Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

And his life with Imogen carried on being sweeter than he could ever have imagined. Every evening, it seemed to him, Imogen reinvented sexual pleasure. She took him to new heights, doing new things to his body that he could never, ever have dreamed of. He just loved everything they did together, in bed and out of it. He even found himself enjoying things he had once considered chores, like accompanying her food shopping, and even clothes shopping. And all the time they talked and talked. She was a voracious reader of newspapers and books, absorbing everything, and she had intelligent views on every topic they discussed.

Then one Saturday morning, shopping in the Marks & Spencer superstore at Brighton’s Holmbush Centre, his arm around Imogen as they headed towards the food hall to select items for their dinner, Clive stopped in his tracks. There, walking down the aisle towards him, was Shirley.

Clive instantly turned, sweeping Imogen around, and rapidly led her away, convinced he had seen a ghost. He dragged her out of the store and into the car, wondering, had he imagined it?

‘What’s the matter, my darling?’ Imogen asked sweetly.

‘I’d rather go to Tesco,’ he said.

‘Tesco’s good,’ she replied.

That was one of the many things he loved about her. She never questioned his decisions. But, boy, was he shaken. That couldn’t have been Shirley. Impossible! It was his imagination playing tricks. His guilty conscience?

Had to be.

All the same, when he tried to make love to Imogen that night, he couldn’t perform, despite everything she tried. With every caress, every touch of her lips, he saw Shirley walking down the food hall aisle towards him.

Then on Monday morning, driving up Brighton’s Queen’s Road to the station to catch his regular commuter train to London, Clive suddenly saw Shirley walking along the street, heading to the station herself.

Impossible!

As he turned his head he failed to notice that all the cars in front of him had stopped for a red light. Too late, he jammed on the brakes and slammed into the rear of a large, bronze Jaguar. As he climbed out, a furious-looking short, fat man clambered out of the Jaguar. To his amazement he recognized Harry Tucker, their plump, odious table companion from the cruise last year.

‘My God!’ he said. ‘Harry! Harry Tucker! Remember me? Clive Marples from the cruise last year — the Gloriana ? I’m so sorry!’

Not entirely surprisingly, considering the circumstances, Harry did not seem at all pleased to see him, and appeared very flustered and distracted. They exchanged few words. Harry seemed in a hurry to swap insurance details, ignoring all Clive’s questions about how he was and what had brought him down to Brighton. Then he drove off after muttering vague promises about calling him and meeting up for a drink sometime.

On the train, Clive sat, deep in thought, mystified by the strange encounter. Had he imagined Shirley? Had he imagined Harry? Had he seen a ghost? Could Shirley possibly still be alive? Could Harry Tucker be having an affair with her?

But how the hell could she still be alive? It was impossible. The thought was absurd! But Clive could not stop thinking about the two extraordinary coincidences. He fretted about it all day. That evening, arriving back at the station, he hurried across the car park to his Lexus and went straight to the front of it. There indeed was a dent, and a broken headlight.

A week later, seated at a table at a restaurant in Brighton with Imogen, he saw, across the room, Harry and Shirley being shown in by the maître d’ and seated at a table only a short distance away.

This time there was no mistaking. It was Harry and Shirley. Holding hands. Chinking Champagne glasses. Clearly deeply into each other.

Despite his efforts to keep his head low, he realized that Harry, who was facing his way, had recognized him. But Shirley had not.

A few minutes later, Harry got up and headed towards the toilets, giving him a nod on the way. Clive joined him at the urinal. Before he could utter a word to Harry, who seemed embarrassed as hell, Harry said, ‘Clive I know this must sound pretty weird to you. But before Doreen and I went on that cruise I discovered this amazing site on the internet called DreamWife.com. You pay quite a big sum and they issue you with a watch that can scan memories and faces and create your dream woman, out of anyone you meet and fancy.’

‘Really?’ Clive said, feigning surprise.

‘It’s amazing! Well, here’s the thing — sorry I was short with you the other day over that prang.’

‘You had every reason to be.’

‘Didn’t want to get drawn into a conversation about why I was down in Brighton. Shirley had a hankering to visit. You see, I took an incredible fancy to your Shirley on that cruise.’ Then he held up his watch. The one identical to the one Clive had worn on the cruise. ‘A scanner, just like yours, right?’

Clive said nothing.

‘I’ve had it a while. I used it on the cruise to download stuff from your Shirley’s brain and to take pictures of her. The only thing was I forgot to switch it off when the download was complete! When I returned home, I sent it all to DreamWife and requested a replica of her. Then I dumped Doreen. I only took delivery of Shirley a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t think you’d mind, too much, seeing how badly you and she were getting on. And then with her being dead and all that?’ He grinned, lasciviously. ‘Dunno why you weren’t getting on, she’s a cracker. My God, she’s a goer!’

‘I’m glad you’re finding that, Harry,’ he said.

‘She’s wild, mate! Know what I mean? Never known a lady like it in the sack! You don’t mind?’

‘Be my guest.’

Clive was feeling a terrible stab of panic. How much did Shirley remember? What the hell was she going to be telling this fat dickhead?

Then Harry Tucker put an avuncular arm around him. ‘She told me everything, Clive,’ Harry said. ‘How she was seasick, and you took her out on the rear deck and then threw her overboard. Don’t worry, matey, I know it all.’

‘You do?’

‘I don’t mind a bit! How else would we have got together? Seems like you did us both a big favour! Our little secret, eh?’

‘Our little secret.’

Harry gave him a pat on the back. Then he nodded back towards the dining room. ‘That bird you’re with, she’s a cracker.’

‘Thank you, Harry. She is.’

‘Oh, I know! I know she is. You can just tell, can’t you? Maybe we should go on another cruise sometime? In a year or two when you’re getting bored of her. Give me a call. Just give me a call. I’d always be up for it. Know what I mean?’ He winked.

Clive returned to his table. As he sat down, Imogen said, ‘That man you were in the loo with — how do you know him?’

‘I met him in another life.’

She smiled wistfully. ‘So did I.’

Fifteen years ago I wrote a short story about a man who gets buried alive in a stag-night prank that subsequently goes horribly wrong.

It was about a guy, Michael Harrison, who is extremely unreliable, but who persuades his beloved Ashley to marry him, on the promise that he’s going to change his ways. Then, on his stag night, his friends decide to pay him back, big time, for all the terrible pranks he has played on some of them on their stag nights... by burying him alive, in remote woodlands, for a couple of hours. They intend to return within two hours to dig him up again, but it all goes south.

I never put this story forward for publication because I always felt there was something more that I could make of it than simply ending it the way I did. That turned out to be a good decision. One of the best I’ve ever made in my life! Because many years later I realized that what I had, rather than being a short story with a short shocker of an ending, was actually the start of a novel. Dead Simple became my most successful novel, and it launched the Roy Grace series.