Neil Davies

"Happy anniversary, George."

I knew he wouldn't answer me, but one of us had to make the effort, didn't we? And it wouldn't be George!

Hard to believe it's been sixteen years. We weren't young even then, of course. I dare say a few people would have thought we were too old to be getting up to that sort of thing, but I never really cared what other people thought. It was the right thing for me and I've never regretted it. Can't speak for George of course, but I'm sure he'd say the same if he ever talked about it. Which he doesn't.

I'll be seventy-three next month. This old body's beginning to let me down a bit. Arthritis plays up now and again. Need the help of a walking stick on bad days. Hard to lift the kettle to make a cup of tea sometimes.

George never helps of course. Wonder why I stay with him sometimes. But it's sort of comforting to know he's sitting there in his armchair in front of the television. Quiet. Could be asleep most of the time for all you'd know.

He didn't use to be so peaceful mind. Wasn't that long ago he'd be hurrying me out the door at eight o'clock almost every night.

"Come on Lil," he'd say. "It'll be closing time before you're ready to leave!"

Almost every night, down to the Catholic Club. Drinking. Not that we're Catholic, you understand. We knew some people who were, but I was never one for church anyway and George was strict Church Of England. No one down there seemed to mind, despite its name. I wonder if that was its real name? Funny. Never noticed. Anyway, it was the Catholic Club to everyone around here so that's what it'll stay.

I never drank much myself, maybe the odd Babycham or glass of dry white wine, but George used to like his pint! He was a Mild drinker, not 'mild' as in quiet and pleasant but 'Mild' as in the beer. I remember someone persuaded him to try lager once.

"Cat piss!"

That's what he called it. No, I tell a lie.

"Watered-down cat piss!"

That's right.

By the end of the night he'd be singing away, trying to lead the club in a rendition of Danny Boy or Mull Of Kintyre. They were always his favourites. Never liked them myself, particularly sung by a load of drunken old men!

Of course, that was the happy-drunk side of George. That was the side people in the club saw. They didn't see the nasty side, the side that came out when we got home and the drink seemed to drag him down further and further. Then he'd start with the name-calling.

'Whore' was his favourite. He probably thought he had some justification in that one as well.

Once, just once, maybe five years after we got married, I had a 'thing' with a gentleman I met down the market one day. We'd chatted, had a cup of tea together. He was nice. He paid attention to me, listened to me. Things I missed with George. I remember thinking that was the end of it when we said goodbye and I walked home. I didn't know he'd followed me. Didn't know until he knocked on the door and handed me a bunch of flowers. Maybe I shouldn't have asked him in, but George was out at work in those days and I was lonely. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we made love. Afterwards I got the guilts and made him leave, promising he'd never come back.

But that wasn't the worst mistake I made. The worst mistake was that I decided to tell George.

He never let me forget it.

When he was drunk he'd bring it back up again, throw it in my face, usually accompanied by his fist.

Oh yes, he punched me. Slapped me, kicked me, spat at me. I'd be bruised for days, frightened to leave the house in case someone asked awkward questions. Anyone came to the door I told them I'd fallen down the stairs.

Back then it was easier for men to get away with it. Maybe it still is easy? I wouldn't know.

Then one night, this very night in fact, sixteen years ago, I decided enough was enough.

That was the night he'd been out on his own because I was still too bruised from the last time. That was the night he came home roaring drunk, burst into the house calling me a 'whore' and a 'bitch'. That was the night I grabbed the carving knife, afraid for my life, and plunged it into his fat, watery belly.

I remember tutting at the mess he made on the floor. It was me who'd have to clear it up of course. Always was.

I'm fairly certain he was still alive then, sort of lying on the floor moaning, an almost comical look of surprise on his face. Bet he couldn't believe his old 'Lil' had finally fought back!

Funny thing, after stabbing him the first time, more through panic than anything else, the others were simple. I pushed the bread knife into his throat. That made a satisfying crunching sound as it split his windpipe. The potato peeler twisted easily into his groin. The apple-corer, a wedding gift from his tight bitch of a mother, popped his eye nicely. I think it was the first time I'd used it in almost forty years.

Now he sits there in his armchair, quiet and peaceful. I hardly even notice the smell anymore. It's been sixteen years after all.

"Happy anniversary George."

Maybe it's just as well he doesn't answer me.