Mid Life Confidential

by William Bowden

It wasn’t that my husband was a bad man, nor in any sense had either neglected or abused me during the course of our marriage. Quite the reverse in fact, by all accounts (including mine) Luka and I had lived in happy co-existence for over 20 years — during which time we had raised two loving daughters as well as a beautiful son. Some would say we even lived ostentatiously, and considering that together we owned an enormously successful farm and winery, I would not disabuse them of that notion in the very least. It was indeed true that together we had come a long way from comparatively humble beginnings, and were judged by society as a ‘successful’ couple.
But during our final months together, it would have surprised many friends, neighbours, and loved ones to know that I had decided, quite deliberately, to end my husband’s life prematurely.

You may well ask why I ever considered it necessary to kill Luka. Surely did I not love him — thus rendering such an act absurd or insane? Hadn’t all our years together made that an unthinkable proposition, and why something so drastic? At the very least why not a simple divorce, or why not just up and leave him? I suppose I should answer all these queries in due course, but overridingly I just wanted a sense of closure, of finality. It was as if I desired this chapter of my life finished, and the parchment upon which it was written to be put aside forever — never to be revisited.

To put it in perspective; the children had all left home to pursue lives of their own, and in my middle years it seemed as if my life was over. The most it appeared I could hope for was a comfortable form of stasis — unyielding and inflexible. There would be little to fear true — save a slow sapping of vitality and an obsidious decline, and I would be expected to eek out my present existence till the sun burnt out. It seemed logical to me therefore, to consider altering my circumstances radically — that is if I had any intentions of breaking out of this cycle. Consequently that vista of the repetition ahead acted more as a spur to action rather than presaging future boredom. It wasn’t that I was bored yet, but I thought I may as well try something different with my remaining span of years. And, if I organised events appropriately, I would also have a small fortune from the sale of the farm to sustain me in whatever endeavours I undertook. Whereas if I simply left my husband I would lack financial resources (the Turkish divorce laws being what they are) and family sympathy would likely be minimal — as Luka is a very well loved man. As for ‘loving’ my husband, love is a word to which I attach little meaning — a bit like ‘God’ or ‘loyalty’. The most I can say about such terms is that they mean the most to those who seem to benefit from their use upon others.

Some of you might be thinking that it must have been difficult to live such a double life; on the one hand plotting a murder, and on the other nightly drinking apple tea and sharing a bed with a doomed man. But to me there was no contradiction, and the reasons are as follows. The mechanics of his death had to be carefully planned — which took time. And in my role as wife and mother — I was so practiced that it was like slipping into a comfortable pair of old slippers — in short it was no effort at all.

So how does one go about disposing of a spouse? Well I’ll spare you the odious details suffice to say that seeking professional advice is essential. I had decided that poisoning was the method I would use. Firstly I began by consulting various books in the library at the nearby town of V-----. After this proved relatively fruitless, in the sense that there were many useful descriptions of the effects of poisons and the like — but precious little on their chemical composition. I realised I needed an expert in the same way as one does not attempt dental work in the home. Eventually my research led me to a purveyor of lethal tinctures in the Greek quarter trading under the name Delphan Hoolis, and he was extremely informative as well as quite budget oriented.

I should point out that I attended such visits in disguise (which again I would recommend), in order to protect my identity in case of complications. I believe I make a very convincing man — especially given my deflated chest, dark facial hair and generally swarthy demeanour. And so during the purchasing and instructional sessions I was blond haired Zervos — a low ranking member of the guild of tobacconists. I observed all the usual precautions during such visits — wax on the tips of the fingers, brown boot-polish to simulate nicotine stains, foul smelling cigarettes purchased from a street vendor etc. I was particularly taken with an old trick I picked up from Caligula in one of Livy’s histories, which involved smearing the lips with garlic. This meant very little close contact with anyone and avoidance, I believed, was the key to my success.

In fact I’m amazed how many murderers go about their business with no regard to their appearance — what folly that is, one chance encounter with an acquaintance and it’s all over, but I digress. The range of poisons in Delphan’s shop was truly remarkable, and it was difficult not to become distracted by the man’s boundless enthusiasm for his subject. Among the endless jars and bottles were enough vermiculants to wipe out an entire city! His latest development was a gorgeous blue concoction that literally mummified the victim on contact. The photos in the brochure were most impressive, but you had to pre-order as supply was strictly limited (and it was a little too flamboyant for my application). I eventually whittled down the seemingly endless selection to a simple old-fashioned favourite: ‘Cobra Contact’. The bottle even came with a post-envenomation ‘puncture simulator’ and instructions on how to fool forensic experts — I was sold. Considering we had encountered Cobras on our property from time to time it was perfect, and the wash-off/dissolves in water feature was excellent. For good measure I picked up a jar of blindness powder and some amnesiac potion that was on special as well. I was certain they would come in handy later.

Well, what more remains to be said? Luka arose early on his final morning, but I had risen earlier; and had tainted the handle of his favourite shovel with the Cobra Contact. I wished him farewell, deliberately forgot to give him his lunch, and so went to inspect the corpse around 11 o’clock. Sure enough there he was, still warm in the hot sun, and so I cleaned the handle of the shovel with water and plunged the puncture simulator into the palm of his hand — after dipping the fake fangs in the poison of course. Next up it was the hue and cry, the tears of horror with the neighbours, the police, the doctors, the family and the funeral. All in all I gave an award winning performance capped off by a “what will I do now?” speech with my son — which resulted in the ‘obvious’ decision to sell the farm.

So, in just under two months, I was free. All debts had been discharged, my children had received substantial dividends from my initiative, and I had announced that I would now go off travelling — by myself. Family and friends alike acclaimed this idea as a very wise way of getting over Luka’s death. Everyone said the same thing: “The change will do you good” and it was all I could do to refrain from replying “I know it will” or “it already has”.

Perhaps it was because I had lived the first half of my life as a ‘good’ person or perhaps it was that I wanted the change in lifestyle to be complete, but I now found myself behaving as a ‘bad’ person. The change happened slowly, but with increasing ferocity. Even as I was farewelling my elder daughter at the station at P------, I shoplifted a magazine for the train journey to the coast. It was a pornographic magazine and it wasn’t so much the pictorials as the advertisements in the back that caught my eye. Despite the magazine being filled with beautiful young women in various obscene poses, there were a number of ads featuring transsexuals offering services. Since I had been so successful as ‘Zorba’, I began to toy with the idea of pretending to be a man dressed as a woman. Surely that was the most ironic and confusing disguise imaginable. Caked under a ton of gaudy make-up and dressed as a tramp, I would baffle any investigation and crucially — if a victim escaped then identification would be further complicated.
You note I use the word ‘victim’ here, that is because on that train journey, as every village went rolling by, as every passenger shuffled past, I began to realise that I was truly free. Not just in the sense of being free of my husband, of my family, of worrying about my finances, no I was free from the confines of society, of morality, of fear, of supervision of any kind. In killing Luka I had opened an unexpected door. I began to understand that I truly could do anything, and rather than sightseeing or lumbering round museums like my fellow grey-haired age group, I wanted to do something forbidden.

Sex was old hat, at least I still had an interest in it; but only in the sense that it seemed an obvious weakness in humankind. Weaknesses attracted me. Luka’s trust was another example: he had assumed I would never hurt him and that assumption was his downfall. People began to look to me like sheep or coddled pets — gazing unconsciously into their owner’s eyes with no comprehension of the fragility of the situation. Why couldn’t someone snap at any given moment? Why was it assumed that women were less evil than men? What was evil anyway and why was this bifurcation ‘good and evil’, ‘God and Devil’ accepted by so many people? Surely, I reasoned, that this was all a concept designed to keep society under control — and what was the benefit of that? Society was clearly out of control, and ignoring the laws of entropy was hardly sensible was it? Anyway I was simply re-balancing my approach, I had tried out good for twenty years — how about hearing the counter argument for a change? Maybe there was a neutral position somewhere, but I’d never find it without understanding the extremes. And what was the extreme? Well it had to be murder surely, perhaps with a little torture thrown in for good measure.

As the train pulled into the station at A----, and the hundreds of passengers began milling around, I felt a new sense of opportunity. What was a city but a vast resource? Surely my first objective must be to find another poisoner’s shop amidst all this chaos. As I disappeared among the crowd, I remembered Luka’s face in death. How peaceful and serene he had been, and I thought that I would like to bring that same sense of peace to the people here. I would liberate them as I had liberated myself, no longer would they be shackled to their lives as I had been. A man in jeans was smiling at me and beckoning me to join him for coffee, he looked like a tourist, and at that moment I realised how incredibly thirsty I was.