The bottle was cold to the touch. Could it really bring Roger back to her?
She removed the cassoulet from the oven, spooned out a portion into another dish and added a few drops of the green, translucent liquid. For a moment, she wondered whether she should let him go quietly but no, nothing would be gained by being weak.
She had suspected he was having an affair for some time. All that overtime and nights spent away from home, the usual feeble excuses. She had said nothing, waiting for it to blow over, but then her friend Ros had said, “Have you met Roger’s secretary? They’d been seen on the downs, late at night, in his car. I wanted to tell you before anyone else did,” Ros said.
Sylvia laughed. Such a cliche. “It wasn’t Roger, he’s a bit old for clandestine meetings in the back of a car,” she said, but she knew it was true. Roger didn’t look directly at her any more and often sat staring out of the window, not speaking.
She thought it would pass, but a week ago Roger had said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him, “You know, don’t you?” She had run out of the room. If he spoke the words, there would be no going back.
He followed her into the kitchen. Blinded by her tears, she reached to turn the hob down, stumbled and put her hand out to steady herself. Roger acted fast, grabbing her arm and running her hand under cold water. Later, she could only remember his body pressed tight against hers.
He had been so caring, so tender, she was almost glad she’d burnt her hand. But when he said, “I won’t leave for a fortnight, give that hand a chance to heal up first,” the pain in her heart was far worse. Later, she found out that the reason he was staying was that the flat he had rented was being redecorated.
That night, she lay in bed, unable to sleep. There must be a way of keeping him, there had to be. Each time she turned over, her hand stung. Roger was snoring loudly in the spare room. Picking up her pillow, she crept along the corridor, murderous thoughts flying around her head. It would be so easy.
She couldn’t do it. She went back to bed and lay there thinking, plotting. As the blackbird heralded in the dawn chorus, she remembered something she had read in one of Roger’s geography magazines. When he had gone, she began the search. As she was beginning to despair – he must have thrown away the magazine – there it was, the article about an African tribe where the women put a certain plant into their husbands’ food. The men become addicted, and if they should stray to the next village, soon returned home. She yelped and danced around the room with glee, forgetting her pain for a moment.
It didn’t take long to find an online shop that sold the substance she wanted.
With one click of the mouse, it was done.
Every day she waited for the postman to arrive but there was nothing but bills and circulars. On day four, she flung open the frnt door as he came up the path. “Where is it?” she cried. He looked up, glanced at her flushed face, her mouth open in a grimace, threw the post at her and fled. The package landed with a thud at her feet.
She tore open the envelope and held the bottle up to the light. A light green liquid speckled through with darker spots. It would save her marriage.
Each day, she added a few drops to every meal Roger ate, watching for signs of some change, anything to show that the plant extract was working. When the three weeks was up, he began packing a suitcase.
“You can’t leave me,” she yelled. “I can’t live without you.”
“Oh, I thought you’d accepted it,” he said, pausing with a pair of boxers in his hand. “You’ve been so calm lately.”
“No, I’ll never accept it,” she said. “Never!”
************
Two days later it started. Roger woke up with a splitting headache. He couldn’t move. His limbs were heavy and his chest felt as if it had been crushed under a weight.
It started as a passing thought, then it gained momentum. If he could go home…. If he could have some of Sylvia’s home cooking, all would be well. This one thought filled his head, becoming urgent, compelling. He had to get home. Visions of food rose up before him: home-made pies and casseroles, fish stew, spaghetti Bolognaise.…. He licked his dry, cracked lips. His throat was parched.
Soon after, the retching started. Through the pain and the nausea, he heard Pat say, “I’ll call the doctor”.
“No,” he croaked. “No doctor. I want to go home.”
She laid her cool hand on his forehead. “You are home,” she said. “This is your home now.”
“No,” he said urgently. “I must go home,” fitfully pushing the blankets from him.
“Please,” he whispered. “Take me home.” He clutched at her desperately. “Please.” He summoned up his retreating strength. “Home!” he cried, his eyes pleading with her.
She walked away, banging the bedroom door shut and thumping down the stairs. Desperation gave him strength. He pulled on his clothes and staggered downstairs, looking for his car keys.
“I’ve hidden them,” she said, a brutal edge to her voice. “You’re not fit to drive.”
He plunged out into the street. The cold air felt good against his hot cheeks.
He reeled along the street to the bus stop. People slipped away when they saw him coming, but he barely noticed.
****
Sylvia was just waking up. She emptied the bottle of strange green liquid into her bath and lay bath in the water, her eyes shut.
Ten minutes later, she jerked awake. Someone had entered the house. She got out of the bath, wrapped a towel round her and tiptoed to the front room, peering inside through the crack in the door. There stood Roger, bent over double, gripping his stomach.
“Roger?”
A strange smell entered his nostrils, filling him with a desperate craving that desired immediate fulfilment. Some force inside him rose up, filling him with the strength of ten men. He moved towards Sylvia, falling into her arms. That smell, which summoned up images of rampant lions, filled his mind, his whole body. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. The smell surrounded him, engulfed him. He had come home at last. Here, the pain, the sickness would be taken away. Driven by desperation he opened his mouth wide and sank his teeth deep into her flesh.
She removed the cassoulet from the oven, spooned out a portion into another dish and added a few drops of the green, translucent liquid. For a moment, she wondered whether she should let him go quietly but no, nothing would be gained by being weak.
She had suspected he was having an affair for some time. All that overtime and nights spent away from home, the usual feeble excuses. She had said nothing, waiting for it to blow over, but then her friend Ros had said, “Have you met Roger’s secretary? They’d been seen on the downs, late at night, in his car. I wanted to tell you before anyone else did,” Ros said.
Sylvia laughed. Such a cliche. “It wasn’t Roger, he’s a bit old for clandestine meetings in the back of a car,” she said, but she knew it was true. Roger didn’t look directly at her any more and often sat staring out of the window, not speaking.
She thought it would pass, but a week ago Roger had said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him, “You know, don’t you?” She had run out of the room. If he spoke the words, there would be no going back.
He followed her into the kitchen. Blinded by her tears, she reached to turn the hob down, stumbled and put her hand out to steady herself. Roger acted fast, grabbing her arm and running her hand under cold water. Later, she could only remember his body pressed tight against hers.
He had been so caring, so tender, she was almost glad she’d burnt her hand. But when he said, “I won’t leave for a fortnight, give that hand a chance to heal up first,” the pain in her heart was far worse. Later, she found out that the reason he was staying was that the flat he had rented was being redecorated.
That night, she lay in bed, unable to sleep. There must be a way of keeping him, there had to be. Each time she turned over, her hand stung. Roger was snoring loudly in the spare room. Picking up her pillow, she crept along the corridor, murderous thoughts flying around her head. It would be so easy.
She couldn’t do it. She went back to bed and lay there thinking, plotting. As the blackbird heralded in the dawn chorus, she remembered something she had read in one of Roger’s geography magazines. When he had gone, she began the search. As she was beginning to despair – he must have thrown away the magazine – there it was, the article about an African tribe where the women put a certain plant into their husbands’ food. The men become addicted, and if they should stray to the next village, soon returned home. She yelped and danced around the room with glee, forgetting her pain for a moment.
It didn’t take long to find an online shop that sold the substance she wanted.
With one click of the mouse, it was done.
Every day she waited for the postman to arrive but there was nothing but bills and circulars. On day four, she flung open the frnt door as he came up the path. “Where is it?” she cried. He looked up, glanced at her flushed face, her mouth open in a grimace, threw the post at her and fled. The package landed with a thud at her feet.
She tore open the envelope and held the bottle up to the light. A light green liquid speckled through with darker spots. It would save her marriage.
Each day, she added a few drops to every meal Roger ate, watching for signs of some change, anything to show that the plant extract was working. When the three weeks was up, he began packing a suitcase.
“You can’t leave me,” she yelled. “I can’t live without you.”
“Oh, I thought you’d accepted it,” he said, pausing with a pair of boxers in his hand. “You’ve been so calm lately.”
“No, I’ll never accept it,” she said. “Never!”
************
Two days later it started. Roger woke up with a splitting headache. He couldn’t move. His limbs were heavy and his chest felt as if it had been crushed under a weight.
It started as a passing thought, then it gained momentum. If he could go home…. If he could have some of Sylvia’s home cooking, all would be well. This one thought filled his head, becoming urgent, compelling. He had to get home. Visions of food rose up before him: home-made pies and casseroles, fish stew, spaghetti Bolognaise.…. He licked his dry, cracked lips. His throat was parched.
Soon after, the retching started. Through the pain and the nausea, he heard Pat say, “I’ll call the doctor”.
“No,” he croaked. “No doctor. I want to go home.”
She laid her cool hand on his forehead. “You are home,” she said. “This is your home now.”
“No,” he said urgently. “I must go home,” fitfully pushing the blankets from him.
“Please,” he whispered. “Take me home.” He clutched at her desperately. “Please.” He summoned up his retreating strength. “Home!” he cried, his eyes pleading with her.
She walked away, banging the bedroom door shut and thumping down the stairs. Desperation gave him strength. He pulled on his clothes and staggered downstairs, looking for his car keys.
“I’ve hidden them,” she said, a brutal edge to her voice. “You’re not fit to drive.”
He plunged out into the street. The cold air felt good against his hot cheeks.
He reeled along the street to the bus stop. People slipped away when they saw him coming, but he barely noticed.
****
Sylvia was just waking up. She emptied the bottle of strange green liquid into her bath and lay bath in the water, her eyes shut.
Ten minutes later, she jerked awake. Someone had entered the house. She got out of the bath, wrapped a towel round her and tiptoed to the front room, peering inside through the crack in the door. There stood Roger, bent over double, gripping his stomach.
“Roger?”
A strange smell entered his nostrils, filling him with a desperate craving that desired immediate fulfilment. Some force inside him rose up, filling him with the strength of ten men. He moved towards Sylvia, falling into her arms. That smell, which summoned up images of rampant lions, filled his mind, his whole body. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. The smell surrounded him, engulfed him. He had come home at last. Here, the pain, the sickness would be taken away. Driven by desperation he opened his mouth wide and sank his teeth deep into her flesh.