Jane's Dilemma by Jamie Allen (© 2008)
On Thursday, Jane decided to murder her husband. It wasn’t that Donald was mean to her. Or that he neglected her. He wasn’t abusive. He was just boring.
And that Thursday he hadn’t done anything to provoke her decision. Nor had he forgotten or missed anything. No more had Alex, the man Jane loved, in any way made that Thursday remarkable. Indeed, Jane hadn’t seen Alex that day. And Donald had been perfectly normal. Normal and boring.
How to do it came to Jane very suddenly, shortly after the resolve itself, in something like a burst of genius. She knew that it was Donald’s daily custom to take a constitutional along the cliff tops between five and six, before dinner. Jane had always found that hour thrilling. Sometimes, she would sit at home doing the Telegraph’s sudoku. Sometimes, she would ask Alex over.
Now, Alex was a thief - he’d once returned from “just washing my hands” the better for a tube of toothpaste (that hadn’t been cheap) and a bottle of Donald’s cologne - but Jane didn’t mind, because she loved him. At least he had character.
Yes, she would have to kill Donald. This evening; a push would suffice. Donald need not even see her, or know what was really happening. It would be a tremendous drip. He would never be found. She could discuss it later with Alex, and they could concoct a feasible cover.
Perhaps she’d say that he’d left her. That would pasteurise the old prunes at the hairdresser’s more than the news that - at last! - she’d finished him off…
Jane laughed an exclamation mark to cap that thought.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that the decision to murder was actually a very big one, quite possibly the biggest decision of her life. Potentially, it was more life changing than her recent baptism, during which the senile bishop had forgotten to bless the holy water and subsequently used it to make the squash. Infinitely more life changing. Nothing was changing as it was.
Exciting. Sitting in the car, about to drive the usual route from work, save that rather important diversion at a quarter past five, she physically could not turn the key in the ignition: he fingers strummed against the steering wheel, apparently by themselves. So, something was holding her. What? The practicalities? Logistics? No. It’d be fine. The motive?
There was the rub… She had no tangible reason, and she preferred doing things properly. Yes, he was boring, and yes that made killing him justified, but there had to be a big, blunt, solid thing beyond that. Something Jane could point out years later and say, “That’s why I did it.”
Alex was big, blunt and solid. But Donald knew all about Alex and was fine with it, in his infuriatingly boring way. When Jane had declared as melodramatically as possible that she was “having an affair!” - having got through a weak sherry and a week of Eastenders for inspiration - Donald had simply raised the corner of the Telegraph and an eyebrow, and said that that explained what had become of his Parker pen.
Jane had wept for days. And she’d wept even more when her husband hadn’t noticed her weeping. He’d reacted in the textbook way, offering comfort but no sympathy. So normal. So boring. So Donald.
What was that grinding noise? Her teeth, Jane realised as she found herself racing down the highway.
There was the cliff top, miles away from anyhere. There was the lone figure, looking out to sea. Right on the edge, a risk surely too scandalous for his boring, safe, boring system. A childish rhyme, which one upon a time she’d believed was a tongue twister ran through Jane’s mind. A sailor went to sea, sea, sea,
To see what he could see, see, see.
But all that he could see, see, see
Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea.
A lot of clapping had been involved. In those days she’d had friends.
Jane parked a little way off and crept up by foot. She didn’t ant her husband to see his assassin, so tried to remain silent and square behind him. It felt like the closer she got, the more boring he became. Every crease that revealed itself on that billowing raincoat as she got nearer betrayed a normal, boring raincoat. The whiff of that cologne as it got stronger betrayed a once adventurous but now conservative, boring taste in fragrance.
It wasn’t hard to push him over. Jane nearly lost her wedding ring in the process, so strong was the force behind the hand she thrust into the folds of that uninspired raincoat. Which was falling, plummeting, a scene from… Take a Break…
She couldn’t look down.
It was starting to snow, so she hurried back to the car - she wasn’t dressed for snow. She would have to make Donald some cocoa (a tradition in this weather), Jane thought, then checked herself. Never need she make cocoa again!
All the same, a nice mug of hot chocolate wouldn’t go amiss. Home, then, and to the kettle!
The drive took about twenty minutes; Jane was speeding as the weather looked set only to get worse. To her surprise, she found that she’d left the front door unlocked. It was something she’d never neglected before. But, strung as she was, she felt she could forgive herself.
“I’m back, darling,” she called, half-ironically, half out of habit.
“Good to see you, darling,” said Donald, emerging from the hall and pecking her on the cheek, as usual.
Jane fancied she turned a very nasty colour.
“I… the… Donald… it’s… it’s snowing, Donald.”
“Yes, it is. Very exciting.”
“Has anything… exciting… happened to you, Donald?” She closed the door and propped herself up against it.
Her husband sighed. “I mastered the Telegraph crossword in three minutes. Saw your toy boy on the cliffs curing my constitution. It looked like my anorak on his back, and he’s been helping himself to my cologne, you know.”
“Yes, he has,” said Jane, examining her hand, watching the ring catch the electric light. “I’ll just make your cocoa.”
The End
And that Thursday he hadn’t done anything to provoke her decision. Nor had he forgotten or missed anything. No more had Alex, the man Jane loved, in any way made that Thursday remarkable. Indeed, Jane hadn’t seen Alex that day. And Donald had been perfectly normal. Normal and boring.
How to do it came to Jane very suddenly, shortly after the resolve itself, in something like a burst of genius. She knew that it was Donald’s daily custom to take a constitutional along the cliff tops between five and six, before dinner. Jane had always found that hour thrilling. Sometimes, she would sit at home doing the Telegraph’s sudoku. Sometimes, she would ask Alex over.
Now, Alex was a thief - he’d once returned from “just washing my hands” the better for a tube of toothpaste (that hadn’t been cheap) and a bottle of Donald’s cologne - but Jane didn’t mind, because she loved him. At least he had character.
Yes, she would have to kill Donald. This evening; a push would suffice. Donald need not even see her, or know what was really happening. It would be a tremendous drip. He would never be found. She could discuss it later with Alex, and they could concoct a feasible cover.
Perhaps she’d say that he’d left her. That would pasteurise the old prunes at the hairdresser’s more than the news that - at last! - she’d finished him off…
Jane laughed an exclamation mark to cap that thought.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that the decision to murder was actually a very big one, quite possibly the biggest decision of her life. Potentially, it was more life changing than her recent baptism, during which the senile bishop had forgotten to bless the holy water and subsequently used it to make the squash. Infinitely more life changing. Nothing was changing as it was.
Exciting. Sitting in the car, about to drive the usual route from work, save that rather important diversion at a quarter past five, she physically could not turn the key in the ignition: he fingers strummed against the steering wheel, apparently by themselves. So, something was holding her. What? The practicalities? Logistics? No. It’d be fine. The motive?
There was the rub… She had no tangible reason, and she preferred doing things properly. Yes, he was boring, and yes that made killing him justified, but there had to be a big, blunt, solid thing beyond that. Something Jane could point out years later and say, “That’s why I did it.”
Alex was big, blunt and solid. But Donald knew all about Alex and was fine with it, in his infuriatingly boring way. When Jane had declared as melodramatically as possible that she was “having an affair!” - having got through a weak sherry and a week of Eastenders for inspiration - Donald had simply raised the corner of the Telegraph and an eyebrow, and said that that explained what had become of his Parker pen.
Jane had wept for days. And she’d wept even more when her husband hadn’t noticed her weeping. He’d reacted in the textbook way, offering comfort but no sympathy. So normal. So boring. So Donald.
What was that grinding noise? Her teeth, Jane realised as she found herself racing down the highway.
There was the cliff top, miles away from anyhere. There was the lone figure, looking out to sea. Right on the edge, a risk surely too scandalous for his boring, safe, boring system. A childish rhyme, which one upon a time she’d believed was a tongue twister ran through Jane’s mind. A sailor went to sea, sea, sea,
To see what he could see, see, see.
But all that he could see, see, see
Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea.
A lot of clapping had been involved. In those days she’d had friends.
Jane parked a little way off and crept up by foot. She didn’t ant her husband to see his assassin, so tried to remain silent and square behind him. It felt like the closer she got, the more boring he became. Every crease that revealed itself on that billowing raincoat as she got nearer betrayed a normal, boring raincoat. The whiff of that cologne as it got stronger betrayed a once adventurous but now conservative, boring taste in fragrance.
It wasn’t hard to push him over. Jane nearly lost her wedding ring in the process, so strong was the force behind the hand she thrust into the folds of that uninspired raincoat. Which was falling, plummeting, a scene from… Take a Break…
She couldn’t look down.
It was starting to snow, so she hurried back to the car - she wasn’t dressed for snow. She would have to make Donald some cocoa (a tradition in this weather), Jane thought, then checked herself. Never need she make cocoa again!
All the same, a nice mug of hot chocolate wouldn’t go amiss. Home, then, and to the kettle!
The drive took about twenty minutes; Jane was speeding as the weather looked set only to get worse. To her surprise, she found that she’d left the front door unlocked. It was something she’d never neglected before. But, strung as she was, she felt she could forgive herself.
“I’m back, darling,” she called, half-ironically, half out of habit.
“Good to see you, darling,” said Donald, emerging from the hall and pecking her on the cheek, as usual.
Jane fancied she turned a very nasty colour.
“I… the… Donald… it’s… it’s snowing, Donald.”
“Yes, it is. Very exciting.”
“Has anything… exciting… happened to you, Donald?” She closed the door and propped herself up against it.
Her husband sighed. “I mastered the Telegraph crossword in three minutes. Saw your toy boy on the cliffs curing my constitution. It looked like my anorak on his back, and he’s been helping himself to my cologne, you know.”
“Yes, he has,” said Jane, examining her hand, watching the ring catch the electric light. “I’ll just make your cocoa.”
The End
