She got out of the car, leaving the door slightly open, and the engine running. She searched the rockery inside the front gate until she found a rock big enough for her requirements, headed towards the front window which showed no lights, and threw the rock.
The glass shattered; Wendy had been afraid it wouldn’t have enough impact, but it worked as she had imagined and hoped.
Holding onto her stomach, she ran back to the car and quietly closed the door.
Paula yanked open her front door. ‘Who the fuck’s done that?’ she yelled, and came outside to inspect the damage.
She looked around, and walked towards the garden gate, clearly intending to look for anybody running away from the scene. Immediately she saw the car, and ran towards it, incensed.
Wendy momentarily froze. In her mind she had imagined Paula coming towards the car, intent on talking to the person in the driving seat; she hadn’t envisaged a screaming banshee running towards her at full pelt. The baby kicked, galvanising Wendy into action.
She jammed her foot hard down on the accelerator in utter panic and the little red car travelled at some speed towards the shocked woman, who stared straight at Wendy behind the steering wheel.
‘N-o-o-o-o!’ Paula screamed out, as the car hit her. Her body flew over the top of the Mini and landed in the road. Wendy hit the brakes and turned to look through the rear window. She saw Paula move, heard her screech of agony.
Paula was almost rigid with pain. She knew her leg had snapped; knew she couldn’t move. She had to hope somebody would be around and help her.
She couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be dead. The mantra chugged over and over through Wendy’s brain as she drove back home. She remembered nothing of the journey, had no idea what traffic light violations she had caused – she needed to get back to be sick, and to make sure Mike hadn’t woken.
Paula lay, unable to move, and then she heard an engine fire into life. She lifted an arm, but even that caused intense pain in her shoulder. Hoping to attract the attention of whoever the car driver was, she listened as it began to move. There was a sudden increase of speed, and Paula’s life disappeared beneath the wheels of the blue Toyota. She wasn’t dead with the first pass over her body, but the reverse travel finished her. The car drove away, a self-satisfied smirk flitting across the driver’s face. An opportunity grabbed, most definitely with both hands, or all four wheels as the case may be.
Mike had never felt so ill. He took the two tablets his wife was holding out to him, and swallowed them, washing them down with water.
‘How much did I drink?’ He moaned, and Wendy pointed to the coffee table. ‘I’ve put the brandy bottle away, I didn’t want you to wake up and drink anymore, I knew you wouldn’t be well this morning. I tried to get you to bed, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to risk hurting the baby…’
He looked with disgust at her stomach. ‘Oh yeah, the baby.’
‘Are you going to work?’ Wendy asked quietly.
‘I am, but you’ll have to take me. I’m too ill to drive.’
‘I have a doctor’s appointment at nine…’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Mike roared. ‘Order me a cab for nine then. I can’t rely on you for anything, can I?’
‘Can I suggest you shower first?’ Wendy indicated the front of his shirt where she had poured half a glass of red wine the previous night. ‘It looks as though you spilt some.’
She watched him get into the taxi and breathed a sigh of relief. She could get out to the Mini, and give it a good clean. She wanted no blood on the paintwork or the tyres. Her fear had settled overnight and she hoped somebody had walked by and helped Paula. And she also hoped Paula didn’t know she had a Mini, but Mike had never had to use it for work, so Wendy was pretty sure she was in the clear.
She cleaned the car as thoroughly as her burgeoning stomach would allow, and then for good measure, she drove it to the automatic wash. It would be the cleanest Mini in Sheffield, without a doubt. She was driving home when she heard the news on the radio.
By the time she reached home, the passenger seat was full of vomit, the rose fragrance the valets had infused, replaced by a sourness it would be impossible to disguise, and her bowels were at the point of exploding as she pushed open the front door to her home.
Paula was dead. But what made Wendy feel so bad wasn’t that she had killed someone, it was the sense of relief that an issue had been removed.
8
For several days, Wendy was glued to Radio Sheffield; she hardly moved from the house, listened to each item of news and waited. She expected every person walking down the road to be a policeman, and her brain went wild with images of giving birth in a prison cell, and the baby immediately being taken from her.
Everything was wrong. She hadn’t gone to kill Paula, Wendy just wanted her in the car where she could explain how much she needed Mike to be at home with her, and Paula had to stop the affair.
Stupid Paula had ruined everything by racing towards her, and now Wendy couldn’t breathe for the oppressive feeling of guilt that was overwhelming her almost every minute of the day. She had killed another human being, and she would have to pay for it.
And where the bloody hell was Nell when she needed her? Wendy needed to tell her what had happened, to try to get everything into perspective.
My dear Nell,
It was sheer pleasure to receive your last letter, but I am afraid this one is going to be really short. I am tired all the time; the baby is quite big, so the hospital tells me.
It is Mike’s birthday today, but he is ignoring it, I fear. His secretary has been killed in a hit-and-run accident, and it’s knocked him for six. They were close, working together every day, and I think she carried him at work, doing a lot of what he should have done.
Her name was Paula, and it’s a big police investigation, but they don’t seem to have found any evidence of anything. They’ve talked to all their colleagues, but nobody knows who she was seeing, or anything about her, really.
I think it will be wonderful if you can come for the baby’s birth, but if that isn’t possible, you must be here for the christening. I definitely want you to be the godmother.
I’ll write more next time, I promise. Please book your travel tickets and a hotel nearby – I’ll send you the money. Let me know how much.
Love you,
Wendy and bump
9
29th September 1979
Dear Wendy,
Would you really pay for me to come back? Maybe you could loan me the money and I could repay it bit by bit. Once I’m settled in my next place, I’ll make some enquiries about flights. That’s the quickest option, although I’m happy to come by coach – it depends on what you can afford. I don’t mind roughing it. Lots of my friends have used Dan Dare (Dan-Air) as they are cheap, and they fly to Manchester too. I’d only book one way though. Then I can stay as long as I want or until you get fed up of me. Remember that B & B down from the town hall, the Tudor-looking one with the black and white wood, maybe I could go there. Or somewhere cheaper, I’m not bothered about breakfast, a room will do. Will you ring them and find out how much it is? I will save like mad from now on, I promise.