George was a frightening specimen to look at. Standing well over six feet with a shaved head and goatee, he was exactly the sort of man Alan had envisaged - built like a brute yet exceedingly cool. Alan was nervous. He'd never done anything like this. But the bitch had to go. She and that hot-shot insurance salesman of hers.

 

George ran a hand over his baby-smooth dome. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? ‘Cause the moment you leave here there's no turning back."

 

Alan took in their cavernous surrounds. All the booths were full. The barmaid was copping an earful from one of the patrons. Nobody would have the faintest idea what they were talking about. "I've made up my mind," he said. He'd made up his mind three weeks ago. He'd sat in his car at the end of the street and waited for the slimeball to show. Sure enough the black BMW had slid into his driveway a little after midday. He'd made up his mind then and there.

 

George nodded. He displayed a chilling indifference to Alan's decision. "Okay. Now the deal is just like we talked about. Half now and half upon completion."

 

Alan slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the roll of cash. Five thousand dollars. It was a small price to pay to snuff out that cheating whore and her Armani prince.

 

"Don't give it to me now. Just leave it on the seat beside you. Then get up and walk out."

 

Alan felt more at ease. The difficult part was almost over. On Friday, while George earned his pay, Alan would spend the day at a friend's house on the coast. George would meet him there afterwards to collect the rest of his five grand.

 

Nobody raised an eye when Alan got up to leave. George had been right about the place. Everyone kept to themselves. Alan left the money on the seat and walked out into the blinding daylight.

 

*          *          *

 

His long-held suspicions about his wife's daytime habits were confirmed when he found a business card with another man's name on it beside the bedroom phone. Alan didn't say anything but he made a point of memorising the man's name and the company he worked for. Ralph Sterling: Everlast Insurance. Alan and his wife were with another insurance firm; when they were looking for a better deal he did the shopping around. Everything pointed to adultery.

 

Soon other clues began to surface - scrunched up panties behind the couch; wine glasses on the coffee table. He even found a soiled condom at the bottom of the wheelie bin when he went to collect it from the kerb one morning. His mother had been right. Never let your guard slip with a woman. Give her an inch and she'll take a mile.

 

The urge to confront her was overwhelming. But his wife was a smart cookie. She'd only dismiss his accusations, launch into an indignant tirade.

 

How dare you accuse me of being unfaithful. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I'm your wife, not some tramp. You're lucky I don't pack my bags and leave, you insulting bastard!

 

As painful as it was living with a cheating spouse Alan had no choice but to wait for more concrete evidence. Sooner or later one of them would slip up. Then he could pounce on them both.

 

He got the break he needed a week later. It was Thursday afternoon and his throat had become inflamed. His boss advised him to take the rest of the day off. So Alan drove home with the intention of getting a few hours sleep before dinner.

 

Even before he pulled into the driveway he could hear the music blaring. She's in the bath, he sighed, immediately wishing he were back at work, for when his wife took a bath she cranked up the stereo and imagined herself at a rock concert.

 

The first thing Alan did when he got inside was check the answering machine. Normally his wife had played back all the messages before he got home but today he was early and with that wretched stereo of hers drowning out everything, she hadn't heard the phone. The red light was flashing. There was a message.

 

He turned down the music and delighted in hearing her shrieks of protest from the bath. He loosened his tie and pressed play. His joy at having disrupted his wife's afternoon leisure suddenly turned sour as he stood listening to what had been intended for her ears only.

 

"I bet my princess can't wait to see what I've got wrapped up for her. But she'll have to wait until Friday. See you lunchtime sweetheart. Love Ralphie."

 

Mixed up in Alan's raw anger was the satisfaction of knowing he'd finally caught the bitch out. His first impulse was to drag her soapy arse out the bath and play back the tape. But part of him hesitated. He played the message once more. There was something missing, one vital piece of information that would have proved, beyond all doubt, that his wife was screwing around. Her name. Ralphie hadn't addressed Alan's wife by her name. The message could have been for anyone. If he pulled her from the tub now he ran the risk of being humiliated, not to mention blowing his chances of nailing them in the act.

 

You dragged me out here just to listen to that! Don't you have any brains? He's obviously dialled the wrong number.

 

But the card. The business card with Ralph's name on it.

 

What card? You show me the card.

 

It's in the bedroom, beside the phone.

 

There's no card and there will never be a card because you're a goddamn basket case!

 

If only he'd kept the card. He could be in the bathroom interrogating her instead of standing there like a fool. There was only one thing to do. Catch his wife on the job. Expose her for the harlot she was. Ralph was due to drop by Friday. Alan would make sure he was there.

 

He had to be careful he didn't scare Ralph off. So he parked on the nature strip at the end of the street. A couple of low lying shrubs helped to conceal his car without impeding his view.

 

It was hard for him to sit there and wait for his wife's lover to show up. He wondered how long the caper had been going on for. He'd suspected something long before he found the business card. In fact, Alan had always suspected his wife of having liaisons with other men. It was her nature. At parties she was always the centre of attention, always surrounded by a bevy of eager males while he stood in the corner out of his depth, powerless to intervene. His wife's friends thought him aloof. Sullen. But that was only part of it. If he told them how he really felt he'd never be invited to another party.

 

Neighbours passed him, gave him suspicious looks. He donned his sunglasses so they couldn't catch his eye. He prayed they wouldn't blow his cover, meet his wife coming out of the house.

 

I just saw your husband.

 

My husband?

 

Yes, he's parked at the end of the street.

 

At the end of the street!

 

He's in his car, waiting for someone.

 

His private-eye days would be short-lived. And she'd be on the phone to Ralphie straight away.

 

Fortunately nobody interrupted his stakeout. The car heated up in the sun, his brow grew moist, his neck stiffened. His eyes got tired from staring at the same spot but he never shifted his gaze. Even when his watch beeped to signal midday his eyes remained fastened on the stretch of bitumen that swept past his driveway. Come on Ralphie, show yourself.

 

His prayers were answered. A gleaming black BMW turned into the street. He knew it was Ralph; his wife wouldn't settle for anything less than a BMW. Alan's chest hurt. He felt violated. Even though his wife was about to give herself carnally to this upstart it was the act of trespass that tore at Alan's guts. The way Ralph swung his car into the driveway as if he owned the place. It was then that the thought of hiring a hit man entered Alan's mind. He'd read about such characters in the papers. He could have them both rubbed out. Put an end to the farce once and for all.

 

An hour later the BMW came sliding out of the driveway. Alan wanted to surprise her. Walk in on her while she was cleaning up, changing the sheets. Just to see the panic on her face. He wouldn't mention the BMW, the business card, the message on the answering machine. He'd play dumb. And if she accused him of spying on her he'd simply laugh off the suggestion.

 

Spying? What on earth gave you that idea?

 

You never come home during the day. And you've been acting weird lately.

 

But surely a man can call home during the day without his wife suspecting him of spying on her. Unless, of course, she's got something to hide.

 

He'd have the upper hand then. She'd be speechless. Incapable of retort. She might even flee the house in shame. Or she'd tear strips off him. After all, she was her most lethal when backed into a corner.

 

You little weasel! You haven't got the balls to come out and say what's on your mind. The impromptu visits, the sore throats. You think you can fool me? I wish I WAS having an affair. It would be a pleasant distraction from your pathetic behaviour. But that might not be such a good idea. If I started screwing other men it would make me realise what a loser I have for a husband!

 

Yes, that was the more likely scenario. He'd seen her in action before. She'd only deflect the blame - make him feel like the guilty one.

 

He had to face facts. He couldn't win. Not against her. She had him by the balls. She'd drained him of life's vigour, made him impotent. Now she was discarding him for someone half his age, someone who drove a car he could only dream of owning. Alan was dying a slow death because of her.

 

He started hanging around the seamy parts of town - the red light districts, biker joints and pool halls; places he wouldn't dare set foot inside under normal circumstances. Normal circumstances, Alan laughed. When had things ever been normal? All his friends had gone on to lead successful careers with devoted wives and adoring children. Alan hadn't had a pay rise in five years. He spent his weekends hiding in corners at parties while his wife caroused with all and sundry. Now his home and bed were being invaded by some young punk who had the gall to leave messages announcing the date and time of his arrival on the answering machine. Normal! Walking into a wolves' den at two in the morning looking to buy vengeance...that was normal.

 

He didn't know where to start, who to turn to, so he stayed at the bar, chewing peanuts, glancing up each time someone who looked like they fit the bill walked in. His inquisitive stares were met with menacing scowls. He ordered scotch and cola to calm his nerves. Scotch and cola. Alan only ever drank orange juice at his wife's parties.

 

Big men with tattoos strode over, towering above him. They ordered jugs of beer which they swilled like modern day Vikings. There weren't many women in these places except for those who danced around poles on stage. Alan's instincts, those that hadn't yet been stubbed out by his wife, told him he'd find the man he was looking for in such a venue.

 

It happened in a strip club. Alan was at the bar, on his third scotch and cola, when a tall man in motorbike leathers approached him. He had a long shiny scar down his right cheek. Alan couldn't take his eyes off it. The man smiled. Then he bent down and spoke in Alan's ear.

 

"I've seen you before."

 

There was nothing implicit in the stranger's voice but Alan knew he'd found the right person.

 

"I'm new to this," Alan said. "I thought if I waited around long enough..."

 

The fellow seemed to understand where Alan was coming from. He stuck his hand in his jacket and produced a glossy business card. "This may help you."

 

Alan looked at the card. It featured a cartoon razorback hunched over a motorbike with the words Southern Harleys printed in fiery tones underneath. Alan read it several times, shaking his head in confusion.

 

"Other side."

 

Alan flipped the card over. He saw a man's name and phone number written in biro. He frowned. "Who's George?"

 

The stranger smiled but he wasn't looking at Alan anymore. Something at the end of the bar had caught his fancy. "Just give him a call. I'm sure he's the one you've been looking for."

 

George was indeed the person he'd been looking for. Alan rang him from a pay phone the next day and explained his situation. He was trembling with nerves all the way through the conversation. George was patient. He made sure Alan understood what he was getting involved in before giving him a quote. He told Alan to meet him at O'Shannessy's the following afternoon. It was an Irish pub, a lot more inconspicuous, he assured Alan, than the strip clubs and pool halls where his agent did business.

 

"And before you ask how we're supposed to recognise each other you'll be sitting alone at the booth opposite the men's toilets. No-one ever sits there. I'll meet you at two. Don't be late. And don't bring anyone."

 

The next morning Alan cleaned out his savings. He was so nervous he left drops of sweat on the counter as the teller counted the bills.

 

"Seen a car you like?" the girl asked, sliding Alan's bulging bankbook towards him.

 

Alan looked up startled. "Huh? Oh. It's for the wife. A present for the wife."

 

"Well I'm sure she'll love it whatever it is."

 

Alan didn't even hear her last comment as he shoved the money in his coat pocket and strode past the security guard and out the door.

 

There was surprisingly little traffic on the way down to the coast. It was a long winding road with the sea shimmering below and the cliff-face jutting out above. Despite the idyllic conditions Alan was elsewhere. He was in the strip club, watching the milky scar meander down the face of the man in motorbike leathers. The stranger was smiling. He took Alan's hand and rested it on the scar. It was smooth and raised high off the skin. He guided Alan's finger along the shiny tissue which ended just above the jugular.

 

"It's big," Alan said.

 

"Enormous," the other grinned.

 

Alan was the only one in the place not wearing leathers. Music was playing. Loud, grinding rock. It was a place Alan had feared he might end up one day. But that wasn't his fault. His wife had pushed him in that direction. Now it was too late. Things were out of his control.

 

The sun bounced off the water. Alan didn't bat an eye. His car took each serpentine twist with ease. He thought of a prayer his mother had taught him as a boy. All God's children know no evil, all God's children sleep at night... He couldn't remember the rest. It was too long ago. Everything good and healthy seemed packed into another lifetime. The memories had become so distant they were hazy. Hazy like the man driving the car.

 

Alan wondered how much longer he could keep the car on the road. He was experiencing what his mother used to call absent-mindedness. He had suffered from that a lot as a child. It was a condition that could spell disaster, especially if you were performing a task requiring your full attention. Like driving on a winding road with the ocean below you. It was sure to be a steep drop. The chances of survival would be slim.

 

He'd been happy as a child. He'd been alone most of the time but he'd been clever enough to invent games which required solitary participation. Many a sunny afternoon had been spent battling invisible monsters in his mother's garden. How he'd gone from that happy boy to this numb soul he couldn't say. Things had happened along the way to change him. He couldn't even be sure when the changes had started. Were they before or after his marriage?

 

Suddenly Alan felt the fog lift. An intense light filled his eyes. He had control of the car again. He remembered where he was, where he was going, what he'd done...

 

She was his wife, for better or for worse.

 

The road was already sealed off by the time the detectives arrived. A tow truck was parked close to the edge, its stabilisers gripping the bitumen like claws. The driver was operating a winch at the back. An ambulance sat waiting on the other side. The detectives pulled up behind it and walked over to the edge. The car was being dragged up the escarpment. It had smashed through the guardrail and fallen a good fifty metres.

 

One of the detectives had a long scar down his right cheek. The other had a shaved head and goatee and looked like he spent his spare hours in the gym.

 

The detective with the scar lit a cigarette. "That's our man isn't it?"

 

The bald detective looked down incredulously. "Was."

 

The tow truck driver said nothing. He seemed impervious to his grisly task.

 

"I wonder what happened," the bald detective said.

 

His partner scratched his cheek. "It certainly changes things doesn't it?"

 

"What do we tell his wife?"

 

The question went unanswered. They watched the crumpled wreck reach the top of the cliff. An ambulance man walked over with a blanket.

 

The bald detective looked away. "His friend would have been expecting him by now."

 

Scarface nodded. "I can't understand it. He got this far and look what happened. Poor bastard."

 

Baldy frowned. "What do you mean poor bastard? He tried to have his wife bumped off. It's lucky the bird had the brains to come to us when she did. If she hadn't been so switched on her and her toy-boy would be dripping from the ceiling by now."

 

Scarface stamped out his cigarette. "I think he lost the plot. Certainly when I ran into him he was on another planet. How was he with you?"

 

"Nervous, fidgety. I think he was shit-scared actually."

 

The ambulance left the scene without haste. The tow truck driver wiped his brow and prepared to haul his unsightly load to the wreckers. The detectives got back in their car. Now they had to confront the dead man's wife. She'd be expecting to hear they'd arrested him, charged him with conspiring to kill her. How would she react when they told her her husband had inexplicably driven off a cliff?

 

By now neighbours were used to seeing the black BMW parked in the driveway. Tongues were wagging. Alan's wife didn't care. She and her lover were finishing their second bottle of wine and were about to retreat to the bedroom. They sat on the couch, both half undressed. He stroked her leg. "Isn't this a nice way to round off the week?"

 

"Oh absolutely."

 

They were both swimming in wine. Alan's wife had started on the first bottle before Ralph had arrived. She'd met him at the door in her skirt and bra; a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.

 

Ralph checked his watch.

 

She covered his wrist. "Isn't Friday your long lunch?"

 

"I'm not worried about being late. I'm worried about your husband."

 

"Oh my husband," she said with a flip of the hand. "I wouldn't worry too much about him."

 

Her affection had a motherly quality which Ralph found soothing. He pitied her husband. All she craved was a bit of attention and, from the sound of it, Alan had lost interest. What was worse? A wife seeking tenderness outside marriage or a neglectful husband?

 

"It's a pity you couldn't get him rubbed out instead? You'd be a rich lady by now."

 

She was busy nibbling his neck. "Hardly," she mumbled.

 

"You'd be surprised. When did your husband take out that life insurance policy? Nine, ten years ago?"

 

She stopped chewing on his flesh. She looked at the purple mark she'd made.

 

"You could treat yourself to a nice little holiday."

 

She slapped his arm. "You gruesome thing. My husband's the sicko remember."

 

Ralph raised his hands. "I'm only kidding. Here, have some more wine."

 

Alan's wife always found comfort in wine. Wine had liberated her from Alan's cold definition of what a marriage should be. Wine had introduced her to Ralph at last year's Christmas party. A smile crept back to her face. There was mischief in her eyes.

 

"A holiday you say?"