Fiction — Highly Commended, Zoe Downing
Originally from the UK, Zoe now lives in Sydney where she works in IT. She’s currently studying for an MA in creative writing at UTS and is working on her first novel.
If it’s good enough for Socrates…
Hamish locked eyes with the woman, giving her a steamy stare as she entered the bar. Her hair was long and blonde and she wore a red dress that clung to her hips like the skin of a Red Delicious. Reckon her flesh is just as juicy, he thought to himself.
Sarah rolls her eyes and drops the book into the bin. She is usually meticulous about choosing her next read; often spending hours walking around the shop, cross referencing each choice with Goodreads. Today, she allowed herself an impulse buy, grabbing the first book from the bestsellers shelf. This is the difference between having money and not. What does a fifteen quid book matter now? Even so, she should have read the back cover. Romance really isn’t her thing.
She puts her hand into her shoulder bag and takes out the worn copy of Stone Mattress. Margaret never lets her down.
The Underground is swarming; people rush down the escalator, nudging her shoulder, tutting at her position not quite all the way over to the right. She doesn’t look up, keeping her forefinger under the top corner of the page.
She continues to read as she walks, then joins the longest queue at the ticket machine. At first her hand automatically hovers over the minimum amount of £5, but then she remembers she doesn’t have to be frugal anymore.
She reaches the restaurant at 12:25, a small tapas place which is unnecessarily warm. It’s 12:35 when the waiter asks if she’d like a drink whilst she waits. She declines. Every time she looks at her phone the waiter shoots her a sympathetic smile. How long until they decide you’ve been stood up? She sends Joe a text to say she’s upstairs. At 12:45 she gives in and orders a glass of white wine, avoiding the waiter’s eye.
Joe’s phone rings out every time she tries it and none of her Whatsapp messages get delivered. It’s 1:30 when she finally leaves, tipping the waiter generously on her way out.
The hotel is a short walk; through the clamour of Borough Market, under Tower Bridge. A doorman dressed in black with a fur hat and gloves is ready to open the door for her. She slips him a tenner and a winning smile.
A glimpse in the elevator mirror reveals puffy eyes and a clump of hair scrunched up on one side; a fallout from the short nap she took on the plane. Her bright red dress is wrinkled. She quickly spits in her hand and rubs it over the creases.
‘Ah Mrs. Daniels,’ the receptionist says when Sarah hands over her passport. ‘I see congratulations are in order.’
She smiles at him and tries to look bashful. ‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like me to show you to the room?’
‘That would be great.’
There are rose petals on the bed in the shape of a heart and two long stemmed roses crossed in the middle. She’d paid extra for them. A tiny bottle of champagne stands on the table.
‘Compliments of the hotel,’ the receptionist says.
‘Lovely.’
The holiday to Greece was already booked when they decided to get married. She’d seen a picture of a tiny chapel with a blue dome behind bougainvillea flowers and knew it would be perfect.
It was the complete opposite of her first wedding. That had been dry and conventional; a wedding dress you couldn’t pick out from a lineup of all the brides that summer. Joe was shorter than her previous husband, but he had nice eyes and a tennis court.
They hadn’t invited anyone. She wore a pink dress and he wore shorts. An orthodox priest in cream robes, who gave the impression that every step might be his last, presided. After the ceremony (if you can even call it that) they went to a beach. Joe had been sweet. Settled her down on a deckchair, propped a cushion behind her head, glass of champagne, lingering kiss on the forehead. All that romantic crap.
It was during the first few days in Greece that she realised just how dull Joe was. Constantly slowing down to take yet another picture of a quaint little street, a lecture on the sacrificial rituals of ancient Greece that made her want to jump into the sea with stones in her pockets.
It didn’t matter, of course. She hadn’t exactly married him for his personality.
They’d met shortly after his first wife died. Joe was bleary eyed and blotchy. He sat next to her in grief group, smelling of microwave dinners and despair. She had identified a few other potentials at those sessions, but none of them drove a BMW Nazca M12. After six months of dating it was easy to get him to agree to the life insurance policies. She’d even managed to make him think it was his idea to get married.
Joe was into boring things like bird watching. For her birthday he’d bought her a book on botany, for God’s sake. She wasn’t remotely interested in gardening. Although, the section on poisonous plants had captured her attention.
It was funny to think about it then, as she sat on that deckchair, looking at the small white-tipped plants that clustered around the water.
She’d waited until he was asleep before opening the door of their villa as quietly as possible, her hands wrapped in plastic bags. The flowers looked yellow under the torchlight but the fern-like leaves were unmistakable. She cut them into tiny pieces, then ground them into powder with a stone. It took all night, and she’d just snuck into bed when the alarm went off. Whilst he was in the shower she emptied the powder into a tea bag and slipped it into her purse.
They had an early flight back to London. Joe needed to rush off to a meeting, but there was just enough time to grab a tea at the airport before he left.
‘Don’t forget, we’re meeting for lunch at 12:30,’ she said.
The sun sets over London. Sarah is lying on the bed, phone in hand, dialling Joe’s number over and over. When it goes to answer machine for the twentieth time she pops open the champagne and pours herself a glass. It’s time to celebrate.
She imagines poor little Joe suddenly losing feeling in his limbs. Collapsing in the airport? Convulsing on the escalator? Going blind behind the wheel of his car?
Googling ‘News Gatwick Airport’ returns nothing of relevance. ‘Accidents M25’ brings news of a collision off junction 7 at 9:25. It doesn’t specify the car. Possible? She takes a sip of the champagne and stands up to get a better view of the skyline.
As she lifts the glass a piece of paper flutters to the floor. She bends down to pick it up, then freezes. It’s a page torn from a book; a glossy picture of little white flowers, fern-like leaves, the word hemlock printed above: a page from her botany book. In small letters, written under the picture is the word, ‘Cheers!’
She blinks. Surely the champagne hasn’t gone to her head already. She is usually a lightweight, but two sips in? That’s ridiculous. She looks at the writing again. The way the tail of the S flicks up, almost turning it into an eight. Definitely Joe’s hand.
The bottle had popped when she opened it, hadn’t it? It couldn’t have been opened already. Surely? What about the glass?
She swirls her finger around the edge and tiny specks of white powder come away on her skin.
Holy fucking shit.
‘Excuse me,’ Sarah says to the receptionist.
‘How can I help you Madam?’
‘My husband, has he been here already? I’m trying to get in touch with him, but I can’t get through.’
‘Ah yes, he wanted to surprise you. The champagne was not actually from the hotel.’ He winks.
She swallows. The taste of champagne still tingles on her tongue.
‘How nice, thank you.’
She walks to the toilets by reception. As soon as the cubicle door closes she spits into the sink, spins her tongue around her mouth, getting up every bit of saliva. Then she turns on the tap, lapping up water as quickly as possible.
‘Where to?’ The taxi driver asks.
‘The nearest hospital please.’
‘You alright love?’
‘Yes… just need to see a doctor.’
As the taxi pulls out her phone pings. A message from Joe. A video of him pouring the tea into the bin then waving at the camera. That bastard. How the hell did he know?
Friday evening traffic is gathering, she isn’t going to make it! She opens the camera on her phone and zooms in on her eyes. The pupils are huge. Her face is numb, her mouth is so dry. She can still see, but her arms are light, and her breath is shallow. Her heart feels like it’s moving up her chest. What the hell was that? There it is again. A twitch in her left eye. The eyelid is throbbing. She’s going to throw up, she’s going to faint. She is going to die in a taxi that smells like kebab!
The driver glances at her in the mirror once or twice but doesn’t say anything.
Her phone pings again. Joe. This time it’s a link. Her hands are shaking, she can barely feel the phone beneath her fingers but she manages to click on it. A news article. It takes her a few seconds to focus on the words. Charges dropped against husband accused of wife’s murder. James Harris, 40 years old. She scrolls down. A picture of a man leaving the police station with his head down, a newspaper partially covering his face. She can see enough to know it’s Joe. Joe with much more hair. But unmistakably Joe.
Another message. ‘And you thought we had nothing in common.’
Who the hell is this maniac she married?
She thinks back over their relationship. It had been very easy to get him to agree to the life insurance. Surprisingly easy, in fact. Hadn’t it been him who suggested raising the values? The marriage proposal. At the time she’d been sure she had manipulated him into proposing, but now she can’t even remember what she’d said. The way he would stare at her. She’d thought he was gormless, a bit stupid, but perhaps it was something else? And hadn’t it been him who started their first conversation at the grief session? Asking for advice on furniture for his new house. Yes, that was it. He said he’d recently moved and needed help picking out a couch. Oh God, yes, then he’d asked her out.
‘Here you are, love.’
She hands the driver a twenty pound note and runs into the building.
‘I’ve been poisoned!’ she screams.
She thinks she’s going to collapse but then a nurse pushes her into a wheelchair and she’s moving down the corridor, the smell of Iodoform burning at her nose.
‘I can’t see anything!’ she wails.
The doctor is there within seconds.
‘What have you taken?’
‘I...I accidentally ate some hemlock.’ She feels ridiculous. This is not supposed to be happening to her.
‘Hemlock? From your garden?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long ago did you eat it?’
For God’s sake, she is dying here. ‘Less than half an hour.’
The doctor shines a torch into each eye.
‘Everything looks fine there,’ he says. ‘Any numbness in your limbs?’
‘Yes, everything feels weak. I’m finding it hard to breathe. My hands are numb, my mouth is dry, I can’t focus on anything!’
She is lifted back into the wheelchair and taken down another corridor. A new voice is speaking. It’s gentle, a bit patronising. Then there’s a tube being pushed into her mouth. Her eyes water, she gags, the tube’s scratching her throat. She wants to scream but there’s no space for that.
It goes on for an eternity, but finally the tube is pulled out and she’s taken back to the room.
‘Miss Daniels?’ the doctor says, touching her shoulder.
She must have dozed off.
‘I have some good news for you.’
‘Good?’
‘We tested the contents of your stomach. There was no hemlock detected.’
‘None detected?’
‘Perhaps you ate something harmless from your garden. It does look a lot like other things, carrot leaves, parsnip?’
‘What about the symptoms? I was numb, I could barely see. I don’t think I was breathing right.’
‘It was most likely a panic attack. You thought you’d eaten something poisonous. That’s just the kind of thing to trigger an attack.’
A fucking panic attack. Joe is going to pay for this. She is going to find him and do it right. The money doesn’t matter now. It’s all about revenge.
She goes back to the hotel, might as well use it, Joe won’t come back tonight. There’s a different receptionist behind the desk. The kind of woman she hates; too much makeup around the eyes, vacuous stare.
‘Good evening, Madam.’
She’s too tired to acknowledge her.
When she gets up to the room she puts the kettle on. Her throat is burning, her stomach feels like someone’s been down there with a mattock. She runs a bath. Takes in a cup of green tea and turns a few pages of her book. Perhaps she could get Joe onto a cruise somehow, hit him over the head with a rock on an excursion. That would be poetic. She could leave a copy of the Stone Mattress with his body. Yes, beautiful. Although, stupid. Too stupid to pull off, of course.
The tea is getting cold but she takes a final sip and finishes it. Why do expensive teas always taste a bit funny? If someone told her a mouse had pissed in this one she’d believe it. It is relaxing her at least, and her throat is starting to feel better.
She lies back, letting her head sink slightly under the surface. Her hair splays in the water, she can finally wash it after such a long day. The shower gel smells like lime, she rubs it between her palms, under her armpits and onto her face. She splashes her body with water, then dries her hands and reads another few pages of the book. It’s only when she decides to get out of the bath that she realises she can’t move.
If she could speak she’d tell you hemlock poisoning feels nothing like a panic attack. Your mouth doesn’t become dry, but rather fills with saliva. Your pulse weakens. You vomit. You become uncoordinated. Your body convulses. And if you happen to be in the bath at the time, it will probably be the knock to the back of the head, or the water in your lungs, that will finally kill you.
Sarah rolls her eyes and drops the book into the bin. She is usually meticulous about choosing her next read; often spending hours walking around the shop, cross referencing each choice with Goodreads. Today, she allowed herself an impulse buy, grabbing the first book from the bestsellers shelf. This is the difference between having money and not. What does a fifteen quid book matter now? Even so, she should have read the back cover. Romance really isn’t her thing.
She puts her hand into her shoulder bag and takes out the worn copy of Stone Mattress. Margaret never lets her down.
The Underground is swarming; people rush down the escalator, nudging her shoulder, tutting at her position not quite all the way over to the right. She doesn’t look up, keeping her forefinger under the top corner of the page.
She continues to read as she walks, then joins the longest queue at the ticket machine. At first her hand automatically hovers over the minimum amount of £5, but then she remembers she doesn’t have to be frugal anymore.
She reaches the restaurant at 12:25, a small tapas place which is unnecessarily warm. It’s 12:35 when the waiter asks if she’d like a drink whilst she waits. She declines. Every time she looks at her phone the waiter shoots her a sympathetic smile. How long until they decide you’ve been stood up? She sends Joe a text to say she’s upstairs. At 12:45 she gives in and orders a glass of white wine, avoiding the waiter’s eye.
Joe’s phone rings out every time she tries it and none of her Whatsapp messages get delivered. It’s 1:30 when she finally leaves, tipping the waiter generously on her way out.
The hotel is a short walk; through the clamour of Borough Market, under Tower Bridge. A doorman dressed in black with a fur hat and gloves is ready to open the door for her. She slips him a tenner and a winning smile.
A glimpse in the elevator mirror reveals puffy eyes and a clump of hair scrunched up on one side; a fallout from the short nap she took on the plane. Her bright red dress is wrinkled. She quickly spits in her hand and rubs it over the creases.
‘Ah Mrs. Daniels,’ the receptionist says when Sarah hands over her passport. ‘I see congratulations are in order.’
She smiles at him and tries to look bashful. ‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like me to show you to the room?’
‘That would be great.’
There are rose petals on the bed in the shape of a heart and two long stemmed roses crossed in the middle. She’d paid extra for them. A tiny bottle of champagne stands on the table.
‘Compliments of the hotel,’ the receptionist says.
‘Lovely.’
The holiday to Greece was already booked when they decided to get married. She’d seen a picture of a tiny chapel with a blue dome behind bougainvillea flowers and knew it would be perfect.
It was the complete opposite of her first wedding. That had been dry and conventional; a wedding dress you couldn’t pick out from a lineup of all the brides that summer. Joe was shorter than her previous husband, but he had nice eyes and a tennis court.
They hadn’t invited anyone. She wore a pink dress and he wore shorts. An orthodox priest in cream robes, who gave the impression that every step might be his last, presided. After the ceremony (if you can even call it that) they went to a beach. Joe had been sweet. Settled her down on a deckchair, propped a cushion behind her head, glass of champagne, lingering kiss on the forehead. All that romantic crap.
It was during the first few days in Greece that she realised just how dull Joe was. Constantly slowing down to take yet another picture of a quaint little street, a lecture on the sacrificial rituals of ancient Greece that made her want to jump into the sea with stones in her pockets.
It didn’t matter, of course. She hadn’t exactly married him for his personality.
They’d met shortly after his first wife died. Joe was bleary eyed and blotchy. He sat next to her in grief group, smelling of microwave dinners and despair. She had identified a few other potentials at those sessions, but none of them drove a BMW Nazca M12. After six months of dating it was easy to get him to agree to the life insurance policies. She’d even managed to make him think it was his idea to get married.
Joe was into boring things like bird watching. For her birthday he’d bought her a book on botany, for God’s sake. She wasn’t remotely interested in gardening. Although, the section on poisonous plants had captured her attention.
It was funny to think about it then, as she sat on that deckchair, looking at the small white-tipped plants that clustered around the water.
She’d waited until he was asleep before opening the door of their villa as quietly as possible, her hands wrapped in plastic bags. The flowers looked yellow under the torchlight but the fern-like leaves were unmistakable. She cut them into tiny pieces, then ground them into powder with a stone. It took all night, and she’d just snuck into bed when the alarm went off. Whilst he was in the shower she emptied the powder into a tea bag and slipped it into her purse.
They had an early flight back to London. Joe needed to rush off to a meeting, but there was just enough time to grab a tea at the airport before he left.
‘Don’t forget, we’re meeting for lunch at 12:30,’ she said.
The sun sets over London. Sarah is lying on the bed, phone in hand, dialling Joe’s number over and over. When it goes to answer machine for the twentieth time she pops open the champagne and pours herself a glass. It’s time to celebrate.
She imagines poor little Joe suddenly losing feeling in his limbs. Collapsing in the airport? Convulsing on the escalator? Going blind behind the wheel of his car?
Googling ‘News Gatwick Airport’ returns nothing of relevance. ‘Accidents M25’ brings news of a collision off junction 7 at 9:25. It doesn’t specify the car. Possible? She takes a sip of the champagne and stands up to get a better view of the skyline.
As she lifts the glass a piece of paper flutters to the floor. She bends down to pick it up, then freezes. It’s a page torn from a book; a glossy picture of little white flowers, fern-like leaves, the word hemlock printed above: a page from her botany book. In small letters, written under the picture is the word, ‘Cheers!’
She blinks. Surely the champagne hasn’t gone to her head already. She is usually a lightweight, but two sips in? That’s ridiculous. She looks at the writing again. The way the tail of the S flicks up, almost turning it into an eight. Definitely Joe’s hand.
The bottle had popped when she opened it, hadn’t it? It couldn’t have been opened already. Surely? What about the glass?
She swirls her finger around the edge and tiny specks of white powder come away on her skin.
Holy fucking shit.
‘Excuse me,’ Sarah says to the receptionist.
‘How can I help you Madam?’
‘My husband, has he been here already? I’m trying to get in touch with him, but I can’t get through.’
‘Ah yes, he wanted to surprise you. The champagne was not actually from the hotel.’ He winks.
She swallows. The taste of champagne still tingles on her tongue.
‘How nice, thank you.’
She walks to the toilets by reception. As soon as the cubicle door closes she spits into the sink, spins her tongue around her mouth, getting up every bit of saliva. Then she turns on the tap, lapping up water as quickly as possible.
‘Where to?’ The taxi driver asks.
‘The nearest hospital please.’
‘You alright love?’
‘Yes… just need to see a doctor.’
As the taxi pulls out her phone pings. A message from Joe. A video of him pouring the tea into the bin then waving at the camera. That bastard. How the hell did he know?
Friday evening traffic is gathering, she isn’t going to make it! She opens the camera on her phone and zooms in on her eyes. The pupils are huge. Her face is numb, her mouth is so dry. She can still see, but her arms are light, and her breath is shallow. Her heart feels like it’s moving up her chest. What the hell was that? There it is again. A twitch in her left eye. The eyelid is throbbing. She’s going to throw up, she’s going to faint. She is going to die in a taxi that smells like kebab!
The driver glances at her in the mirror once or twice but doesn’t say anything.
Her phone pings again. Joe. This time it’s a link. Her hands are shaking, she can barely feel the phone beneath her fingers but she manages to click on it. A news article. It takes her a few seconds to focus on the words. Charges dropped against husband accused of wife’s murder. James Harris, 40 years old. She scrolls down. A picture of a man leaving the police station with his head down, a newspaper partially covering his face. She can see enough to know it’s Joe. Joe with much more hair. But unmistakably Joe.
Another message. ‘And you thought we had nothing in common.’
Who the hell is this maniac she married?
She thinks back over their relationship. It had been very easy to get him to agree to the life insurance. Surprisingly easy, in fact. Hadn’t it been him who suggested raising the values? The marriage proposal. At the time she’d been sure she had manipulated him into proposing, but now she can’t even remember what she’d said. The way he would stare at her. She’d thought he was gormless, a bit stupid, but perhaps it was something else? And hadn’t it been him who started their first conversation at the grief session? Asking for advice on furniture for his new house. Yes, that was it. He said he’d recently moved and needed help picking out a couch. Oh God, yes, then he’d asked her out.
‘Here you are, love.’
She hands the driver a twenty pound note and runs into the building.
‘I’ve been poisoned!’ she screams.
She thinks she’s going to collapse but then a nurse pushes her into a wheelchair and she’s moving down the corridor, the smell of Iodoform burning at her nose.
‘I can’t see anything!’ she wails.
The doctor is there within seconds.
‘What have you taken?’
‘I...I accidentally ate some hemlock.’ She feels ridiculous. This is not supposed to be happening to her.
‘Hemlock? From your garden?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long ago did you eat it?’
For God’s sake, she is dying here. ‘Less than half an hour.’
The doctor shines a torch into each eye.
‘Everything looks fine there,’ he says. ‘Any numbness in your limbs?’
‘Yes, everything feels weak. I’m finding it hard to breathe. My hands are numb, my mouth is dry, I can’t focus on anything!’
She is lifted back into the wheelchair and taken down another corridor. A new voice is speaking. It’s gentle, a bit patronising. Then there’s a tube being pushed into her mouth. Her eyes water, she gags, the tube’s scratching her throat. She wants to scream but there’s no space for that.
It goes on for an eternity, but finally the tube is pulled out and she’s taken back to the room.
‘Miss Daniels?’ the doctor says, touching her shoulder.
She must have dozed off.
‘I have some good news for you.’
‘Good?’
‘We tested the contents of your stomach. There was no hemlock detected.’
‘None detected?’
‘Perhaps you ate something harmless from your garden. It does look a lot like other things, carrot leaves, parsnip?’
‘What about the symptoms? I was numb, I could barely see. I don’t think I was breathing right.’
‘It was most likely a panic attack. You thought you’d eaten something poisonous. That’s just the kind of thing to trigger an attack.’
A fucking panic attack. Joe is going to pay for this. She is going to find him and do it right. The money doesn’t matter now. It’s all about revenge.
She goes back to the hotel, might as well use it, Joe won’t come back tonight. There’s a different receptionist behind the desk. The kind of woman she hates; too much makeup around the eyes, vacuous stare.
‘Good evening, Madam.’
She’s too tired to acknowledge her.
When she gets up to the room she puts the kettle on. Her throat is burning, her stomach feels like someone’s been down there with a mattock. She runs a bath. Takes in a cup of green tea and turns a few pages of her book. Perhaps she could get Joe onto a cruise somehow, hit him over the head with a rock on an excursion. That would be poetic. She could leave a copy of the Stone Mattress with his body. Yes, beautiful. Although, stupid. Too stupid to pull off, of course.
The tea is getting cold but she takes a final sip and finishes it. Why do expensive teas always taste a bit funny? If someone told her a mouse had pissed in this one she’d believe it. It is relaxing her at least, and her throat is starting to feel better.
She lies back, letting her head sink slightly under the surface. Her hair splays in the water, she can finally wash it after such a long day. The shower gel smells like lime, she rubs it between her palms, under her armpits and onto her face. She splashes her body with water, then dries her hands and reads another few pages of the book. It’s only when she decides to get out of the bath that she realises she can’t move.
If she could speak she’d tell you hemlock poisoning feels nothing like a panic attack. Your mouth doesn’t become dry, but rather fills with saliva. Your pulse weakens. You vomit. You become uncoordinated. Your body convulses. And if you happen to be in the bath at the time, it will probably be the knock to the back of the head, or the water in your lungs, that will finally kill you.
