Janita Lawrence - The Memory of Water

Francina had to drive me to the hospital that day. Me, trying to stem the flow of blood so as to not a) die and b) stain the champagne suede interior of my Jag, with Francina trying to work out the difference between the accelerator and the brake. We arrived and parked at the hospital in starts and jerks of the V8. Francina, flaunting the key ring to other bruised, beaten and bleeding patients, wouldn’t stop beaming for the hour we spent in the emergency waiting room (it was only then she confided she couldn’t drive). Eight stitches and a reattached index phalange later, I let her drive us home again.

I haven’t seen Francina since the party a week ago. She’s usually very good at calling me if she can’t make it to work, but I haven’t heard anything and Thursday was her second no-show. So I’m a little worried but I’m sure there’s a good reason. Like a fashion emergency. The house is still a war zone of sharp objects and party stains.

I’m quite glad to have the privacy anyway. My mind map takes up the entire kitchen table and the last thing I need is Francina in a tutu, mid-vacuum, popping bubble gum, trying to figure it out.

I have some small mementoes of Eve I don’t stick to the map. A picnic serviette marked with her pale lip-gloss, a tortoiseshell hairclip, a Polaroid of us at a fancy dress party. Despite my general good spirits there are fleeting moments of sadness that I don’t have Eve anymore. We were, at stages, incredibly close. At times I have felt that I would do anything for her. The thing that drew us together, I think, is that we’re both pretty much loners. Both had a nasty childhood, both find our salvation in our art.

“Deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.”

Sifiso picks up on the first ring.

“CONGRATULATIONS! I knew you could do it! When can I see it? The suits are going to be so RELIEVED!”

“Sifiso, I…”

“I TOLD them you still had it in you. To be honest, I had my BALLS on the line.”

Before I can stop it, the image of Sifiso’s black hairy balls is firmly imprinted in my front temporal lobe. In my head, I gag.

“So, I don’t have the actual manuscript yet…”

Silence on the other side.

“I’ve cracked something that I know will work. It’ll be my best yet.”

Still nothing.

“So I didn’t want you to worry. That’s why I called. Er… Hello?”

A sigh reaches me.

“Look, Harris, you must tell me if you need anything. ANYTHING. Whatever will help you FINISH this thing.”

“That’s kind.”

“It’s got nothing to do with being KIND.”

“Got any muses in your artillery? Preferably blonde with great tits?”

I’m only kidding. Ha ha.

“Sifiso, I’m only…”

The line goes dead.

So this is the plan I have finally decided on:

I break into the house before Eve gets home from work to do the prep work. I say ‘break in’ but really, we have each other’s house keys for mutual house-sitting so I’m just going to let myself in. In my mind I have come up with a cunning plan that involves stealing her keys for half an hour, having copies made and replacing them before she notices. I would do it for real except that she’s not speaking to me, so it would be complicated.

At 4pm I’ll park my Jag a street down at the local shops where there are lots of cars and walk the kilometre to her building with my backpack. Once inside I’ll pour the GHB powder into the kettle and wait for her to come home. After drinking her Oolong she’ll feel light, uninhibited and disorientated. Because it’s still early and she won’t want to go to bed, maybe she’ll decide to have a bath. If she doesn’t I’ll step out of her bedroom cupboard and run one for her, help her into it. By that stage she won’t think it’s unusual that I’m there. When she’s in I’ll kneel down at the side with her and hold her hand. Tell her she’s beautiful and I will always love her. Kiss her lightly on the forehead and the lips, like putting a child to bed. I need to be up close. And when she’s completely relaxed and has her eyes closed, I will unwrap the knife I have brought and stick it through her ribs and into her heart. Her eyes will flutter open, she’ll look at me, wanting to know what has happened, why she has this heaviness in her chest, why she feels her colour is fading. Then I’ll pull it out and she’ll close her eyes again and it will be over. She will bleed then. Bright red bathwater against the porcelain of her skin. The gentlest murder ever committed.

Or rather, not committed, as I have to keep reminding myself.

I’ll dry her with a soft towel and dress her in clean clothes, cutting them over her chest where she has this new slit in her body, so initially it’ll look like something from the car, like the steering column, has punctured her. I’ll lay her out on her perfectly made bed and wait until 3am when there’s little chance of running into anyone while I carry the body to her car. Enjoy the quiet drive to the river. Once we’re there I’ll put her on my lap while I drive as fast as I can over the bridge and slam into the water below. This is one thing I’ve done before so I know how to get out of it. I know how quickly the water rushes at you and holds you in, wanting you to stay. I know the pressure exerted on the car from the heavy water outside makes it almost impossible to open a door. Jams the windows. I must remember to not panic when I realise I can’t move, can’t get away, that I have to take off my safety belt.

Then I will touch Eve’s skin for the last time and swim away.

I’ll have a car waiting in the trees nearby, with dry clothes in the boot. Drive the hour back to the parking lot at the shops while listening to Depeche Mode and swap cars. Leave the keys with the café owner as organised with the car hire company, with my fake driver’s license (an international driving permit for only fifteen pounds from www.fakepermit.co.uk). I uploaded a jpeg of my ID photo and the card was in my letterbox within days. It’s convincing enough and comes with a very attractive hologram design. Apparently my credit card statement will read ‘Greeting Cards Galore (PTY) LTD.’, in the same way as when you’ve been to the strip club and your statement reads ‘T# Restaurant’ instead of Teazers (I’m not quite sure who this is supposed to fool).

Once I put my key in the front door of my house I think I’m home free. But that’s the thing. I mean if I really were to go through with it, there would be hitches and mistakes, all the better for the story.

Perhaps when I let myself into her apartment, she’s already there. Maybe her car is at the garage for an aircon re-gas, so I surmise that she’s not home but then end up walking bang into her, in the kitchen. I say I was going to surprise her and she looks around for champagne and roses. Instead, she finds ground-up sedative and a murder weapon wrapped in a fluffy towel.

Or else the GHB doesn’t work: the scumbags have sold me dyed aspirin or speed and, when I step out of the bedroom cupboard she gets the fright of her life and shoots me between the eyes with the 9mm Beretta I never knew she had. Then she’ll feel awful, so awful for shooting her friend in the head: she’ll cry and groan and throw herself over me. Dial for an ambulance, scream into the phone.

Until she discovers the contents of the backpack and then she’ll jump away from the bag and my prostrate body, as if from a wolf spider, cancel the emergency services, wait for me to bleed out, call the police. She’ll sit on the edge of her bed, blood-splattered, gun hanging from limp hand, and look at me with a lost expression. The confusion will lead to exhilaration when she realises she has just cheated death and her heart will pump away.