The evidence was always going to be crystal clear, he knew that in his heart, but . . . there is always doubt. The clock on the video recorder registers 6.53 pm as the camera positioned on the light fitting traces Jasmine as she climbs the stairs to the attic like a fell runner aching for a race victory. The door slams, all goes quiet momentarily, John switches channels to the second camera hidden away in the large attic room. He cannot see the participants, but he hears a sigh of excitement, some words mumbled in the background with the rustling of clothing being dropped to the floor. No evidence of physical interaction just speculation. He puts his head in his hands and breaths deeply, it’s just as he thought, there is no mistake in his assumption. Then disaster. The bear tumbles suddenly, rebounds off the floor, pirouetting in a blur of obscure motion, struck by something the camera cannot identify. His eyes sharpen, he doesn’t understand, he replays the section several times to be certain. The screen image ventures onto something long and hairy that skims back and forth across the focal point of the camera hidden within the teddy bear before knocking it to the floor.

John knows his one-eyed spy is now redundant, only nestling in cosy affection to aged carpet pile. Its usefulness complete, it’s work concluded. He sighs in frustration as he contemplates the action of the past minutes and the determination of mind to fulfil the request of his suspicions.

“Roll up, roll up,” The fairground worker said. “A teddy bear for the lady eh. Try your luck. You got the eyes of a champion to me my friend.” John looks at Jasmine, there is admiration hidden deep in her cold stare. “Go on, do your best. Be a winner for once.” She said before looking away towards the enchanting noise and excitement of the Waltzer twisting as it turns faster and faster, the screams of the girls rising about the crescendo of the pumping pop music.  He fires. One tin soldier falls and then another and another. He breaks open the rifle, presses the last pellet into place and aims, looking down the sights on the barrel to the enemy in the distance. He casts one look at the fairground worker, who winks with unsaid knowledge as he sucks on the remnants of a roll up cigarette.

Bang, the air rifle recoils into John’s shoulder. Nothing, then he sees the little tin soldier quiver, it’s balance in question and then it falls dead on its back as it surrenders to the glancing blow of the lead shot. The face of the man is anger, he strikes a reticent pose as he knows he’s failed in his task. “Which do you want?” He asks with a sneer as he brushes back one loose lock of oily hair. John was always going to choose the pink one, it would be what Jasmine desired. She takes it, holds it at arm’s length like an unwanted child.

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” she says looking at its deep-set black eyes that register nothing, the look on its face a doubtful mimic for the contempt it feels for its new owner. “Thanks.” The word springs from her mouth almost like a moment of finality. She looks back at the Waltzer, the squeals of delight, the fun.

Its pink fur gathering dust, the bear had lingered unwanted, staring blindly into the cavernous attic room waiting for its moment of glory. John plucked it from the top of the radiator it had valiantly defended for twenty years and tore out its right eye in a moment of calm decision. The video camera fits perfectly into the void, the darkness of its lens a perfect match to its other sightless eye. His work was done. Jasmine had never cherished the pink bear, found its stare unsettling, a reminder of demonic intent seen in a cheap horror movie and had hidden it away in the darkness of the attic rooms – forgotten – where it had remained undisturbed and invisible. John placed it back into position tending to its fur, straightening the lines of its mouth. He smiled to himself. “I’m counting on you,” he said quietly patting the furry creature on its head before heading to the door.

John watches the video clip several more times that morning to try and verify the cause of the bears demise. Full evidence of the furry object creating the disfunction is incomplete, the frames of the video blurry without definition. His initial theory, is a sex toy, it makes perfect sense. That said, his mind was priming thoughts not necessarily into the right alleyway, but exactly where he needed them to be. Adulterous sex being the prime motivator – rightly or not – he could not see there being an alternative explanation for the liaison?

The remainder of the footage plays out on the screen as he hugs a mug of coffee. It quells the quiet fury he cages in his heart. The bear suddenly rises from the floral carpet, captive within a female hand that strokes its ignorant pink brow.

“Do you want to watch little one,” says Jasmine in a twee voice as if addressing a neighbours baby out walking in the park.

A sudden interruption. “Give it ‘ere Cuddles. No stupid bear is gonna spy on me having my fun.” The command specific and demanding from the man John knows is Steven Armitage – the lodger.

“Ah, Fluffy is such a big spoilsport. Got to have his own way eh?” She says addressing the bear, putting it back on the radiator facing the wall, the camera no longer centred into the room. He knows there will be no further useful footage, the incrimination of video dead and buried, only out of focus patterns of wallpaper and the stifled sound of two excitable voices remain. John growls in frustrated defeat as the recording continues to run on the laptop screen. All that remains are disembodied voices and moments of quiet that make him pique with resentment and fear.

“Have you turned it on Fluffy, can’t keep our demanding audience waiting a moment longer than expected can we? Just think of the ‘likes and subscribes’ we’ll miss. They want action my precious boy?” She taunts in a husky sexy voice, deep in resonance that her husband has never heard or witnessed before.

“Grrrrrrrrrr!” The singular sound John hears from the room together with the collision of soft material as it rubs and pounds with excessive contact. It shocks him to the core, the sudden knowledge, the validation of his fears. Anger floods through his blood stream, he broods eyes glued to the hazy screen.

“You ready Cuddles? Everything up and running okay? We got thirty-four already waiting. Look see, a few old favourites of ours. Hi Dave, Jackie and Sam – where’ve you been hiding?”

“Oh Fluffy,” taunts Jasmine. “You are playful tonight  . . . they’re going to love this aren’t they?”

“You love it too don’t you Cuddles? We should do it more often.” Says the man. “Our viewers would lap up the extra time and the pleasure would be all mine.”

“Oh Fluffy, you know how to get my passion racing like no-one else can?” She breaths deeply moaning with rapture. John turns off the video feed. It is more than he can stand. The beginning of tears, the destruction of faith and integrity is at hand like a wrecking ball.

“How could she? And why?” He talks loudly gazing at the blank screen, the darkness of it matches the emotion in his soul, the hatred stamped like an iron mask across his stunned face. He remains seated, unable to think clearly, frozen with truthful knowledge, his head held in his open hands. He speaks words of anger that flood his broken thoughts. “With that fool, a vile reptile of a man. A fake charming buffoon from an uninhabitable world, when she has me. I gave her everything. Security, love and affection. And when all I get in return is physical pain and mental suffering inflicted upon me, I still tried the best I could. Jasmine you merciless harridan, your time is drawing ever closer. I shall receive my pound of flesh! ” Jealousy lashes out in his mind, painful like a kick to the balls, intense emotional betrayal John has never felt before in his life glues him to the seat. Whether he cared or not, the view was crystal clear, there was nothing for him to have or gain from this woman. Whatever qualities she may have had were now given over to others, maybe more than one, maybe just the lustful lodger? He had the evidence, it was plain to hear from the video audio, the sweet nothings, the playfulness, the heightened sexual anticipation, it was all there ringing loud and clear in his airwaves. There would be a reckoning, had to be a culmination, the stage was not just set, it was being meticulously devised as he sat motionless staring at the dead screen, the blackest of black in colour, in his thoughts, as the cold thrust of pain twisted and seeped into the wounds of his dread.

Steven Armitage – a fastidious man, fashionable and handsome for a gentleman approaching middle age and unashamedly outspoken and social. In fact the complete antithesis to John in every way possible. Armitage was arrogant and egotistical, in thought and in speech, traits John knew were entirely superfluous to any genuine charm. They were complete opposites of a magnet, not one tract of common ground between them, no chat or familiar lines of discussion. Not one spark of community that would entice either to spend more than a few seconds in each other’s company, except the human courtesy of early morning greetings and late-night withdrawals, and that was only because Steven Armitage rented and lodged in the Collimore’s attic rooms. John often wondered why Armitage chose to him hide himself away in this manner. He knew of the man’s history, the theft and sale of exotic animal skins, allegations of zoophilia and other activities of a sexual nature John was too humble to consume. It had been exposed across the pages of those tawdry Sunday newspapers and was difficult to digest with its seedy and graphic content. Needless to say John was shocked to learn that this man was to take up residence in his house. Jasmine revelled in it, no doubt allured by the alleged offences of a notorious man, whose story was laid bare by the gossip newspapers for several weeks, until interest waned when another questionable celebrity died in mysterious circumstances. As far as John was concerned that wasn’t the end of it, there were questions to be answered once he found the courage to confront the man himself, which was unlikely to happen. Jasmine ultimately refused to accept any negativity of purpose from her husband. Haranguing him continually that additional rent monies would be useful and anyway the attic rooms were unused, redundant, useless to them in this oversized house, so another person would help keep the place warm and tidy and help with the bills. What harm could it do, she told him, you’d never see him, the man would be invisible. That reference sent alarm bells ringing instantly and John realised he was aligned to a fait accompli, the decision already made in absentia. A man of questionable character and reputation under my roof, how’s that happened, he thought? That’s not been discussed or agreed upon by me.

“Who is this lodger, Jasmine? Where did he come from?” He asked in a brave moment of courage.

“Don’t worry your head about it love. It’s fine and anyway the decision is already made so nothing more to be said. Right?” She replied sternly, missing the most demanding points of the question by a mile. John was not happy, there seemed to be some underlying revelation he was being kept in the dark about. He sipped his tea, as he mulled over the problem, tried to catch the base of the ginger biscuit before it submerged into the liquid and leaned back on the kitchen chair. Of course, now he knew, the secret was very clear. The video had told him everything.

Saturday was a clear day, bright, the clouds fluffy in an increasingly blue sky, the horizon free from storm. For John Collimore it was a day of shifting thoughts, not only to question his motives or moral standing on the matter but to ascertain a plan, a realistic version of the ideas germinating in his head, which so far seemed beyond the reach of his ability. So he walked, thinking and plotting, trying to place the chaotic jumble of a concept into a cauldron of solutions.  Down the street he sauntered, passing the local off-licence and the semi-derelict pub he’d often visited as a lonely drinker, skirting the endless terrace houses he had known and loved most of his life, coming to a halt at the number 34 bus stop that would and could have taken him into town. But not today, it was a beautiful day for walking and his legs agreed. They had no desire to be static sat upon a bus, so they continued strolling until arriving at Jack Thwaites second hand bookshop where they stopped. He cast his eyes across row after row of grubby books caged in their boxes, tightly knit on trestles outside the shop front. Maybe it was subconscious, the intervention of karma, or maybe the thread of a plan already hidden deep in his mind, but a volume in the bright glass window caught his eye. He stepped inside.

“Morning Jack, lovely day?” He said to the owner who he knew well.

“Hey up John, early morning stroll, for the legs, is it?” He answered with wild eyes, peering into a box of books he’d found on his doorstep that morning.

“Absolutely Jack, thought it might clear the head you know? Modern living and all that, comes with its issues and limitations, wouldn’t you agree?” He said thinking about Jasmine and the dilemma at hand. “There’s a book in the window Jack, do you mind?”

“For a valued customer, nothing is a problem,” he said as he pulled back the worn and tattered curtain that covered the rear of the window space. “Which one, Crochet and Needlecraft for beginners, Advanced Pig Farming? What’s your fancy today John? Looking for a new hobby?”

“DIY Electrics for the Domestic Man if you can reach it Jack?”

“Ah right, I see it. Good choice. Spot of bother at home eh?” He enquired innocently.

“You might say that Jack, just a spot,” was the reply said with a sly wink of the eye. He passed across the one-pound charge required for the hefty volume and with it firmly tucked beneath his arm walked the further two miles into town. It was already starting to be a good day. John Collimore sat inside the humid coffee shop, removed his hat and coat and sat with his expresso coffee and biscuit and thumbed his latest purchase, eyes radiant with anticipation. It really was building to be the most excellent of days.

Sunday was predominantly a lazy day for John. Jasmine left early to drive to her parents, as she did every weekend for lunch and a lengthy family chat with a few glasses of wine thrown in for good measure. Most of all she relished it as a day without her husband kicking around her ankles, brooding, posing questions about inconsequential elements of life that did not exist or matter – on her radar anyway, but on his, they could be big issues that needed a straight answer, something he was incapable of . . . usually! But today was different. He’d woken from his slumbers with a mind clear as crystal, the culmination of a dream that had paved the way ahead like the Yellow Brick Road, golden and dense of resolution, disappearing into the distance with a perfect plan.

He leapt from bed, the adrenaline pulsing, his mind racing with electricity, functionality set to eleven on the Richter scale. He hadn’t felt this conscious of his elated status since accidently touching Janice Longbottom’s enormous breasts as he queued patiently in the chip shop down the road one summers evening. He’d apologised, his face red and mottled with embarrassment and she with a smile of delight said. “It’s Okay John, any time, you know where I am?” He daren’t look around, but he heard the whispers, the tutting of dialogue, the staring eyes burning into the back of his head. He slammed his wallet back in his pocket, turned and left, brazenly humiliated, the chips on the greasy counter steaming, but uncollected. The road home was quiet as he skipped and whistled a happy tune to memories of touching soft fabric and a mountain of glorious hidden flesh.

His employers were not overly impressed when he advised them he would not present himself for work the following week. ‘Too short notice,’ they said. ‘We’ll need to talk about this when you come back,’ they threatened, but on this occasion he didn’t care his mind was elsewhere, planning, calculating, devising his scheme of retribution. Historically, pondering was problematic and normal to John, decision making was not the most acute of his attributes. There was always doubt, grey areas, research to contend with and then uncertainty. It had always plagued him. Do I turn left, do I turn right, he would discuss these faculties in his mind and when they couldn’t be clarified and decisions made, he would turn and scoot back home and delete the reason for the venture. It was a curse, blue shirt, white shirt? Black pants or blue jeans? He often though he might be sick or have a mental incapacity that was clouding any decisive judgement. He never discussed it, it was a failing he kept to himself, though plainly obvious to all around him, particularly to his overbearing wife Jasmine who insidiously used John’s indecision as a personal weapon to benefit her own family position. Though she tried and tried consistently Jasmine was not the most pleasant of partners to her husband, under the thumb might be the best description of their relationship, though outwardly friends and relatives thought it the most perfect of bonds.

The phone connected quickly, the voice that answered was female and abrupt as though interrupted.

“Yes,” she said awkwardly as though the timing was inappropriate and the umpteenth pointless call of the day.

“Two armchairs you’re selling through Facebook, you still have them?” He questioned hoping for a positive reply.

“Of course, it’s a change of décor we’re having,” she said with a touch of anger as if the question was futile.

“Ah good, most excellent. Just the job for a project I have. Can I collect them today? £30 – that is okay?” He requested with spirit.

“Well I wanted £50, they are quality plush leather wingback chairs you know. Very elegant.” She argued stubbornly.

John thought hard, he needed some verbal negativity to offset the lady’s brusque and offhand approach. “Yes, I fully understand and that’s all well and good, but oxblood colour and no doubt, as is most often the case, the leather will be worn and cracked needing repair? Not pleasant or popular seating in the modern home I’m afraid.” He waited a moment, there was no reply, just brief static on the line. “It is my final and only offer I’m afraid, but I can be there in 30 minutes – get them out of your hair?”

“Fine,” she said deflated. “I’ll message the address.” The line abruptly closed without any words of good cheer and John momentarily clapped, the next phase of the plan was coming together a treat. It was turning out to be the start of a momentous week. He grabbed the van keys and slammed the house door closed behind him in carefree abandon.

The afternoon was passing quickly, John checked his watch, there was still a couple of hours before Jasmine would return home – if he was lucky? Getting the big chairs into the cellar was more difficult than he thought, they dragged and caught on the old whitewashed plaster sending cascades of debris down the aged wooden stairs. Capacity to hold the things, by himself, was almost impossible, so eventually after failure to manoeuvre them with precision and grace, he kicked the damn things down those long steps. They clattered into old paint cans, scattered a disused lawn mower across the dusty concrete base sending up a small cloud of filthy particles and rested inverted next to several crates of wine bottles, salvaged by John for home brewing. Another project, deeply researched but never started. The front door suddenly opened and closed with a slight click. John stopped, a knot of worry developing in his stomach, a touch of fear in his chest. This was not the correct time for future plans to come undone, explanations at this juncture would be difficult for Jasmine to accept.

“Where are you?” Was the questionable grumble John heard as footsteps thudded across the kitchen floor above.

“Oh just down here love,” he said hoping she wouldn’t venture down those well-trodden steps. It was not unknown, but she detested the room, said the place was damp, eerie and miserable. A bit like him, she said – not fit for someone of her fragile disposition to brave under any circumstances, as it could lead to the early development of a new disorder.

“You been out?” She asked with a slight growl.

“Oh, Just to pick up a few things dearest,” he replied with a quiet titter she would never hear.

“What you doing down there anyway in that God awful place?” She enquired, her voice growing louder as she braved the doorway at the cellar head.

“Cleaning up, you know.” John remarked scraping his feet across the dusty floor, hoping her current position would be her final manoeuvre. There was slight hesitation, he felt the electricity in the air shift and then the dreadful sound of shoes descending. It stopped abruptly, he heard heavy breathing and suddenly realised what she was studying.

“John get this disgusting place sorted, I’m not going to tell you again, It makes me feel sick. And throw out all those old bottles you do nowt with while you’re at it. Been down there an age, all filled with spiders and God knows what. Just clutter John, useless junk. Get rid, do you hear me?” The shoes ascended back into the kitchen. He breathed again, glad he had managed to drag the chairs into the corner of the large room away from Jasmine’s eyeline.

“Will do dear. Shan’t be too long love. You make a nice cup of tea eh?” There was a slow sigh of relief from him and the sound of water gushing into the kettle from above. Think I’m gonna need a brighter bulb in this cellar he thought to himself as he crossed the floor to the bench on the far wall. “Right,” he said quietly considering where he was with his plans. “Venue, the cellar of course. Electrical installation manual got that – well-thumbed already. Camera’s – ah yes. All fitted last week and working as required. One in the light on the staircase leading to the attic rooms and the second in my delightful furry bear. What a friend he’s become at last, getting me evidence. Jasmine and that lodger in clandestine togetherness. And now armchairs, ready to be put in position for the project. Perfect.” He sat in one of the chairs and rested a moment thinking, considering the next part of the plan. “Now then John,” he conferred with himself. “A few more bits to collect, but first the TV. Oh yes and mustn’t forget the HDMI cable, which would be a very precious commodity to forget and a disastrous mistake? Very comfortable this chair, I must say. Ideal for the job.” He patted the worn oxblood leather arms with their indented plush fittings and plucked out a small knub of fluff from the folded leather and got down close with his eyes to look at the texture of the worn material and the fusty smell of its aged patina. “Mmmm –  needs a good rub down with leather cleaner, that would make it all just grand.” He sauntered upstairs happy as a boy with a new toy and for some baffling reason, or maybe because of his sudden lust for life kissed his wife squarely on the cheek. She pulled away and wiped the damp from her face with a discouraging frown and the back of her hand. “John – whatever next!” She said surprised.

Monday came around like any other day off work, a lie in, more hours in bed than needed trying to sleep, hoping the soft fabric of the flannelette sheets would help him drift away to a dreamy world of hazy reflection. It didn’t, there was excitement in the air. He picked up the book ‘DIY Electrics for the Domestic Man’ and drank in its content. It was enthralling, exciting, like climbing a cliff face without a safety line, a rush of pleasure knowing you could die at any moment, with one bad connection. He poured himself into every picture, tracing the wires, followed each project as he turned the pages, revelling in joyous enthusiasm as he scribbled note after note, each one attached to a small drawing of the plan that was forming in his head for the chairs. “Just look at that,” he said some hours later. And there it was, in lines of ink and text. “What a picture.” A creation to fulfil a purpose as ancient as time itself, made from old leather chairs and electricity. “Now then,” he said out aloud looking over the list of additional components he required. “A little trip to the electrical shop and we’re almost there eh, my old son?” John smiled, it was all coming together nicely, in fact the week really was going to be momentous. He shook his head in full agreement with himself and laughed setting himself back down at the kitchen table with his schemes and dreams and a fresh mug of tea, and a couple of ginger biscuits to dunk into the milky brew and he began to consider the lodger and his potential fate.

John Collimore was not an intuitively practical man, but he was a meticulous man, a quick learner, able to consolidate the written text into applied science. Nothing was left to chance which condoned the procrastination he felt and the decisions he made. That was no more evident than today, because the thing that worried him, this very day in particular, as he checked the detailed drawings of his device once again, was the positioning of the red wire, the live wire, the wire that did all the damage. It had to be connected expertly to the transformer, via several resistors and capacitors, to safeguard the user from shock and potential death, which far from being ideal, would unfortunately, be in acute violation of the concept and render the potential responses from the participants as worthless. On that basis he decided a trial should be conducted to prove the basic elements of the project. But how? Only with the help of a living organism could it be truly endorsed and from where he stood the candidates appeared to be in short supply. There was one obvious opportunity John considered, but it wrestled with his abject morality on the care of living creatures. But what worth did morality hold over truth, in the global elements of his struggles and with limited thought John put those niggles to one side. Procrastination had wisely taken a break. Now where was Tiddles, he wondered.

“Here kitty kitty, where are you puss puss?” He called from the back garden, rattling an empty tuna tin with a household fork. “Tiddles, I need you, come to daddy.” Not that he was its father, nor even its owner, it belonged to Mrs. Jacobson from next door, a forthright widow of advancing years and progressive waistline. As neighbours they were not on particularly friendly terms with each other, having had words about car parking and the cat digging up the Collimore’s garden. Jasmine hated her with a vengeance. “That spiteful, vindictive old hag,” was the implication she made against Mrs. Jacobson following the troubles. John thought hard, it was a dilemma with a potentially grave and life changing outcome, so scepticism was a hard cross to bear right now. If the cat went missing, then Mrs. Jacobson’s finger of blame would be pointed firmly in their direction, recrimination and revenge would ensue without doubt. “Oh bugger it,” John said softly. “Jasmine can deal with that. Tiddles where are you?”

The animal heard the call and came willingly, looking for affection. It was a cat that seemed to enjoy humankind. But as John attempted to apply the cabling to Tiddles paws, the cat screamed and writhed in revolt and he was quickly seized by guilt and remorse at causing distress to an otherwise innocent creature. The disdain of Mrs. Jacobson, he considered, should not and could not reflect on poor old Tiddles proving a concept, which would more than likely end his short life, in the most unpleasant of manners. He did not cherish the thought, or viewed prospect of its eyes popping out of its skull, nor its fur bursting into flames, whilst the poor creatures internal organs fried to tender crisps. No further thoughts could condone or berate the wrestling of his conscience, the idea was beyond madness and totally unacceptable. He looked to the ceiling in anticipation that the Lord almighty was more than grimacing, severely with anger, at his work. “I’m sorry Lord, please absolve my innocent stupidity. Forgiveness is all I ask, nothing more, you have my permission to punish me at some later point, preferably not this week though, as I’m very busy. Thanks.” John released Tiddles the screaming banshee with difficulty and it ran up the cellar steps, leaping and screeching, as if its tail was a blazing torch ignited from the depths of hell. At the very top it turned and considered John Collimore with such spite and evil in its eyes, that he couldn’t help but shiver with undeniable fright.

John looked on with admiration at his ability of purchasing two fine oxblood leather wingback chairs with their exquisite plush buttoned design and finely detailed oak legs, the brass tacks holding the fine leather in place, the ultimate aspect of their quality. And praised his aptitude at precuring these fine specimens in what appeared to be criminal theft from an awkward and unfriendly lady in the next town. A flash of delight suddenly gave him real acknowledgement of purpose that he was finally achieving something worthwhile, as if creating a masterpiece of art and receiving admiration from the highest of critics. An overriding sense of joy coursed through his veins as he viewed the two chairs sitting valiantly in the centre of the cellar like ceremonial thrones at a state function. “Just look at that?” He said to no one in the gloomy murk of the basement, praising his efforts with singular conversation. “Could it be better eh? No – and the oxblood colour contrasts beautifully with the black and red of the twin and earth cables securely tucked away and tied together for health and safety purposes, of course. Mustn’t forget the basics regarding the dangers of electrical current eh?” Of course, there was no answer, not even a distant mewl from Tiddles who’d long since scarpered from its persecution.

Tuesday came to a close, he sighed with delight at his achievements and ran his fingers over the project sheet that was half hidden on the cellar work bench. “Hmmmm,” he said thoughtfully looking closely at the details and then proceeded to have a sharp word with himself. “You need to frame yourself John, catch up a bit with time lost today from the Tiddles fiasco. Don’t want to get behind with the schedule. Time’s important, not in a money sense, but equally significant. Tomorrow, you’re in the chair me old son and there is no reprieve on the cards for you, me old mate. So suck it up son and grow a set.” He took a further look at the chairs faithfully attached to the floor, the bright wiring, the connectors and the shiny dials of the power source and realised that tomorrow maybe his final day on earth. Before Jasmine entered the house at 5.30pm sharp he checked his Life Cover policy to verify he was covered for ‘all-risks’ and the premiums fully paid, because regardless of consequences, there was no spiteful desire to leave Jasmine destitute, as there may be a claim registered sooner than previously anticipated?

The rest of the evening was almost uneventful, Jasmine screamed and hollered as was perfectly normal in their sweet happy marriage, though John constantly wondered why she remained in the household at all if he was such a loser and ineffectual partner, as far as she was concerned. There must be some strengths and attributes in his abilities, that kept her fires burning unless she was biding her time, playing the field, looking at options, checking out the potential marketplace for suitors. Steven Armitage certainly had much in terms of opportunities, but there was untold secrecy in the past, put that to one side, however, and charm and sophistication were there in spades. It seemed there was little evidence of money, consider the room rental, and that undoubtedly affected his percentages when considered as future partner material. The man was certainly in the mix, evidential confirmation had been gathered during the previous evenings and future decisions would be upheld by the court, when in session, as there was something most definitely ‘going on.’ He felt it, the sweet smile, the gestures, the slight touch of a hand, the twinkle in their eyes and those extra roast potatoes at teatime when Armitage occasionally joined them. All the things he, her husband and partner for numerous years, provider and protector ( questionable ) had given willingly to the love of his life. How times change, he thought as he looked in her eyes that night and saw nothing, a cold stare, disdain, reluctance to provide any physical contact or affection. He did love her once, but now she’d taken that away. It had died like a fish out of water, she had used up all his oxygen, sucked the life out of him, but he’d be damned if he was gonna let anyone else take her without a fight. Oh yes, he was pulling on all his reserves, physical and mental and then . . . he smiled, staring blankly, as she stuffed her face with the sweet pasta he’d concocted that evening, the sauce cascading down her delicate chin and onto her clinical white blouse.

“Now look what you’ve done, my best blouse ruined. Make the sauce better next time, more body John, more muscle. This stuff is as thin and weak as you.” She pushed the plate away and tutted in anger staring at him with eyes of thunder.

“Sorry love,” he said secretly giggling to himself – more karma – thank you Lord for providing me with your continuous support. I will visit church one day, I promise, probably just to confess my sins, he thought, looking upwards to the ceiling. “Think we’re gonna need a bigger bulb in that love,” he said finally, gestured at the light fitting.

“Idiot,” she said with a flick of her head and left the table, the chair screeching on the tiled kitchen floor.

John revelled at his inclusive mild temperament, static and unbridled, regardless of any vitriolic wrath forthcoming from his wife’s mouth, then put his hands on the back of his head and sighed apologetically as Jasmine left the room and trundled up the stairs to the bathroom to clean up ‘his’ mess. He cocked his head to one side and pulled a couldn’t care face, spying his ghostly reflection glaring back from the kitchen window, all bent and ghastly, in the uneven glass as Tiddles suddenly appeared in his view, meowing loudly to be let in. He considered his situation, a meek man on the rebound, power in his hands, waiting patiently to strike the crushing blow.  John held that thought a moment and then laughed so hard he fell off the chair onto the kitchen floor. Tiddles looked on in dismay through the grimy window, then bolted in fright.

Wednesday came with a bang. A loud bang of a door slamming shut followed by a booming voice of thunder.

“John, keep this God damn cellar door closed will you? I don’t want that bloody cat from next door down there shitting and pissing all over the place, or dying ‘cos he’s fastened in. No one ever goes down there, so we’ll never find it and it’ll bloody stink the place out. You never learn do you? Can you use that little brain of yours from time to time eh?” Then the outside door slammed as Jasmine left sharp at 8.30 am for work. Another busy day at the local DIY store dearest, hope nothing falls on you, don’t want that pretty face get smashed do we, he thought with a wicked and vindictive smile.

He made breakfast, it didn’t go down too well, he hadn’t the stomach for it. A feeling of morbid anticipation suddenly struck him that this could be his final meal, his own ‘last supper’ and there would be no further breakfasts to follow. It was a brief hesitation, lasting only a few seconds. It jarred his confidence, but being meticulous in all things, whether speculative common sense or the law or the ideologies of science, meant basic principles had to be considered. Whether moral, physical or imagined and as religious vows ultimately remained in place then there was a requirement they should be strictly adhered to. ‘In life and death,’ he recalled were oaths considered sacred, well that’s what the vicar implied, so to fulfil that pledge John wrote a ‘goodbye’ note, a letter outlining the strange reason why he appeared dead in a bizarre contraption attached to a variety of wires. However, and on the basis that it was precautionary and optimistically ( he had said his prayers that morning ) would not be required, he left a cheeky remark in the text as a placid joke she would never understand. ‘Note the position of the red wire,’ it said in paragraph two, whilst the third paragraph outlined the whereabout of the insurance policy, should it be needed later.

“Oh, this is comfy,” he said with a smile. “Just look at the grain in that leather. Come up a treat, that has,” he mentioned after sitting down in the oxblood leather wingback chair number one. First experiment, Chair One – the heading he noted in the testing log. The byline read –  ‘Check the transformer levels – try not to die – in the event of death this will be the first and last experiment taking place and comments made.’ The transformer was on his right side, resting precariously on the arm of the chair. John had created a gigantic stop button that looked like something America would use to create nuclear mayhem on its enemies and was placed on the left arm. All electrical wires were neatly attached and secured to wrist bands fashioned from leather and stainless steel and anchored firmly to the plush leather arms of the chair.

He said his final prayers and moved the dial to its first setting. Nothing. Setting two made his arm fuzzy like it was being tickled with a feather. Pleasant. The third setting created stiffness in his muscles and a warm glow across the surface of his skin. Okay, not too bad he thought. Setting four burned, heart pulsed, nerve endings throbbed as if thrashed by a hundred fine strands of willow. Unpleasant. The fifth setting killed, John screamed, his hair stood on end and every nerve in his body became a tightrope of agony. He couldn’t move, all muscle control was gone. As he shook in agony and pain, writhing around the oxblood leather chair relentlessly, he wondered how he could find the inclination to think. His brain was a bed of pain pulsing like an endless hammer attack, a black hole of empty frustration swallowing him inch by inch. That’s it then he suspected when a moment of lucidity flowed, his head slamming constantly against the insides of the wingback chair like it was on ropes being heaved violently from one side to the other by assailants unknown. He couldn’t reach, couldn’t touch the big red button with hands or wrists or elbows or any part of his anatomy. The electrical current held him like a magnet, as if he were metal and still he writhed and cried out in pain. And then with a stroke of remarkable good luck the fastening belt tied around his waist became loose and he inched slowly forward in the seat, stretching like the rubber band man to get his nose to indent the big red button, as he swung from side to side like a clock pendulum. Bingo, by act of god, or sheer luck he caught it, the pain immediately eased, though the fuzzy torso remained as blood flowed from his nose, smashed against the side of the panic button. Now that really hurt. He winced, shaking his addled head as his nose burned with pain. Unclasping himself from the chair, John sat a moment till all physical equilibrium returned to normality, then managed to scribble gracelessly in the testing log. ‘Experiment worked perfectly, some extreme pain endured followed by hypothetical near death experience, therefore, bugger testing oxblood leather wingback chair two. That ain’t happening, but assume ( fingers firmly crossed ) all will be in full working order?’ He put the log aside and once again reviewed the project sheet which implied that the main body of tasks were indeed complete, there was just some finer detail to clarify. Video evidence had been gathered from the two cameras position the previous week in the light fitting covering the attic stairs and in the beautiful pink fluffy teddy bear, disappointing though it may be from lack of film evidence, the audio would be more than sufficient to register a plea of guilty. The law books for beginners picked up from Jack Thwaites book shop had come in very useful, though Mrs. Jacobson had been lucky no hard evidence had been collected regarding Tiddles ability to use the Collimore’s garden as a toilet and, therefore, the case was instantly dismissed by all in the household, though Jasmine did pledge to ‘get the old hag next time, or preferably get a gun for an extinction event to consume the life of Tiddles.’ Pure rhetoric on her part as she would have been devastated to harm the pure innocent creature purely doing what came natural on a daily basis. John on the other hand viewed matters differently, there would be no remorse or guilt felt should a bullet or any other implement of death be used by her to shorten his life and, therefore, ‘quid pro quo’. John’s guile to extract the truth was limitless.

Job done was John’s concluding thought, all was complete and ready, and with just a few days to go before the pre-arranged Saturday evening soiree, it gave him time enough to gather and collate the final evidence he would need and use in the hearing of the court, duly appointed by and convened by his Lordship Judge John Collimore. He let out a great sigh of delight that his initial work was finished and ventured to bed and slept in a state of dreamy euphoria for several hours with the duvet wrapped around his neck and a grin across his face like a Cheshire cat.

A door banged somewhere below, he awoke with a start, with a half-remembered dream of fear, defeat and intense fiery flames as a crazy wife and lodger chased him up the cellar stairs with old wine bottles filled with the sparking electrical energy of lightning, each one sending thunderbolts into his backside.

“Where are you? What you doing up there, John. Mrs. Jacobson giving you a hot turn – is she?” bellowed Jasmine bounding up the stairs two at a time. The bedroom door flew open. “Caught you,” she yelled, looking more than angry with a meat tenderiser in her hand ready to strike. He didn’t understand the joke and was terrified.

“What’s going on, Jasmine?” Cried her husband sitting up fearfully, the duvet tight against his lower face in preparation for the attack. It would not be the first time, Jasmine oddly thought John to be a powerful magnet for female company, putting their neighbour at the very top of potential suspects, which in all events provided the venom of her animosity.

“Just playing John, after all who the hell would want to take you on?” Whether this was a distraction from the truth or a cover for her fears was anybody’s guess. “I did, out of pity, you know that right? Because your dad said you’d have a bit coming your way when they cocked it. Yeh, right, that was a damned lie for starters. They just wanted you out the house.”

John looked stunned. Such a vitriolic woman, no filter when brain needs to censor what the mouth says. Why she stayed was beyond reason. He sometimes wondered if it was all bravado and they really did have a connection. But did he truly hate her? Probably, her bile was beyond forgiveness and now with the spectre of Armitage in the wings, his time for determination was due. The court would be in session shortly. “You do have the loveliest way of making me feel wanted, Jasmine. Thank you so much,” he said feeling a little sad and forlorn. Maybe Mrs. Jacobson would be the solution after all, he considered briefly, then let it pass.

“My pleasure John, it’s only what you deserve,” she replied retreating down the stairs. “Now get your arse out of bed and put the tea on . . . for Christ’s sake. Wasting time in bloody bed. What next – have you nothing better to do. Clearing them bottles out of that cellar would be a good start. Waster.” She shouted as she reached the bottom step and momentarily stumbled on the frayed carpet. “Bugger,” she screamed. “And fix this God damned carpet will you?” Oh what a lovely bit of karma sniggered John.

He didn’t review the video clips again on Saturday morning, he had preloaded them into the laptop ready for use in the court hearing and he already knew the content well. Going over old ground again, was just another a fear that might shoot his blood pressure sky high and cause a stroke or heart attack. He needed to remain calm, he knew that, all would be revealed later that evening. It would be the only chance he had to make amends, get to the very bottom of the problem, learn the truth and dish out the justifiable punishment. He checked everything, it was in perfect working order, all he needed was unwilling participants and that was just a matter of hours away.

“Bide your time, John,” he said as he looked in the mirror on Saturday evening, whilst freshening up his otherwise ragged appearance. “Have faith, stay positive and calm.” Because compared to Steven Armitage’s couture, John looked homeless, his hair lifeless and thin, his face pallid and drawn from limited hours of sleep, his clothes dated and hanging loosely from his spindly shell. He looked like a man from a different era, as far removed as possible from the spectrum his fellow dinner guests were stationed in, but he didn’t care.

He went downstairs, Jasmine was already there. It was precisely 7.05 pm and Armitage was not due till 7.15 pm at the earliest. The hosts had spent several hours during the afternoon compiling and cooking the meal the invited lodger would no doubt enjoy. Beef Wellington luscious; browning in its tin. The roast potatoes golden, sizzling and singing with joyous rapture as they cooked gently in their liquid prison. Carrots, swede and broccoli steaming gently. A cream Pavlova, cooling silently in the fridge to end the glorious last supper. John checked the Chardonnay, it was chilled to perfection, droplets of moisture cascading down the outside of the bottle onto his hand. A good bottle of red Malbec was already open and breathing, he took a secret gulp to taste the sweetness of the liquid inside, a little Dutch courage. It was delightful.

In one pocket of his jeans there were two small pouches of powder. A sleeping concentrate he intended to encourage the two other party members to ingest covertly. At 7.46pm the proceedings were in full swing, the beef Wellington was a great success, Jasmine and Armitage drank the white wine whilst John stayed with the red. Stories were told, Armitage being amusing and irritating at the same time, laughing and joking with Jasmine, who enjoyed the attention. Occasionally they touched, brushed skin against skin, a look of familiarity in their eyes. A combining of spirits. John looked on without comment, seething internally, preferring to stay in the background, taking in the spectacle that unfolded before his eyes. He stayed calm, forcing laughter in all the right places as the egotistical stories unfolded, some to the detriment of John’s character, as Jasmine winked at her husband followed by a gentle touch of Armitage’s hand, as a gesture of distant admiration. John could stand it no longer, it was both sickening and self-indulgent in equal measure. He got up from the table, excusing himself momentarily, all sweetness and light as he walked into the refuge of the kitchen.

“More wine, before we start our little game? Cluedo – it has to be on this night and wont it be fun to cunningly outwit the other players? Husband with cable in the cellar?” He questioned quietly, innocently gazing back into the dining room as he reached to open the fridge door.

“Yes please, darling. Steven and I would love that wouldn’t we?” She replied with some affection in her voice. He pulled out another bottle from the bottom shelf, the special one he had been saving precisely for this moment and removed the screw top with a degree of agitated aggression and grabbed fresh glasses from inside the wall cabinet.

“Clean glasses I think?” Was a question that received no answer from the other two. He dropped the powder into each glass and slowly poured the wine, giving each a good stir before going back into the room. “Here we are my lovely’s, thought we’d try the Australian Pinot Grigio it’s a little headier than the Chardonnay, but I think you’ll come to love its taste?”

Within ten minutes Jasmine and Armitage were fast asleep, lolling like out-of-work marionettes in their seats. Getting the lifeless bodies from the dining room and into the cellar was decidedly hazardous and difficult, a part of the plan John had not fully researched or modelled in any thorough meticulous way, an error he suddenly realised. Lifting Jasmine from the seat was easy, she was petite, but her legs were wrapped around the bottom of the chair and unwrapping them was difficult as he pulled and tugged her torso. He could not carry Armitage, a tall well-built man of protruding waistline, so he dragged him with great exertion across the dining room floor and with all the force he could muster pushed him down the cellar steps, his head pounding with an occasional crack against the wooden boards, but John couldn’t care less whether it hurt or not. Pain of an unknown magnitude, without remorse or due care from his assailant, was duly imminent as John placed him in the appointed chair and securely attached the harness and wires that locked his wrists, ankles and waist into the untested oxblood leather wingback chair number two. The tiny weight of Jasmine was nothing, she was easy to move and plopped comfortably into the tested chair number one like a rag doll, all uncontrollable arms and legs. The whole process took him precisely sixteen and a half minutes, he noted looking at his watch. It was exactly 8.43 pm. Right on time. He smiled as he viewed both game players in their respective seats, waiting patiently, slumped into the corner of the oxblood-coloured wings of the chairs, the aged leather drawing moisture from the facial flesh of its occupants. Armitage’s tongue lolling from his mouth, Jasmine softly breathing like a sleeping cat. It wasn’t an engaging sight when he stood back to view his work, embarrassing would be his narrative, but a photo or two would be appropriate to celebrate the occasion or maybe use later perhaps to remind Jasmine of the trial, on the presumption she actually survived the evenings ordeal. In anticipation of their waking he donned the Judge’s black cape and wig bought from a fancy dress shop some days earlier. Now he was truly ready, the trial and consequences about to begin.

The electrical current buzzed and lit up the dials with a slight fizz that almost worried John, but he put it to one side. It would be fine he decided. All he needed to do was wake the defendants from their slumbers. “Wakey wakey,” he taunted as he tested the strength of the restraints that held Jasmine and Armitage.

John’s fingers touched Jasmine’s cheek. “Tickle -tickle – my sleeping beauty. Rise and shine. It’s time to play!” Her eyes blinked open, surprised, she tried to move he arms. They were locked in position, immovable. Instantly her wild eyes followed the wires from her wrists to the machines that hummed in anticipation – waiting to begin their task.  

“Hello sweetie,” he said. Jasmine screamed, viewing the wig and cape he wore, horrified as she looked around wondering what the hell was about to happen. “No need to worry, I’ll look after you, honey. But Armitage, who the hell knows? Passing to another dimension is a possibility, only the truth and generosity of the court, now in session holds his future and yours too, I’m afraid, darling.”

He smacked Armitage forcefully across the face leaving a red stain on his cheek. The man moaned, but remained in another world. “You can do better than that. Only a groan, perhaps a little elixir to warm up those old cockles, eh? Smelling salts – no – that’s for beginners. Baseball bat – no, too brutal right now and you’ve already suffered a bit of a battered head.” John pondered a moment, then suddenly turned his eyes to view the method of his menace. “Yes, of course.” He grinned. “A little livener to bring you to your senses. A small boost – just the job.” He reached across and twisted the dial on the transformer. Armitage thrashed in his chair, back arching in pain, eyes blazing, coming fully awake. John thought it was a sight to behold and clapped with joy.

“What the fuck, Collimore,” screamed Armitage through the pain. “Are you insane?” he roared, the fog of unconscious solitude jerking free from his sleeping brain.

“What’s going on, John?” spluttered Jasmine, her mind racing with sudden fear, as her eyes descended on the nefarious electrical equipment popping and glowing like something from the laboratory of a mad scientist, several feet in front of her.

“Silence!” he screamed pointing to the two of them. “No more questions whilst the court is in session. I John Collimore the attending prosecutor, jury and judge advise you with all due caution to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth . . . so help you God.”

“John, please. What is this? Some bizarre game?” She pleaded looking across at Armitage in the chair at her side. “What are you doing – for Christ’s sake?” The words erupted from her mouth, a venomous scream and a look from her eyes that could kill .

“Let me out, Collimore. Let me out of this contraption or I’ll kill you dead sooner than you can blink.” Armitage’s impassioned plea leaving his abductor with little compulsion to comply. 

“Oh dear – such a shame,” replied the judge. “Words, words, words, That’s all they are. You can’t move. You have no power to hurt me, other than the mental anguish you have already inflicted with your clandestine movements. You see, I put all my faith in our relationship, Jasmine, before God,    till death us do part and all that . . . remember? That’s an oath, sacred I believe, but you have    betrayed that faith, that oath with your liaison with this man here” John pointed wildly at Armitage.

“So this is why you are here, shackled like prisoners, like criminals on death row pending punishment. Awaiting the surge, the final hot breath as the electricity courses through your veins boiling the blood and popping your eyeballs. So let me introduce you to my personal friend, my latest acquisition, the ultimate truth seeker and before them ye shall both be judged – the oxblood leather wingback chair . . . it’s electric.” Jasmine and Armitage squirmed and struggled in their seats, twisted and turned, placing naive faith in their ability to break free from the tight binding restraints.

“No, no, no. You let me free, Collimore, I’ve done nothing to harm you or your faith in pious     oaths. It’s just a little fun and is very acceptable in the modern world of social interaction? So untie me . . . NOW!” Raged Armitage looking lost as he pulled at the tight leather straps holding his wrists.

“I want silence from you, Armitage, not whining or platitudes of ‘what have I done’.” Fumed the Judge viciously turning the transformer dial coupled to Armitage’s chair. The recumbent defendant cried in agony as the electrical current instantly spiked and burned at his organs, torturing the man’s brain like jagged fingers, digging away into the flesh of the cerebral cortex. Armitage slumped forward unconscious, small ringlets of smoke rising from his clothing.

Jasmine trembled, stunned, unclear of what had just happened, her eyes followed the wires that ran from her wrists back to the machine where the illuminated dials pulsed and flickered with current. Her face gasped in anguish as she feared the anticipated prospect of following in Armitage’s path. “Your plan – to kill us, is that it? With this medieval contraption. For all the love I hold in my heart for you, John, let me go. You won’t get away with it.” She screamed and thrashed like a toddler having a tantrum at not getting what it wants. “John,” she bellowed. “For God’s sake.”

Undeniably conscious he had passed the lawful point of no return, he finally put aside most of his fears and doubts of progression and suddenly felt easy in bringing the trial to its ultimate conclusion, yet tiny misgivings still flittered in his head at bringing the result of their trial to an end. One way or another he was in deep water, that was not in doubt. He decided with simplistic logic, of course, that a law court would go easy on him, find him unequivocally innocent and release him without due penance when they heard the truth surrounding the actions of the two conniving adulterous human beings and how they ridiculed and embarrassed him under his own roof. And what if he did kill them, there would be no blame, how could there be, it was only retribution compatible to their crimes. Any jury would understand that. Yes – he was free to do whatever he pleased, without fear of reprisal and it cleared his momentarily stilled mind completely of doubt.

He played the video. “You cannot question the veracity of this footage Jasmine, scurrying up to Armitage on Tuesday and Thursday evenings as soon as the defendant, that’s me by the way, has left for work. Presumably, and I put it to you following the evidence at hand, that these meetings were not exceptional and, or singular in nature and had been on-going some time? Testimony my dear to fact not contingent to conjecture? What have you to say before the court in your defence?” Prosecutor John Collimore asked wearing a frown of contempt, pacing the floor before them, his thumbs resting in the lapels of the black gown draping his shoulders. He stopped and reached across turning the dial with a fidgety hand. “The truth, only the truth and absolute honesty will stop this.” She shivered in her seat as limited current entered her nervous system, then squealed a blood curdling cry of agony as the dial went a little higher. “Oh, deary me, must have twisted it a little too quickly? Never mind it’s only a pin prick of pain, soon be over.” Armitage remained unconscious in the chair oblivious to the unfolding events around him. “Well – speak up dearest? The jury is waiting.” He asked with anger in his voice.

Jasmine roused herself from the discomfort. “You’ve gone too far, John. All this for what? And you spying on us, it’s despicable and unforgivable just because you think we were . . . “

“Don’t say it . . . do not say that.” He interrupted his hand still on the dial pondering a further dose of agony.

She blinked hard, trying to clear her foggy head. “You think we were doing it behind your back don’t you, creeping up the stairs into my lovers arms – passionate sex, something our relationship never had? That’s what you think isn’t it, John?” Jasmine looked across at Armitage lying unconscious, little circles of smoke still drifting into the charged air and laughed feeling uneasy, deciding subconsciously that her precise choice of words might undoubtedly limit her remaining life on earth. “Me and him, eh? Having it away in his room while you’re at work?”

“It’s all there, Jasmine, on the tape. The sexual play. The gasps of pleasure, the juicy language. The big come on and doing it for an audience. How could you? Have you no respect for me, man and wife together all these years, that you have to defile yourself for public consumption? ‘Like and subscribe’ I heard you say it. Shame I couldn’t see it, you took away my loveable teddy bear camera. Heartless, selfish bitch.” He twisted the dial, in ferocious anger, further up the scale and his wife jerked and shuddered in the chair as if pulled violently by forces unknown.

Armitage whimpers quietly in the background and it suddenly breaks the concentration he has with his wife. “Your boy’s back in the land of the living, Jasmine? You want me to save his soul or should I fry him, crispy like bacon? You always loved the smell of bacon. All it takes sweetness is to admit your guilt, how you craved his love and affection because you had none for me. Isn’t that right, the truth, be honest you’ve nothing to lose but . . .”

“It was playtime.” The words drool out of Steven Armitage’s mouth drenched in spittle, smoke drifts from his shirt and head, the air about him pungent with the stink of his prospective doom. “Nothing sexual, not that. Just dressing up, meeting friends on the internet,” he drones with garbled intensity, struggling to speak through the penetrating pain, his limbs dead, muscles all shot. “Put an end to this violence, Collimore, it’s gone too far. You have to set us free.”

“Too late to worry about letting you go, Armitage, the damage is all but done. Your damage, my damage, we’re all damaged. And I really don’t give a shit either way because ultimately my escape from all this is planned – guaranteed in fact. Whereas you and Jasmine can have no release from this unless the judge abides by the jury’s ruling. And to be honest that seems highly unlikely following the evidence put before them. So stop with your lies, it doesn’t matter what you say, I’m only giving back the emotional suffering you caused me. Your existence means nothing to me, Armitage – you’re just an ant, a fly on the wall. Inconsequential is what you are in these proceedings, so whimper and wail your innocence all you want, it makes no difference to the outcome. Do you really understand how you are nothing to me? This is just between me and Jasmine. The final outcome, whatever that may be, will be reached by the jury and sentencing administered by me, the Judge now presiding over the case.” John flicks the dial to maximum on chair two with a stupid laugh and puts his hands to his face in mock horror. “Oh dear,” he murmurs with a dirty grin. Armitage jerks in spasmodic motion as if impaled by a thousand blades, eyes bulge and protrude as if forced from their sockets then explode, his head roars with flames. Smoke and the sweet smell of searing meat fills John’s nostrils. The man is dead, the machine erupts into an exquisite copper fuelled bonfire of colour – blues and reds and turquoise. The electrical menace has exceeded its intended operational capability. Its wiring compromised, untested – wrong. “Oh what a shame, Jasmine. I didn’t expect that. How very unfortunate?” he says mockingly, reaching for the extinguisher. A single blast of CO₂ from the canister and the flames die. Jasmine’s slumps, breathing hard into the crevice of the oxblood leather wingback chair, moaning in disbelief, the sight of Armitage’s horrific demise too overwhelming. Her eyes flutter wildly, she thinks it’s just a demented dream, an hallucination conceived of something ingested earlier. The consequence of a mental illness or deferred breakdown. Darkness pervades and sweeps over her like a wave, witnessing the horror unfold before her eyes – Jasmine’s brain shuts down and she sleeps.

John does a small hop and skip, is pleased with the results of his project so far, flexes the muscles in his neck from side to side like he’s watched so many wrestlers and boxers do on TV, prior to a big fight, removes his borrowed Judge’s wig and cape and climbs the cellar stairs with a joyous sigh. Oblivious of any pain or hardship he may have caused below the kitchen, he whistles a happy song and switches on the kettle for a comforting cup of tea to clear his mind and find a small moment of tranquillity. He opens the kitchen door wide to vent the smoke and smell of smouldering flesh. The spoon stained with endless other brews of tea and coffee tinkles on the side of the china mug as he stirs the luxuriant liquid, a digestive biscuit held proudly awaiting its first bite. Noises drift up from below stairs, a gargle of words, vague mutterings and then, “John, it hurts. John?” She calls.

“Awake so soon? Damn it, does she never shut the fuck up?” he whispers agitated. “Not even time for a relaxing cup of tea. A bloody pest that woman. She needs to go.” In anger, he clatters the outside kitchen door shut and charges down the stairs to further his conversation with the alleged convict in the dock. He takes up position, dons his Judge’s wig and cape and looks her directly in the face, just three inches away from those hollow empty eyes. “Whinge, whinge, whinge,” John bellyaches. “That’s all you do, Jasmine. There’s never any peace with you, never any quiet time. Always the upper hand, the final say – your way or no way. Well today it’s my way, dearest. My Day, all day. You lied, you cheated, kept secrets from me, the one person you should have trusted with the honest to goodness truth.” He leans back against the work bench in the dusty cellar, thumbs folded back into the lapels of his gown and is reflective for a moment, thinking of his next narrative, viewing the grizzly carcass of Armitage, bloated and black, the material of his shirt-stained dark with bodily fluids, small strands glowing with the residue of flames.

“Let us not get sidetracked my sweetness, by this grotesque vision of your lover. After all, it’s your day as much as mine I fear. The real question here tonight, under these lights, these binds, this demanding electricity, is simply this?  Armitage and yourself, alleged adulterers, fact or fiction? Shall we continue? For the benefit of the court and jury I implore you to speak the truth, the whole truth etc etc, blah di blah, and we’ll end this right here and now. Declare a mistrial and we can all go home. Some trivial punishment to consider and then continue with our precious little lives. Simple, Jasmine, or deny the charges brought against you and end up like him,” John waves across towards the smouldering wreck of Armitage. “Your amorous partner in crime. I’m afraid Jasmine that was an exceptional error on my part. The objective was essentially to make the man’s suffering last longer, but we all make mistakes. And the wiring? Okay, untested, I have to admit that, but it has supplied us a lovely smoking gargoyle? Not the choice I had in mind, agreeably most unpleasant and quite unsettling from a viewing perspective and obviously there is concern you may end up acquiring the same therapy. The wiring was wrong, very wrong, but yours is tested, so limited risk of being fried like a stuck pig. Shall we move forward Jasmine and put all this behind us?” She nods with difficulty, embraced within her steely shackles. “Yes, I thought so too,” he says pitifully, affectionately touching her wet cheek with a tender brush of his hand.  

There is no relaxation of the shock and horror evident in Jasmine’s features, her face is drawn into a series of lines and shadows, a sheen of moisture evident as if sprayed by sea air. She looks across at Armitage, involuntary her stomach heaves as her eyes cast their glance over the scorched smoking wreck of his head. She hold it down but looks at her husband, the judge, the jury with eyes that plead for clemency. Jasmine knows there is none to give, because he is way passed the point of lawful return. One dead soul and one pending the death penalty, but for what? Two murders is no worse than one, she knows that, looking into the determined face of her husband. There is no help, no enforced rescue, only despondency. Why not tell the truth, there is nothing to lose or gain by secrets, maybe he will retract his desires if he feels vindicated. There is always hope, divine intervention maybe, she has to keep the faith, although in her heart Jasmine expects the limitation of life to expire in a few rare minutes of further torment. Her mouth opens – she speaks – he has to know, whatever the outcome may be. She owes him that one last moment of honesty.

“You think you know,” she pleads.

“Well then –  love of my life, tell me? How you engaged Armitage in sweet delight on those dark evenings and nights whilst I’m away earning to provide the luxuries you crave. Tell me . . . ” He reaches for the dial and twists slowly, it registers three and Jasmine shakes briefly, a small scream gushes from her mouth.

“We did try to get you involved, several months ago, remember? But you laughed, closed your ears – didn’t listen.”

“A menage a trois? You me and him. Nah -that was never going  . . .”

“It was dressing up, role play,” she yells quickly, eyes panicking as she sees his restless fingers circle the transformer dial. “Not sex or anything pornographic or salacious that we uploaded onto the internet. That’s all it was.” She stops, breathing hard, droplets of sweat trickle down her cheeks and forehead in nervous anticipation of a frightful finale. “It’s a club,” she admits at last. “We meet online and dress up.”

“Exposing your wares, being dirty for public viewing. It’s disgusting, Jasmine. Prostitution? It has no other name. And I loathe the aspect you assume it’s okay, a married woman, without virtue and in our home. How could you?” It’s obvious John Collimore has no intention of listening. His mind is made, there is no alternative consideration than another man has manipulated his wife into explicit acts for the benefit of voyeur pursuits. He turns up the dial a further notch. Jasmine yells as her face and arms turn puce, the veins in her neck throb and expand as she thrashes inside the confines of the oxblood leather wingback chair. She struggles to speak, slight mist from her head evaporates into the gloom of the cellar.

She looks lost, beyond caring. A person for whom there is no future. “We’re Furries, John,” she cries as the pain pushes her towards the darkness of another world. “Cats, dogs, whatever animal you choose. Create your own fursona. Cuddles and Fluffy, that’s who. Pure fantasy . . . that’s all it ever was.” The dial quickly returns to zero and John Collimore stands solid, statuesque, mouth hanging in fear and hatred and realisation he is a murderer of innocents. One down, one to go. Dazzled by ineptitude, there is a decision to make. One already made? To act out, fulfil and leave. Turmoil erupts, procrastination jumps out from its point of harbour in his mind. Doubt explodes like a doom bringer – he sits and ponders looking at Jasmine half-conscious in the infamous chair.

“Too late,” he says. hesitantly looking around the cellar at the carnage he’s created. He suddenly hates himself for perceived weakness of the mind, emotional neglect and lack of empathy as it all rolls out like red carpet at a film premiere. His fault, not theirs. He’s let Jasmine down. He should have listened before, asked questions at the dinner table, been more approachable to her needs and desires, but as always he never listened or understood what the relationship lacked. If he had, there would have been no bloodshed in the cellar, no radical decisions over life and death. He could have stopped it all with one simple question. “What’s going on, Jasmine?” But he didn’t because he’s a pathetic excuse of a human, prone to miscalculation . . . if only, if only?

Jasmine breathes in quick gulps, pain venting through all her muscles, her voice struggles to be heard. “Let me go, John,” she says weakly. “You’ve made your point. You think I care about Steven? There was nothing in that, just the costumes he made for us.” Her head lolls into the corner of the armchair as she drifts between the conscious world and the dark unknown. He knows he has no choice. Jasmine cannot be given the choice of freedom. His error of judgement will not change the arrangements already made. Suitcase packed, passport and tickets validated. One final action and then independence, at last.

The dial rotates to its maximum position and the atmosphere is instantly charged with the acrid stench of ozone. Jasmine jerks into unconscious rigidity, arching as if being pushed from the chair. Her voice almost silent, minute gargled groans as she takes her last breath. Smoke emerges and spirals from her quivering maw. Sparks and flashes of light erupt from the smouldering cables attached to her arms and legs. The transformer John holds bursts into flames, they race down the melting cables, turning her clothing to a fiery mass. The newly polished oxblood leather wingback chair ignites and the air is suddenly alive with burning flesh and hair and the crackle of death and boiling blood.

John ascends the cellar steps, two at a time, leaving behind a room full of misbegotten carnage. He knows the future is unknown, but ponders briefly on happiness and free love somewhere warm, without the emotional baggage of an overbearing vindictive wife. John looks up at the cellar door, amid the circling smoke of fire and the reek of heinous deeds and sees the dark eyes of Tiddles the cat looking back at him, through the half open doorway. It stops him dead in his tracks.

“Now where did you come from, kitty? Thought I’d shut the kitchen door? Must have left the window open, eh? You come to see what’s going on, have you? To look at all the flames and the fury you’ve missed? Should have been you that, Tiddles, remember? But I let you live . . . how lucky was that? We’ve got to leave sharpish, my little furry friend, or this mess is going to finish both of us.” John climbs further up the stairs, conscious the fire is raging around him quickly, almost licking up the steps as the cellar’s aged beams and ceiling catch alight in a sudden flash of colour. The cat leaps from the doorway and plants its claws deeply into the flesh of John Collimore’s face. He tries to knock it away, arms flailing wildly in aimless pursuit, as the cat screams and wails in its attack, its furry coat spiked in anger, claws like daggers striking time and again, drawing blood, creating lines of deep laceration. John stumbles as he moves forward, becomes unbalanced as he pulls the cat from his bleeding face and fights to remain upright, feet slipping on the worn wooden treads. He tumbles, caught in a landslide of gravity down the twenty-one steps he had just climbed to secure his freedom. Down he goes, floating amid the chocking fumes and scarlet fingers of flame, arms reluctantly grabbing at invisible points of support, head finally smashing onto the cellar floor, cracking his bones, breaking the fragile shell of his skull. The last image he sees is the smoky outline of Tiddles looking down at him, licking his feline paws, savouring the lifeblood of his persecutor and purring loudly over the sound of a furious furnace. Then the cat turns and is gone.