Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

But — and stop me if you’ve heard this one before — nothing good EVER lasts for long where I’m concerned. Four months after Richard died, I’d gorged myself knock-kneed on fashion, wore my hair longer and in flick-ups, and was twisting the night away like you wouldn’t believe on the bounciest dance floor in England. But a girl’s gotta live, ai — hasn’t she? Being a vicar’s wife (make that widow) counted for nothing. All I could find was shop work, and the pay from that don’t go far. Not at the centre of the universe, anyway. No, what I needed was a man. Someone to look after me, and although time was knocking on, it wasn’t too late for me to have kids, make some bloke a proud and happy dad.

His name was Johnny, and he was everything the Reverend Richard Jenkins wasn’t. Tall, muscular, dark, and broody, he was seven years younger than me, rode a motorbike, and boy, did Johnny’s blood run red. Wild times, baby. Wild, wild times. We drank too much, popped little pills, rode full throttle on the open road, not caring if we lived or died, yeeha. Oh, could that man dance! I’ve never known anyone with so much stamina, both in and out of bed. Makes me shiver thinking about it, even now. He was a bricklayer, and bricklayers earned good money in the late fifties/early sixties. Dolly Sneed was jiving down Easy Street now and she was happy. At least—

“What the—”

“Shit.”

“You said you was working overtime, you lying cheating bastard!”

I was yelling at Johnny, but at the same time dragging that bitch out of my bed by her long, blond, backcombed hair, and you know the best thing about middle-class teenage girls? No idea how to fight.

“Babe. I’m sorry. I thought you were going to the Palais tonight.”

“I had a headache—” kick, slap, punch “—left early—” throw intruder naked out the door “—came home in time to catch my man with some ugly, two-bit hooker.” Toss clothes out front window, into the street.

Johnny promised, on his mother’s grave, he wouldn’t stray again. Blamed her, the booze, the purple hearts, but swore, on bended knee, it was the worst mistake he’d ever made.

The worst mistake I ever made was believing him.

Blondie wasn’t the first, but what hurt — what really cut me to the marrow — was that wasn’t the first time for them. They’d been at it for over a month, creeping behind my back, shagging in my bed, and how did I find out? Johnny Subtle packed my bags and piled them in the lounge.

“I’m sorry, Babe, it’s just not working out for us.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“It was good while it lasted, but I’ve found someone else. Just give me the key, Babe. Don’t make a scene.”

At that point, I knew why he called me Babe. He called all his women Babe, that way he never got their names mixed up. Didn’t even need to remember ’em, the bastard.

That was also the point where, in pulp fiction, they say the red mist descends. Red be buggered. This was white-hot anger. In the space of thirty seconds, I let rip with every ounce of ammunition in the store. I called him names, I smashed his plates, I told him what I thought of his leaving dirty socks littered round the floor and his rotten taste in shoes. I screamed because he lied, I screamed because he cheated, I screamed because she was young enough to be my bloody daughter, and had perfect little tits. And when he grabbed me by the wrists and said, “Calm down, or else I’ll call the police,” I spat at him and hissed, “Just try, just you bloody try, because if I killed one man, don’t think I won’t kill you either, Johnny Kelly.”