THE GARDEN OF GRACE

A PERSON WHO would kill your love when your love was all you had was not much of a person in Jacob Morissey’s estimation.

Even worse if that person was your wife; the person who was meant to love you above all others. The person who knew you better than anyone else. The person who saw you at your most vulnerable moments. The person who had found a way into your heart, your bones, your blood, your soul. Funny how much all-consuming love has in common with cancer.

Jacob came to the conclusion that some loves, like cancer, were benign. Others; malignant. His wife fell into the malignant variety and like it, she had to be cut out and destroyed.

And Jacob knew just how to do it.

It was so perfect he was certain even she would appreciate the method of her destruction. And such a glorious finale.

Jacob looked beyond his workbench, out of the window, to the garden beyond. It was alive with colour. Her English cottage garden. The one she’d spent so much time building and planting. The one she loved so much. Her pride and joy. Yet, she’d abandoned it too.

It would be like coming home for her. Yes, Jacob decided, it was poetic.

******

JACOB STARED AT the blank canvas, brush in hand, for a long time, waiting. Waiting for ‘it.’

‘It’ was difficult to describe. ‘It’ was an urge, a drive, a tingle in his fingertips, a flutter in his belly, a striving in his soul, and a need in his gut. ‘It’ was a clear vision in his mind that directed his hand. Without ‘it’ there was no art.

Jacob did a slow three-sixty, his gaze taking in the four walls of his studio, each of which was lined with blank canvases. They leaned casually, like patrons lounging with wine glasses in hand at one of his opening nights. But unlike blasé art collectors, preparatory sketches were pinned to them, each one accusing him, nagging him to begin.

“What?” he screamed at them. “I’m waiting for ‘it,’ same as you. You want to have a go at someone, have a go at ‘it.’”

Jacob scowled and threw down his brush. It skidded across the floor, stopped only by one of the recriminating canvases. His anger not satisfied he threw his palette to the floor. It landed with a crash face down. Still not satisfied, he kicked it, glorying in the colourful smear it left on the wooden floor. It was the most creative thing he’d achieved in months. Jacob then did what he’d done every day since ‘it’ had abandoned him. He went for a walk.

He walked the long, familiar, tree-lined driveway. The maples were green with new spring growth. Beneath them, as far as the gate off in the distance, a river of yellow, white, and green. Daffodils.

Jacob’s feet were in the present and continued their journey, his mind lagged behind in the past.

“Oh please, Jake. Let’s do it. Daffodils are such happy flowers. It will make the house perfect.”

Jake hid his smile; ‘perfect’ was Grace’s favourite word.

“But the driveway is so long, it will take thousands.”

“True, but they will multiply and every year it will look better and better. They will multiply along with our happiness.”

Of course, he said yes. He always said yes to her.

Jacob scowled at the profusion of daffodils. She’d lied. She’d said they were happy flowers. Well, he wasn’t happy.

******

DINNER CONSISTED OF a can of cold baked beans eaten while sitting on his studio floor. Dessert was a handful of dried apple, made tough from age and exposure to air. Their leathery consistency gave Jacob’s jaw a good workout. He thought longingly of one of Grace’s tender, succulent roasts. Jacob tilted his head back and sniffed deeply, fancying he could smell his favourite meat roasting away in the huge double oven; pork with homemade applesauce.

“Baby, you have to stop for the day. Dinner’s on the table,” Grace whispered in his ear.

Jacob jerked, swivelling his head to look behind. No one was there. Certainly not Grace. She’d left months ago. Shelby was now the recipient of Grace’s to-die-for roasts.

“Shelby? What the hell kind of guy has a name like Shelby?” Jacob asked the empty room. “A poncy, effeminate, born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-his-mouth, wannabe art collector with more money than sense, that’s who.”

Jacob snorted at his own description of the girly-man who’d seduced his wife away from him. The man of fast cars and even faster women. The clichéd, bored, jaded millionaire.

The irony was she’d met Shelby at Jake’s last solo show. The fucker had even bought one of Jake’s canvases to impress her. Must have wanted into her knickers real bad—he forked out 45K for the privilege. Jacob hoped ‘Graceful Dance’, a semi-abstract piece depicting a woman reminiscent of Grace—hence the play on words of the title—twirling in a bed of daffodils, curdled Shelby’s spunk every time he dumped a load in her traitorous snatch.

Jake stood rooted to the spot. He couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him.

‘No,’ his mind silently screamed.

She was as her name foretold; grace in motion. All sinuous undulations as she rode the man beneath her. Her back arched sensuously, her breasts jutting forward, nipples hard and upturned. Her hands on his thighs and her head tossed back, throat exposed. Her hair reached his thighs and swished back and forth. Jake knew how that felt.

Even in silhouette Jake knew the truth of what his mind tried to deny; it was Grace. His Grace.

Had it been a porno film he was watching, he’d have found it erotic. But it was no softcore porn. It was his wife and it was obscene.

Jake stood frozen for a long time, his hands pressed against his belly, witnessing his betrayal. Witnessing his death. He tore his gaze away from the horror film playing out before his eyes and looked down at his hands…

… Jacob lifted his hands to eye level. He shook his head; for a moment he was certain he’d seen blood.

His hand, of its own volition, grasped the neck of the half full bottle of Jack Daniels. It knew what he needed. His lips obeyed and opened obediently to accept and close around the damp opening. His throat protested, but his stomach welcomed the fire water.

Jacob carefully placed the open bottle on the floor, gently shoving it a small distance away before lowering himself to lay down. He rolled to his side, foetal position.

The studio floor was as good a place as any to sleep.

******

THE SOUND OF a chainsaw starting up close by reverberated in Jacob’s head. He groaned as much for the actual noise as for the knowledge it was someone calling him on his cell phone. Why had he chosen it as his ringtone? He wanted to go back to sleep, back to wonderful senseless oblivion. He most certainly didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not today. Not ever.

The sound went on and on, escalating. Jacob growled and rolled on to his back, reaching into his work trousers. A glance at the screen told him it was two in the afternoon. What the hell? Where had the day gone?

“Hello,” he barked into the phone.

“Jesus Christ, Jake, is that any way to answer your phone? I could have been a potential buyer,” said his agent.

Jacob bristled at his scolding tone.

“My name is Jacob, Bart. What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. I hope you being busy means you’re going to tell me you’re on track for your show this summer.”

Jacob sat up, eyeing the blank canvases admonishing him from the opposite wall.

“Yeah, peachy. Everything is peachy keen and on track. My best work ever.”

“Excellent. Let me know when I can come out with the photographer to start cataloguing them in prep for the show.”

“Yeah. Sure thing.”

Jacob rang off. He looked at the bottle of JD and contemplated returning to oblivion.

Just as he reached for the bottle the chainsaw started up again. He glanced at the screen; Grace. His mind decided to decline the call, but his finger hit accept. Old habits were hard to break.

“Jake?”

The soft hesitancy of her voice just made Jacob angrier. It was a lie. It was all a lie. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want, Grace?”

“I-I-Shit.”

Jacob heard her inhale noisily.

“Are you okay? Are you taking care of yourself? Your voice sounds funny. You’re not drinking too much are you?”

“What the hell do you care?”

“I do care, Jake. I care a lot. I-I, I, well, I just had a funny feeling that you needed me and that I should call.”

Jacob wasn’t fooled. Her concern was an act.

“Well, aren’t you just the Mother Theresa of unfaithful wives, caring about how the poor dipshit you screwed over is feeling.”

“Jake, you have to stop attacking me verbally. You have to get past what happened. We were over at least a year before I met Shelby.”

“Really? And you didn’t think to tell me? Funny how you were willing to keep living off me, sharing my bed, and having sex while we were, how did you so eloquently put it? Over?”

“I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Well, I must commend you on your novel way of broaching the subject. Catching you fucking that pansy certainly told me in no uncertain terms what our relationship status was.”

Jake didn’t know why he was back at the apartment. Perhaps, he hoped the visions of the previous night had all been a bad dream.

No such luck.

There she was kneeling on the bed in their Sydney apartment, her face down, arse up. Her hair moved back and forth in time with her swaying tits. This coupling looked less erotic than the previous one he’d witnessed. More animalistic. With each thrust of her lover’s penis Grace moaned and a bit more of Jake died.

The swaying stopped. She wriggled her arse.

“What do you want, Grace?”

“You.”

“What do you want, Grace?” the man’s voice repeated, more firmly this time.

“You! Your big cock in my hungry pussy!”

“That’s what I thought, Better give my slut what she wants then,” the man growled, slamming his hips to her raised buttocks.

Grace grunted as her face was pushed into the mattress with the force of his thrust.

“Jake? Are you still there?”

Jacob shook his head, clearing his throat, “Yes, bitch, I’m still here.”

“Please stop. Please stop being mean to me. I still care about you. I rang because I’m concerned.”

Jacob ignored her plea, knowing it was an act.

“So how is Shelby?”

“He’s not here at the moment. He’s away on business.”

“Ooh, you better be careful, Grace. Maybe he’s hunting down some fresh married pussy to seduce. Maybe he’s bored with you already. Or is it you? Are you bored? Need me come over and fuck your adulterous cunt? Though, technically it wouldn’t be adultery, us being still married and all.”

“Jake, stop! I know you’re just trying to hurt me.”

“Too damned right I am, you bitch. You deserve every ugly word and more.”

Jacob was breathing hard as if he’d run the length of the driveway and back.

“I know you. I know you still care for me, Jake.”

Jacob remained silent.

“How about I come over and cook you a nice dinner and we can talk about the divorce?”

Jacob laughed loudly and cynically.

“What are you going to do, Grace? Poison me so you take the effing lot? Haven’t you taken enough, you traitorous bitch? Ripping out a man’s heart not enough for you? And Grace, I don’t love you; I loathe you.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath and a tiny, stubborn part of him ached to apologise and comfort her, like he had when their pup got run over by a truck because he accidentally hadn’t closed the gate properly and she’d been heartbroken.

The feeling lasted but a moment; his memories of her parting words, so cruel and scathing, as she lugged her suitcase out to her car ended it.

Clueless wimp, only married you because I knew you’d become famous, loser, need a man who can actually fuck me, not one who thinks I’m Dresden fucking china, fool, only wanted you to paint a famous portrait of me…

Without saying another word, he hung up on her, cutting off the echoes from the past.

He shuffled to the messy kitchen, pushing dirty cups and plates to the side to make room on the bench. From the freezer he took out a frozen loaf of bread, and with a bit of effort, extracted two slices. He popped them in the toaster and while he waited for them to cook he moved to the walk-in pantry and found the peanut butter.

The toaster popped, and at the smell of the toasted bread his stomach gave another growl in anticipation. Jacob roughly smeared the paste onto the bread—no butter; he’d run out of that over three weeks prior. He took a bite and with toast in hand went back to the doorway of the pantry. It was at the point where it made Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard look plentiful. Jacob scowled, annoyed. He wouldn’t be able to avoid a trip into town much longer.  

******

JACOB’S UTE SEEMED to chew up the road to town and spit it out the back. In the past he’d enjoyed its power. No longer. He no longer enjoyed anything. Well, anything other than dreamless, JD induced oblivion.

One by one, he made his stops; the post office, the hardware store, the supermarket. He stocked up on everything.

Everyone gave him pitying looks. Everyone except the checkout chick. She flirted. Jacob ignored them all.

He’d no sooner climbed back in the ute after his last errand when the chainsaw sound started in his pocket. Lifting his arse from the seat and straightening his legs allowed Jacob enough wriggle room to extract his cell from his trouser pocket. He checked the screen. It was Grace. Jacob groaned, dropping his head to the steering wheel, banging it a few times while he decided whether or not to answer. In the end he took the call.

“What do you want now, Grace?”

“Hi, Jake. How are you?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I am?”

“No.”

“I wish you would. I-I’m missing you.”

Jacob shook his head. Did she really think he believed her shit? Did she think he’d forgotten her cruel jibes?

“Where’s lover-boy?”

“He has meetings all day today.”

“Shucks is little Gracie not getting enough attention? Doesn’t lover-boy drop whatever he’s doing to cater to your every need like the last schmuck you hooked up with? You know, the one that married you and who gave you everything.”

“That’s neither fair nor true.”

Jacob remained silent, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist trying to explain and justify herself yet again.

“For the last two years you weren’t there.”

“I was there every damn day, Grace. I worked from home if you recall.”

“You might have been there physically, but mentally and emotionally you weren’t. Your head was full of art. There was no room for me. I was lonely. I needed someone.”

“Now you’re the one not being fair. It was about three years ago that I finally started commanding a decent price for my paintings. Instead of only being able to sell a canvas for two to five grand, I started getting twenty-five grand plus. And I didn’t hear you complaining when that success enabled us to buy the house, you know; the one you described as perfect, and keep an apartment in the city as well. No, you liked that part of my success just fine. And for someone who was so damn lonely you did a good job of concealing it.”

“I’m going to come. Your slut’s going to come all over your fat cock,” Grace moaned, rocking back and forth on her lover’s dick. “Oh god, harder, baby, harder. Keep fucking me. Don’t stop. I’m going to come, oh god, I’m going to come so hard.”

Every word was another twist of the knife embedded in Jake’s heart. When was the last time she’d been so wanton with him?

“Jake? Are you still there? Did you hear a word I said?”

“No, and what’s more I don’t want to.”

Jacob heard her voice warning him to not hang up on her as he moved the phone away from his ear and ended the call.

******

THE AROMA OF the supermarket bought lasagne smelled good to Jacob. He checked the time, willing it pass faster so he could eat the first proper meal he’d had in ages.

With ten minutes to go his cell rang, the revving chainsaw jarring the silence. He knew without looking at the screen who it would be. Did she have to spoil everything?

“Hey, Jake. It’s me again.”

“Yeah. I figured that out. What do you want now?”

“I want to talk to you, baby.”

Jacob snarled like a cornered beast. Her continued efforts to manipulate him infuriated him. “Don’t call me ‘baby’. I’m not your effing ‘baby’. I’m Jacob, the guy you screwed over.”

“You wouldn’t get so upset with me, Jake, if you didn’t still love me,” Grace snapped, her mask slipping. “You’re just jealous because there’s another man sharing my bed these days and you wish it was still you.”

Lush hinterland forest gave way to increasingly denser city suburbs through the window of the train, but Jake was blind to it all. In truth, he avoided looking out the window because instead of seeing the passing scenery, all he saw was images of Grace making love—and it was lovemaking—with another man.

He didn’t know why, and the pain of it was almost beyond bearing, but he felt compelled to do it anyway. He followed Grace. He kept hoping he’d witness her ending her affair, that he’d hear her say to her lover that she loved her husband too much to continue.

This time she’d said she was going for the weekend to the city.

He’d decided to take the train and hire a car rather than risk having Grace recognise his ute. He parked across the narrow street from Shelby Holborn’s mini mansion in the trendy inner-city suburb of Paddington and waited.

He knew Grace would have easily beaten him to the city, the train being so much slower than her sporty little Lexus. He’d already been to their apartment in Bondi and ascertained neither she nor her car was there. Jake took that to mean she intended staying the night at her lover’s house.

He watched as Holborn’s neighbours arrived home, walked their dogs, left to go to destinations unknown, and generally went about their lives, and, as he waited, his mind nagged at her choice of lover. Her choice was an insult in itself. The guy was a spoiled pretty boy. A playboy. Inherited wealth. Walked into a top position in the family firm straight out of school. Had had everything handed to him on a platter. What did Grace see in him? Did she honestly believe he’d change his ways for her? That he wouldn’t get bored with her the way he had with every other female he’d pursued?

Jake mightn’t have the same level of wealth as Shelby Holborn but his last three shows had pulled in over three-quarters of a million each and he was the current shining light of the art world. Australia’s new Brett Whiteley. On top of that, he was a self-made man. No one had handed him a single thing on a platter.

And he wasn’t shallow and vain and selfish.

His patience was rewarded, though to Jake the reward was bittersweet. He was right—she did intend to stay the night at her lover’s house. He was close enough to see that the slit of her cocktail dress almost reached her waist as she exited Holborn’s sleek Ferrari. The bastard didn’t even have the manners to open the door for her. Close enough to see that the neckline of the almost-dress plunged so low she couldn’t possibly be wearing a bra.

Worse, he was close enough to overhear them as they continued a conversation that had clearly begun in the vehicle.

“Do you really think I could realise that much if it came to a divorce?”

Jake’s jaw dropped, stunned. Divorce? She wanted to divorce him? He’d thought the decision would rest with him. He’d confront her, she’d beg for forgiveness, swear she loved only him, and promise to end the affair and he would decide to forgive. It would be difficult and take time, but for her he’d try. He loved her enough to give her a second chance.

“Yes, easily. I’ve checked the values of both properties. You guys bought at the right time, property prices have skyrocketed since then. And then there’s whatever dollars you have in the bank, his private art collection….” Holborn trailed off suggestively.

“Wow. I never even gave a thought to all his artwork.”

Holborn laughed. “They’ll be worth even more when he’s dead. And, of course, being still married to him, you’ll automatically inherit everything.”

“But what if he doesn’t off himself before the divorce becomes final?”

“You’d still inherit his estate, unless he’s changed his will and even then, you could contest it.”

Dear sweet lord, she wanted him dead. She wanted him to commit suicide. That Grace would use knowledge he’d confided in her in the early days of their relationship to drive him over the edge was too much. What kid wouldn’t have attempted suicide after being told he was the only surviving member of his family after a car crash?

The last bit of Jake Morissey died.

“Jake? Can you at least answer me?”

“It’s Jacob and no I can’t answer you because I wasn’t listening to you.”

Jacob sensed her anger and frustration.

“Well, you better start listening. I am fast losing patience with you. You can’t avoid me forever.”

“I can give it the good old college try.”

He smiled when the mask of her false sincerity dropped again.

“Well, then at least make it permanent. Go top yourself, you arsehole, and save us all the hassle of a divorce.”

Jacob laughed and hung up.

******

JACOB STOOD BEFORE the easel, the now familiar frustration radiating out from his gut. Nothing. No ‘it’. Jacob hated Grace as much for robbing him of ‘it’ as he did for her betrayal, her evil desires.

He looked to his left, beyond his workbench, out the window at her cottage garden. He used to watch her as she worked in her garden. His last body of work was a semi-abstract exploration of her in all her guises in the various gardens surrounding their home. How could she say he wasn’t there mentally and emotionally when he’d spent twelve months following her around, drawing her, photographing her, painting her in her beloved gardens? She couldn’t. Her words were false; a deliberate lie meant to poison his memories. A conscious attempt to rewrite their history, making him the villain.

And all to justify her deceit. Her greed. A way to rationalise her infidelity. A way to drive him insane, drive him to suicide. Jacob sneered. She could lie to herself and everyone else as much as she wanted. He knew the truth.

The truth was she was a malignant cancer. A tumorous growth in his life.

Jacob’s fantasy of Grace’s destruction played out in his mind. He stared at her garden, and as he stared the colours seemed to become even more intense; the blues more vibrant, the yellows more radiant, and the reds a deeper, lusher hue, like blood. Even the greens were more verdant, like moss on the forest floor. Euphoria washed through his veins, filling his heart, his head, his fingertips. Soon.

Jacob reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels, taking a swig; firewater swirled intoxicatingly with euphoria.

******

JACOB CHECKED HIS phone and smiled; six messages. He could guess who the caller was. It pleased him to frustrate her attempts to speak to him. He hoped her self-control was unravelling as fast as she hoped his sanity was.

He decided to reward himself; he had, after all, walked to the letterbox to retrieve the mail. He mightn’t have read any of it, merely adding the handful to the already huge collection covering the desk in the office, but the fact that he’d emptied the mailbox deserved acknowledgment.

He sat at the dining table, leaning back in the chair, coffee at hand. He added a slosh of JD and typed in the number to access his messages.

“Hey, Jake. It’s me. Please call me back, baby, I’m worried about you.”

Jacob snorted. Who did she think she was fooling with her saccharine sweet words? No one. Certainly not him.

Jacob waited as the generic voice told him the date and time the second message had been left on his cell.

“Jake, its me again. I know you’re there. Please stop ignoring my calls. I need to talk to you. Call me back as soon as you get this message.”

Jacob smiled at the hint of annoyance in her tone. Grace wasn’t the most patient of people and Jacob knew better than anyone she hated being ignored. He took an appreciative sip of coffee while he waited for the third message.

Disappointingly, it was Bart, his agent, wanting an update on his progress with the next show. Jacob scowled. He’d have to ring the leech back and soothe his concerns or Bart was just as likely to turn up unannounced and that wouldn’t do at all. No, not at all.

Another sip of coffee, another generic intro as to time and date for message #4.

“Jake, you ignorant prick, you’d better damn well ring me back or you’ll regret it. I will make your life a misery.”

Jacob grinned from ear to ear. Shucks, Grace sounded upset. She was yelling her messages now. And who was she calling an ignorant prick? At least he’d always opened doors for her, brought her home her favourite chocolates every time he went to town, and made her a coffee every morning to sip while still in bed because she wasn’t a morning person. Was pretty boy Shelby doing those things? Jacob thought not. He was probably too busy following in Granddaddy’s and Daddy’s footsteps and wondering what to spend his next million on to bother with such paltry considerations. He certainly wasn’t opening car doors for her and he sure did like calling her a slut. Jacob shrugged. Maybe she liked being treated like a cheap whore, maybe that’s where he’d gone wrong. Cherishing her and treating her with love and respect certainly hadn’t worked.

Message number five was a return to sugary sweetness; a gushing apology filled with endearments and pleas for him to call her. It should have earned her an academy award.

With the final message, Jacob experienced elation. He selected the number from the message service needed to repeat the message. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and drank in the exultation.

“That’s it, Jake. My patience is at an end. I will not be avoided any longer. I’m coming out to the house and you better damn well be there.”

Jacob selected the option to save the message. He topped up his coffee, adding another slosh of JD and sauntered into his studio. His gaze immediately went to the window. He put his cell to his ear and replayed Grace’s last message. He smiled at her cottage garden. Soon, he promised the blooms, soon she’ll be home.

******

JACOB HEARD THE car before he saw it. He smiled as he dashed out the back door and around the side of the house to Grace’s cottage garden. He grabbed his weapon, one he was sure Grace would appreciate, and found the concealed entry into the garden—a narrow zig-zag path where each turn was artfully concealed—and carefully found his way to the grassy centre where she’d placed a low stone bench. She’d called it her secret garden, her secret place to go to where she could think or read or daydream.

Jacob went to it to hide.

As he secreted himself behind the wall of shrubbery Jacob had to admire the clever way Grace had built the garden. The large mound slowly rose in height with various flower types planted in tiers. At the time she’d said it allowed her to grow more varieties, showcasing them. It looked impenetrable. The top row of gladioli concealed the fact that the mound had a narrow but deep hollow at its centre. Had he wanted to, Jacob could have stood halfway up the bank of the hollow and remained hidden, and Jacob was six-two.

Instead, he made himself comfortable and waited.

He listened as the car drew closer. He recognised it as being Grace’s Lexus. It came to a stop at what he estimated was just behind his ute. What came as a surprise was the sound of two car doors opening and closing. Interesting. Jacob wished he could take a peek to confirm it was pretty-boy Shelby she’d brought with her. If so, he could take out two birds, so to speak, with one stone.

He heard voices, too far away to ascertain the actual words, but clearly enough to discern one was male, the other female. Jacob smiled.

He closed his eyes to cut out peripheral distraction and concentrated on the sounds which grew louder as they drew nearer.

“He has to be here,” Grace said. “His ute’s here. I’ll check inside. How about you do a circuit of the house to see if he’s outside somewhere?”

“Sure thing, baby. Can’t wait to see his face when he sees I’m here with you.”

Jacob grinned. Pretty-boy Shelby might well see more than he’d bargained for before the day was out.

Grace giggled. “You’re so bad, honey.”

“You like bad, my little slut.”

“Yes, I do. We’re a match made in heaven.”

“Do you think my confronting and taunting him will be enough to send him over the edge?”

Jacob shook his head at the Holborn’s arrogance. He could only assume they thought he was in his studio and couldn’t hear them.

“I hope so. I’m so sick of having to pretend I care. Have you any idea how hard it is to pretend day after day, year after year, that you’re a pretty butterfly when you’re really an eagle?”

Jacob’s lips curled at Grace’s metaphor; she was no majestic eagle. She was a hyena; a scavenger ready to pick over a carcass.

“Now who’s being bad?”

Grace giggled again, repeating Holborn’s words back to him. “You like bad. That’s why you love me. We’re two of a kind.”

And then Jacob heard the front door opening.

The walls muffled her voice, but he could make out her calling his name. He pictured her going from room to room, her frustration growing when she failed to find him.

“Yeah, Jakey-poo,” Jacob heard Shelby mumble. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Shelby’s snide condescending tone didn’t bother Jacob; he knew he was going to have the last laugh.

He listened, hearing doors open and close and Grace calling his name.  All went quiet for a moment and Jacob wondered where she was.

“Shelby?”

Jacob had his answer. From the proximity and direction of her voice Jacob knew she was standing at his workbench calling out through the open studio window.

“Yeah, babe?” Shelby replied, his steps indicating he was approaching from the back of the house.

“You find him?”

“Nope. I haven’t checked that shed out the back, though.”

“That’s the pottery shed.”

There was a pause and Jacob pictured Shelby’s look of query.

“The previous owner was a professional potter. There’s two state-of-the-art kilns in there along with an electric pottery wheel. He died, and we bought the place off his daughter.”

“I take it he’s not inside the house?”

“No, and you should see the place. It looks like a bomb’s hit it. I don’t think he’s washed a dish or changed his sheets since I left. There’s empty Jack Daniels bottles everywhere. The rubbish bin is overflowing, and the place stinks to high heaven. By the look of things, he’s losing it big time. This might be even easier than we thought.”

Jacob noted Grace’s matter-of-fact tone. There was certainly no concern in her voice. You’d have thought she was discussing the weather rather than her husband’s suicide.

“Do you think he’s already topped himself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” replied Grace thoughtfully. “He’s certainly sounded different lately and it’s not like him to ignore my calls.”

“Shall I check the pottery shed?”

“Yes, you might as well, and I’ll brave going over the house again. Perhaps he’s hiding in a cupboard or under a bed or something equally stupid.”

“Okay, meet you back here in five.”

Jacob’s pulse escalated. It thundered in his ears. It was almost time. He took a slow, deep breath to calm himself. Jacob slid his weapon into the back pocket of his work trousers and made his way as quietly as he could back along the narrow path, stopping short of the entry and crouching. He winced as the weapon jutted into him and adjusted his position slightly to ease the pressure. He counted down the minutes, anticipation making him impatient. The muscles in his thighs protested at the enforced stillness but he ignored the discomfort.

He waited until Shelby was a foot or two beyond his hiding spot.

“Hey, lover-boy. You looking for me?” Jacob asked casually, rising and stepping clear of the garden.

Shelby spun around, clearly surprised. He took a reflexive step backward.

“What the hell? Where…” Shelby’s words trailed off. He shook his head and squared his shoulders, recovering and taking a step forward. “Well, look at you, Jakey-boy. Aren’t you a sight? Anyone would think you’d lost your wife.”

Jacob tilted his head to the side as if perplexed. “Wow, I didn’t know you were a clown as well as a corporate wanker. That must look good on your C.V.”

“Careful, Jakey-boy. You’re forgetting who’s in the driving seat here. I’ll give you a hint: it’s not you. I’ve already got your wife and, as an aside, isn’t she a sweet fuck? Way too much woman for you. Word of advice, man to man, women like Grace need a firm hand, not the lovey-dovey shit you showered her with.” Shelby Holborn grinned maliciously.“ And, Jakey-boy, I have to say after my little wander around your hacienda I’ve decided I quite like the idea of a country house. Yeah, I think I’ll take it too.”

Jacob smiled. It was more a thinning of the lips, a revealing of teeth. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and wrapped his hand around the weapon in his back pocket. Holborn raised his hands, forming them into fists, ready to fight.

He was too slow.

Jacob stepped into Shelby’s personal space, making it impossible for Holborn to identify Jacob’s weapon without breaking eye contact, something Jacob was confident he wouldn’t do.

“Pity,” Jacob thought. “I would have liked to have seen awareness of his imminent death reflected in his eyes. Oh, well, you can’t have everything.”

Jacob shoved the gardening fork with its carefully sharpened tines into the soft flesh of Shelby’s stomach. And it was soft. The guy should have spent more time doing stomach crunches.

With one hand Jacob angled the fork upward, pushing hard, aiming to pierce Shelby Holborn’s heart. Apparently, the way to a man’s heart truly was through his stomach. He’d have preferred to rip the man’s heart out—it would have had more symmetry—but piercing would have to do. With the other he covered the man’s mouth, muffling any cries. He stared deep in Holborn’s eyes, enjoying the look of shocked horror. Holborn’s hands gripped Jacob’s arms, as if to steady himself.

Jacob brought his face so close to Holborn’s their noses were almost touching. He gave him an intentionally crazy look.

“Get forked, Holborn.”

Jacob laughed happily at his play on words, certain even Martin Riggs, Mel Gibson’s character in the Lethal Weapon series of movies, would have enjoyed his cleverness.

“Shelby? Jake?”

Grace’s voice momentarily distracted Jacob from his joke. He looked over Holborn’s shoulder and smiled at his wayward wife.

“Hey, Grace. How nice of you to pop in with lover-boy.”

As Grace took a step forward, looking confused, Jacob gave one last shove. Holborn’s last whoosh of breath gusted over his face. Jacob scrunched his nose. Yuck. The guy had been eating garlic recently.

Jacob felt the pressure in his wrist as Holborn’s knees buckled. He withdrew the gardening fork, Holborn crumpling at his feet like a puppet with its strings cut.

Grace’s eyes went from her lover’s prone form to Jacob’s hand.

“Oh my god! Jake, what have you done?”

“I’d have thought it was pretty obvious,” Jacob replied, grinning. “I forked lover-boy. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, so I forked him too. You’re right. It is fun. Kind of messy, but, yeah, fun.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” Grace repeated over and over again, backing away from him.

Jacob stepped around Holborn’s motionless body. Grace took another step backward, Jacob a step forward. The faster Grace backed away, the faster Jacob advanced. Grace shook her head, Jacob nodded his.

And then she turned tail and ran.

Jacob gave chase. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he knew what it was to be the lion in pursuit of the gazelle. It was intoxicating.

He closed the gap, adjusting his grip on the gardening fork. While running at full tilt, he boomeranged the fork through Grace’s legs, grinning when she fell face first on the front lawn within a yard of her car.

In a moment, Jacob was on her, rolling her on her back and straddling her, locking her arms to her sides with his thighs. He clamped her tightly, risking leaning to the side to retrieve the gardening fork.

“Lover-boy said you like it rough. That you need a firm hand. So, how are you liking it, Grace?”

“Jake, don’t, please don’t,” she whimpered, clearly terrified.

“I’m not Jake. I’m Jacob.”

“What? Jake? Please don’t hurt me. You love me. I know you love me.”

“Read my lips, bitch. My name is Jacob. I’m not Jake. Jake loved you. I don’t. Oh, boy, did that man love you. He was the only person who ever truly gave a fuck about you. You were his reason to breathe. And how did you repay his devotion? You fucked him over. You killed him.”

Grace sobbed, rolling her head from side to side. “Jake, you’re talking crazy. Please listen to me. You’re not this Jacob guy. You’re Jake Morissey. You’re my husband and you love me. Just as I love you. As I’ve always loved you. I came here today to ask you to forgive me.”

Jacob laughed.

“Good try, bitch. That’s why you brought lover-boy with you. Was he going to ask for forgiveness too? Yeah, you loved Jake. Sure you did. That’s why you’ve spent months trying to push him over the edge. You tried to kill the guy who gave you everything. Even then, you and lover-boy didn’t have the balls to do it yourselves. You wanted Jake to do it for you. The guy who gave you the perfect house with the perfect garden. Tried to be the perfect husband and give you the perfect life. What did you give him?”

“You’re Jake, you love me,” she sobbed repeatedly.

“No, I’m not. When Jake looked in your eyes, do you know what he thought he saw? An angel. A sweet and perfect angel.”

“You’re Jake, not Jacob.”

Grace wriggled and bucked trying to free herself, but Jacob rode her like a rodeo cowboy, his bulk too much for her to toss off.

“Want to know what I see when I look in your eyes?”

Grace whimpered, tearfully repeating her earlier words. “You’re Jake, Jake Morissey and Jake is gentle and kind. Jake loves me. You’re not Jacob.”

“I see a cancerous tumour. And what do we do with malignant tumours?”

Like a broken record, Grace sobbed, “You’re Jake, Jake Morissey and you love me.”

“We cut them out. That’s what we do.”

With those words, Jacob pierced the cancer’s lying eyes.

******

JACOB WHISTLED AS he mixed Holborn’s ashes with the blood and bone fertiliser. The daffodils were going to love the feed they were about to receive. Same as the cottage garden had loved Grace’s. Thinking of Grace’s cottage garden reminded Jacob he needed to move the sprinkler.

Mentally, he checked off his to-do list:

Delete Grace’s phone messages – check.

Drive Lexus back to Sydney wearing his Grace-disguise – check.

Sneak into the Sydney apartment and leave the signed divorce papers – check.

Dispose of Grace’s and Holborn’s phones along with disguise – check.

Use second disguise to catch train back – check

Dispose of second disguise – check.

Vacuum the interior of the kilns – check.

Wash interior of kilns with bleach – check.

Clean the kiln chimneys – check.

Make some crockery to fire in the kilns, incorporate in artworks – check.

Throw grass seed around the kill zones, fertilise and water – check.

Clean the house from top to bottom – check.

Shower, shave, and cut hair – check.

Put in another appearance in town looking normal and healthy – check.

******

IT TOOK THE police three weeks before they called in with questions about his wife and Shelby Holborn’s disappearance. Other than confirming their affair, Jacob wasn’t able to help them.

A week later they returned with a warrant. They even went so far as to test small random samples from the completed canvases in case Jacob had mixed blood with the paint. Clearly, they knew nothing about paint—blood would eventually deteriorate and muddy the colours.

So, despite their best efforts they found nothing. It remains an open case.

******

EPILOGUE

BART WAS THRILLED with the paintings for Jacob’s next show, saying they were his best yet. He waxed lyrical about Jacob’s vibrant use of colour and the incorporation of ceramic shards giving the canvases an almost 3D appeal. He told Jacob he would use words like kaleidoscope and quasi-mosaic in the show catalogue blurb.

He didn’t say it in so many words, but he let Jacob know his recent notoriety wouldn’t hurt his sales. He even went so far as to predict a sell-out show that would top the one million mark.

Jacob was just happy to have ‘it’ back.

Oh, and the daffodils did love their Holborn fertiliser.

******

END OF SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF

Now you can go back to your every day life where truth may well be stranger than fiction.