Third Prize - Sally Curtis

If You Want Something Done

By Sally Curtis

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Joanne had been trying to kill her husband since their wedding day. She never
intended to marry Malcom but being broke and three months pregnant, the father
vanishing around the same time as the two blue lines appeared on the plastic strip, it
seemed fortuitous when Malcolm assumed liability. But over the tortuous course of
their marriage, there had always been something to thwart her murderous ambition
and many an empty grave had been refilled.

She had waited long enough for him to flounce off with that fluffy piece of candy-floss
he called his assistant, but Malcolm had made it clear he could eat as much cake as
he liked and still have plenty. Joanne’s loathing intensified until her hatred ran
deeper in her veins than her own blood.

Not long after, she hired Ted. Not his real name: she didn’t know his real name, nor
did she care. He had been recommended by Felicity, whom Joanne had met in the
gym after opening a toilet door to find her on her knees snorting cocaine.
Apparently, yoga didn’t scratch the itch anymore. With a mutual penchant for Cristal
and Jager bombs, Joanne shared the drudgery of life with Malcolm, and Felicity
explained how she became a rich widow at the tender age of twenty-six.

Two weeks later, Joanne gave Ted a down payment and began siphoning off money
into an offshore account set up by Felicity’s boyfriend from his prison cell. Once she
had enough, she would contact Ted, who assured her he was happy to wait and
wouldn’t run off with the deposit. He was, after all, an honest man. She asked if the
money would be returned if he didn’t finish the job. Ted laughed. He always finished
the job.

Malcom shrugs off his coat, demands a gin, runs his finger along the furniture
checking, explaining his lateness as having operated on a man with gunshot
wounds, found behind their own BMW of all places. Stranger still, the wounded man
bragged how, as a professional, he had never failed to complete a job and had no
idea how he had shot himself in the stomach. He died confused.

“Is my bath drawn?” Malcom demands.
 

As the water tumbles into the tub, Joanne plugs in the hairdryer. Professionals, she
thinks, are overrated.