Elaine put her hands over her ears to block out his voice. George stood up. Fear overtaking her, Elaine made a rush for the kitchen door. As she ran George grabbed at her hair. She shrieked as pain tore through her. Blood began to seep from her wounded head on to the vivid orange locks. George punched her to the ground, every movement calculated and controlled. He stood over her and shook his head.

‘You’ve been a trial to me, Elaine, do you know that?’

Her lips were already swelling from his blows and she could taste the blood in her mouth.

‘Why didn’t you just divorce me? Why did you have to sit there all those years, a silent reminder of what I’d done?’

He gave her a vicious kick in the stomach and she gagged.

‘Now I’ve got to kill you. You understand that, don’t you? I couldn’t possibly let you live now you know my little secret.’

He tutted a couple of times in exasperation. Elaine stared at her husband through watery eyes.

It dawned on her that George was as mad as a hatter and she was never going to see Hector, her friends, or anyone ever again. She was as good as dead already.

He stepped over her cumbersome body and walked out into the hall. Elaine could hear him whistling between his teeth, a habit that had grated on her nerves over the years. She saw, from her vantage point, that he was opening the coat cupboard in the hall and lifting up the floorboards. She pulled herself painfully to her knees. Grabbing at the wall, she staggered upright. The floor was covered in blood, and as she swayed and tried to steady herself she felt droplets running down her chin and into the folds of her neck.

George pulled out his army knife and walked purposefully towards her. He was tutting again as if she was a recalcitrant child.

She heard him sigh and as she tried to run towards the back door felt the sharp slice as the knife went through the wool of her jumper and into her shoulder blade. She gathered up all her strength and tried to dodge around the kitchen table. The serrated edge of the knife was caught in the wool of her jumper and George watched in fascination as she staggered away, pumping out blood, the knife hanging half out of her back.

He shook his head. Elaine was always so difficult.

He watched her stagger for a few steps before she fell to her knees, her breaths coming in quick painful gasps.

He walked over to her and, pulling the knife gently from her jumper, raised it over his head. As he did so Elaine turned her head and looked into his face.

‘George! Please . . . please, George . . . !’