It was Sunday, the 24th of October 2021, and Peter was sitting on the floor with a glass of red wine in his hand, animatedly watching the live football, when I hit him hard with the bottom of the wine bottle. It was a very nice red - a Californian Zinfandel, Sonoma County Bear Flag -and I’d been enjoying the rich, full, and mellow taste. Peter had opened the bottle for us just a few minutes earlier and it wasn’t even half-empty. The wine and the blood both spurted out in unison over the carpet and over my dress. Peter slumped sideways and I hit him again, aiming at the short grey hair above his right ear. As I did it, I wondered if putting salt on the bloodstains would have the same effect as putting salt on spilled red wine, a trick that Momma had taught me many years ago.
In the background I vaguely heard the roar of the crowd coming from the television. He was watching - or, more accurately, had been watching - Manchester United against Liverpool. I didn’t really understand much about soccer, or football as they called it here but he’d told me that this was an important game, a must-win for both sides, so that was how we were spending the early part of this Sunday afternoon, at Peter’s office watching football. The roar from the television probably meant that the home side had taken the lead. The game would only last about ninety minutes and, just a few minutes earlier, he’d told me how we were to spend the latter part of the afternoon. Just those few words, whispered in my ear before the game started, as I stood by the large windows admiring the magnificent view over the city, had had a profound effect on me.
Usually, when Peter whispered his plans whilst running his hands over my body, it excited me. His words made me tingle with anticipation. Behind the thin cotton covering of my small panties, I would feel my wetness starting to build, the hairs on my arms would stand out and my nipples would swell and tighten. I’d look forward to Peter using me, hurting me. But not this time. This time, the words that Peter whispered in my ear were different. Hard and jarring, they’d brought a chill of fear, like an electric current, flashing through my body. Today his words were a betrayal of trust and felt like a fist in my stomach that forced the air out of my lungs, making breathing impossible.
My second blow, fast and hard, had shattered the side of his skull, sending shards of bone flying through the room. My third strike, easily the hardest and most determined of the three, met no resistance from bone and buried itself deep in the grey mass of brain now exposed. I was wearing a long, flowing dress, a beautiful off-white with a pale flower design that I’d purchased in Harrods just days earlier. I’d chosen it to accentuate my dark skin. It was now abstract art with swathes of bright red blood and red wine, chippings of off-white bone and lots of small blobs of slimy, grey tissue.
The crowd roared again. Probably two for Manchester United.
“Three strikes and you’re out,” I mumbled as an image of my father, an avid sports fan, watching his beloved college baseball flashed across my mind. I muted the television; it was indeed two-nil, I could see. As a Manchester United fan, Peter would have been very happy. Maybe his happiness would have saved me, I thought, if his plans had to come to be. I sat on the sofa, Peter’s body at my feet, and poured the remaining wine. Too good to waste - another fleeting thought, this time unspoken, flashed through my mind. Certainly better than the Californian pinot noir. It seemed strange but I just couldn’t halt these incongruous thoughts.
In front of me, the blood running freely from his shattered head had by now turned a large part of the once-grey rug dark, almost black. His body, the body that minutes before had housed the spirit and passion of my lover, lay still. No last breath, no twitching as in the movies. He was dead, that was for sure. Time stood still.
After the next sip of wine - must buy a bottle next time I go shopping - there it was again, my rational brain was still working - I slowly roused and time started again. I pulled my blood- and wine-stained dress over my head, crumpled it into a ball and threw it to the floor by the television. What a waste, I thought. Dressed only in white lingerie, stockings and matching heels, I crossed to the window.
Sipping my wine, I considered my options. I could just leave, of course but running didn’t seem like a good option. Pointless, in fact. Security had seen me arrive and they’d see me leave, so I couldn’t claim an alibi. But I didn’t know many people in London, so my other options seemed limited. I could call security and confess; call the police; call Mary, Peter’s wife; or call Claire, my older sister.
Security was the obvious choice. I knew most of the guards, and all seemed friendly and reasonable. If I could just put the right spin on the situation, maybe, just maybe …
The police? Well, I knew what to expect from the police. More than once I’d been pulled over, questioned, and intrusively searched for no obvious reason other than being black. The cops back in Washington all seemed to know how to treat a young black girl. Badly was a gross understatement. I’d no reason to expect a British bobby to be any different.
I liked Mary. I’d met her just once, at the project kick-off reception just months ago, and although she had cold eyes her words had seemed warm. Peter had always spoken well of her, and Mary had offered her help if I ever needed it. Standing there, looking out over a rainswept London, I could recall Mary’s exact words. “If anything ever becomes, well, let’s say too much for you, my dear - if you ever need help, just give me a call.” Mary had given me her private number. If I explained the situation, maybe missing out just a couple of minor details, then maybe Mary would come to help me clean up this mess.
Claire, though, was more practical and certainly physically stronger. But the last time that we’d spoken, about six months ago, a lot had been said and we both still needed to come to terms with our own past before our relationship could be repaired and restarted. I still had too little empathy for her and no real feeling of sibling affection. I’d never forgiven my older sister for her lies and her betrayal many years ago. Even though our meeting had brought me many new insights, I still felt badly let down. But still, in these circumstances physical strength and a clear head might be invaluable assets.
While staring out over the river, the trees on the Embankment swaying in the brisk wind, I continued to analyse my options, playing them out before me as if I was playing chess, thinking three, four, five steps ahead.
When the best move became obvious, I reached for my phone.
