Bitter Fruit

Anthony felt his marriage to Susan had been on the rocks for years. Things just weren’t right between them. They were completely different people. These days they hardly spoke to each other and when they did it usually ended in an argument. The niggling doubts he’d been having for years were increasing as their marriage trundled on. They were just going through the motions. They could have an argument about the most trivial of things. A chat about what breakfast cereal they should buy could quickly escalate into a full-blown row.

They also had such different interests. Anthony was into football and socialising with friends whereas Susan was obsessed with fashion and clothes shopping. It said it all that her favourite fruit was strawberries and that he was allergic to them. She loved strawberries and devoured them with everything. She would enjoy the fruit with ice-cream, fresh cream, even on their own. Anthony couldn’t even be in the same room while she was eating them. He could feel his throat tighten just at the very thought. While she dined on them he would take himself off upstairs. These days not being in the same room as his wife was a positive, not a drawback.

When the allergy had been discovered as a child, doctors had warned him to avoid the fruit at all costs. He should have seen his wife’s love of strawberries as a bad omen when he found out. His allergy and her fondness summed them up. On a good day they could be just about civil to each other. There was no atmosphere, no obvious animosity. They were like strangers really.

One evening Anthony returned home after a night in the pub watching the football. All the lads had been there, United had won, so it had been a good night all round. He wasn’t drunk but the beer he’d had gave the world a slightly unreal feel. He shrugged out of his coat, hung it up behind the door and trudged upstairs.

He bumped into Susan on the landing. Tiredness and anger burned in her eyes. She wore her dressing gown and a furious expression.

‘So you’ve finally decided to come home?’ she growled.

He shook his head, squeezing past her, heading for the bedroom. He just wanted to sleep. He’d had a cracking evening and did not want a confrontation with his wife to spoil it. But Susan wasn’t done yet.

‘Look at the state of you. You are a mess. Aren’t you getting a bit old for going out and getting plastered? And all because United are playing. It’s pathetic.’

He sighed and turned to face her. She stared at him with such hatred.

‘Look at you.’ she spat.

Anthony reacted without thinking. He stepped forward and gave her a hard shove. She gasped in shock at the assault. Her expression changed to terror as she lost her footing on the top step. She reached out a hand for Anthony to save her. He did not move, frozen to the spot.

She tumbled down the stairs with awful thuds. She landed at the bottom with a horrid cracking sound. Anthony stared in disbelief at the body lying twisted and contorted in unnatural angles. Her lifeless eyes stared up at her in silent accusation.

Anthony charged downstairs. Standing over her, there was no doubt she was dead. She wasn’t breathing nor making any sound, and her eyes had a glassy marble-like quality. He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out his mobile phone. He dialled 999.

‘I need an ambulance.’ He stated. ‘It’s my wife. I’ve come home to find her lying at the bottom of the stairs.’

The authorities were so understanding. Anthony explained it over and over again. He gave them what little detail he had. He had returned home from the pub only to find his dear wife on the floor. She had been unresponsive so he’d quickly dialled 999.

The paramedics took her body away while the police made their investigations. They were satisfied it was an unfortunate accident. No sign of forced entry. No wounds on the body. No sign of a struggle. It was just a tragic accident. The officers questioning him seemed sympathetic and compassionate. They even asked if he would be okay on his own. Anthony replied he thought he’d be okay. He said he would call his younger brother for support if he felt he needed it.

He headed for bed. The drink and the strange events of the evening seemed to catch up with him. He yanked his t-shirt over his head and kicked out of his jeans. As he drifted off to sleep he thought he heard footsteps on the landing.

The next few days were just a blur. He was kept busy organising Susan’s funeral and making sure friends and family were informed of the tragedy and poor Susan’s funeral arrangements. He forced any sense of guilt from his mind. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. It had been an accident, that’s all.

On the day of the funeral Anthony was every bit the grieving husband. He wore his dark suit and tie, and a dour, mournful expression. When her friends and family members, and colleagues shook his hand and said how sorry they were he managed a sad smile and a sincere nod.

At the graveside as the coffin was being lowered into the gaping mouth of the grave, he felt an icy hand grip his shoulder. He turned in panic. He stared in confusion. There was nobody there. He could see nothing except the rolling green grass of the cemetery, dotted with rows and rows of gravestones. He shook his head. His mind must have been playing tricks. It was probably down to the stress of everything that had happened. It must be taking a toll.

The wake was being held in the function room of Susan’s favourite pub. It’s what she would have wanted, he told people. A lot of friends told him he was being so very brave at this difficult time. He took a swig of beer. That felt better. He just wanted the day to be over. Once the funeral was over he could draw a line under things and move on with his life. Maybe he would book himself a holiday with the insurance money. Maybe he would treat himself to that cruise he’d always dreamed of.

That evening as he unlocked his front door he heard someone call his name. He glanced around to see who had called out but the dark street was empty. There was nobody in the orange streetlight glow. He had definitely heard a female voice say his name. Very strange.

As he got undressed he thought he could smell something odd. What was that? It was a tangy distinct aroma that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He sighed and flopped down on his bed. What a day it had been.

The next morning he awoke. He sat bolt upright. Something was different. Something was wrong. The air was thick with a terrible pungent smell. He recognised it immediately. Strawberries. What to anyone else would bring to mind summer holidays and tennis matches, could mean the worst for him.

He touched a finger to his lips. He stared at his sticky fingertips in puzzlement. His lips and now his fingers were covered in a thick red substance. It was as though he had been eating in his sleep. And eating strawberries. At that moment he felt his throat swelling. He knew he was in trouble. He got to his feet, struggling to breathe. Everything went blurry as though he’d stepped off a canal bank and plunged into murky deep water.

The last thing he heard was a familiar, yet ghostly laugh.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom