She’s surprised, Amy will give them that. They’ve got most of it right.

She remembers that Friday night. Jonathan was late back, and she knew where he’d been. Quiet, secretive, barely meeting her gaze. He’d been with her. And then he turned and said, ‘Amy, this weekend, we need to talk. Properly talk. About us.’

And she knew.

The way he’d been asking about their weekend plans. He was going to leave her. Her! Jonathan, with his defective sperm and his inability to give her a baby. Except that wasn’t true, was it? Everything functioning normally, how ironic. Still, all the more reason to kill him.

She went downstairs and carefully dissolved her ground-up pills in his whisky. Diazepam and zopiclone, perfect for knocking someone out. She waited as he downed his drink. Watched, as his body grew wobbly and weak, and he collapsed on their bedroom floor. She made sympathetic noises as he slurred and complained about not feeling well. She stood in front of him, prepared. Ready.

She put plastic gloves on, the ones she used for preparing food at work, then picked up their oven gloves, gently placing them over his hands.

He looked at them, confused, his eyes unfocused.

‘What are you doing?’ he said, his voice almost incoherent.

She took the tape and wrapped it quickly round both gloves, securing them together.

That was the touch she was particularly proud of. His hands were bound, and as he struggled pathetically, she knew there would be no marks found later. Nothing the pathologist would notice.

And then she took the plastic bag and put it over his head.

At that point, Jonathan realised what was going on. That he was in trouble. He wriggled, his legs kicking out against the carpet, but his movements were sluggish. Everything was in slow mode, information not feeding properly to his brain. She quickly did up the zip tie – one of her industrial-sized freezer bags, easy to close – then secured it round his neck with another length of tape. He lifted his bound hands to his face, redundantly trying to pull at the bag as it went in and out with each breath. She watched his eyes widen. His mouth gaped; the inside of the bag misted with condensation. His breathing came faster and faster as he panicked.

It was starting to stick to his face now. The plastic sealed tight against his cheeks and forehead as the air inside was depleted of oxygen. Jonathan sucked harder. Amy could see his chest rising and falling, as he tried to take heavier and heavier breaths.

For a moment she just watched, fascinated.

It wasn’t as she had expected. She’d thought she would feel something towards her dying husband, but the only emotion she felt was pity. That his life would come to this. Suffocating, painfully, on his own bedroom floor.