining room, where he found Harry sitting on his own at their table, tucking into bacon, sausage and black pudding, despite the now quite violent motion of the ship.

‘Morning, Clive!’ he greeted him chirpily. ‘No Shirley?’

‘She’s feeling a bit green this morning,’ he replied.

‘Doreen, too!’ Harry said. ‘No sea legs, these women!’

‘Too right! She spent most of the night vomiting.’

‘Just like Doreen!’

Clive had little appetite, but managed to down a couple of pieces of toast and a poached egg.