Short story: Black as coffee

Written by: Eline Tuijn
Published: 12 February 2025

She opened her eyes. The sunlight streaming through the window felt like the stab of a knife in her eyes. She closed them again. The hard flagstone floor seeped cold into her back and legs. She tried to move her head but pain shot through her back. She felt winded and disorientated. Then, like a swell of the tide, the memory of what had happened came flooding back: the handle of the mug breaking off, boiling water scalding her stomach and leg, the pain shooting up her foot as she stepped on a fragment of broken mug, losing her balance as she hopped to the kitchen chair, banging her head against the kitchen table as she sunk to the floor.

She blinked and turned her head to the right. Looking down at her was Bernard. She couldn’t remember hearing him come into the kitchen. His face took on a worried expression when their eyes met. ‘Sheila, are you alright?’ he asked. ‘What happened?’ He knelt down beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s get you up off this floor.’

When he made to push her up, she gasped in pain. He released his grip but kept his hand resting on her shoulder. The weight of his hand felt heavy, as if he was pushing her down. ‘We’ll try that again, shall we?’ Bernard leaned over her to gently slide his hand and lower arm under her shoulder, his face almost touching hers. She felt his warm breath on her face, a smell of coffee mixed with the fresh scent of his aftershave. The intensity of it was overwhelming, almost nauseating. This time, instead of pulling her up, Bernard stretched out beside her, with his arm underneath her and rolled her onto her side.

The next morning, Sheila was emptying out the bin. She noticed the fragments of mug and the broken handle caught her eye. Something was not quite right, the break seemed too perfect.

‘Crying over spilled milk?’ joked Bernard as he walked into the kitchen and saw her staring at the bin.

‘No.’ Sheila replied, unsure whether to say something about the mug or not.

‘There’s no need to be so short with me.’ Bernard sounded hurt.

‘I’m not… it’s just… Oh never mind.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing, why would you say that?’

‘You’ve been acting weird since that little bump on the head.’

‘It was more than a little bump, you found me unconscious on the floor, for Chrissake.’ She stopped short, her mind working overtime as she thought back to the accident.

Had his expression changed from dispassionate observation to concern when he noticed her looking at him? The smell of fresh coffee on his breath. Had he really made himself coffee with her lying unconscious on the floor? She felt doubt settling uneasily in the pit of her stomach as it struck her. Was he trying to get rid of her?

That afternoon, over a cup of tea at her sister’s, Sheila took the plunge. She explained what had happened, that Bernard had only seemed worried once she regained consciousness, the smell of coffee mixed with aftershave, the handle of the mug that appeared to be broken deliberately and stuck back on.

Clarissa was having none of it. ‘I mean, it doesn’t make sense. Why would he do something like that?’

‘I don’t know, for mum’s inheritance?’

‘I think you’ve been watching too many murder mysteries.’

‘Last week the brakes didn’t work. And he was the last person to drive the car.’

‘That’s hardly a sign of a murderous husband,’ Clarissa laughed. ‘Wasn’t your car up for a test anyway?’

‘Well yes but that’s beside the point. Now that I think about it, he’s been acting more aloof lately, as if he’s distancing himself from me.’

‘Sheila, the man has just been promoted six months into his new job. That’s a huge vote of confidence. And responsibility. He’s probably got tons on his mind and is trying to do his best for the company. Makes sense that his marriage is on the backburner a little.’

Sheila continued as if she hadn’t heard. ‘And a week ago when I went into his study to clean up, I saw some insurance papers lying on his desk and Bernard came in and was really angry with me for snooping.’

‘Sweetie, your imagination is running wild. I get annoyed when Mark rearranges my things, too.’

Was she wrong? No. Her resolve hardened.

The only thing she could think of was to test him, draw him out. But how? Pretend she was terminally ill, or fake her suicide? Or tell him she was leaving him and see if he would go after her and try to kill her? That was a risky ploy but it might just work if she planned it right. Yes, she would leave a note saying that she was leaving him and that she was staying at their holiday cabin in the Cotswolds until the divorce and not to visit her. She would install cameras and record him coming over. If he came over.

Two days later Sheila watched the doctor’s lips move but couldn’t register what he was saying. Thoughts tumbled through her mind like a washing machine, churning the same ideas over and over. Only when Clarissa shook her by the arm, did she manage to focus and ask ‘how did it happen?’

The doctor suppressed a small sigh: ‘Like I explained, the police say he was hit by the number nine bus on the way to the station. He was brought in with quite severe injuries but he will make a good recovery.’ Then apologetically said, ‘look, I’m sorry but I have to do my rounds. You can collect his belongings at the front desk.’ And off he hurried, eager to put distance between them.

At the front desk, the receptionist handed her the blue sports bag she knew so well. It was the bag she used for her gym gear. Why had Bernard taken her sports clothes to the station? As she lifted the bag, she heard a clink of metal. She stiffened, then walked quickly to the exit. ‘Where are you going?’ Clarissa asked, half running to keep up with her. ‘What’s going on, aren’t you going to go up to see Bernard?’

Sheila didn’t answer but unlocked the car, opened the boot and swung the bag in with a thud. Fingers fumbling, she unzipped the bag and yanked it open. She stared at the contents. Clarissa came up behind her, still talking but she stopped short as she looked down. There in the blue bag, between Sheila’s crumpled T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, was a rope, a hammer and a bicycle chain with a padlock.

First there was silence. Sheila stood frozen, a thudding in her ears slowly drowning out the silence and becoming louder and louder until Clarissa made a strangled, choking sound. The sisters stared at each other, eyes large. She saw the shock in Clarissa’s eyes and a look of pity spreading over her sister’s face. That galvanized her into action. She closed the boot with a bang and walked to the driver’s side.

‘Get in,’ she said curtly to Clarissa, whose eyes widened at the tone, but she obeyed and got into the car without saying a word. Sheila started the car, jerkily put it into gear and drove off. After ten minutes of driving in silence, they pulled up in front of Sheila and Bernard’s house.

As they got out of the car, they heard music. A thudding beat of drums, rich deep vibrations of bugles and the bright notes of a trumpet ringing out above the rest. The melodic clamour swelled to a crescendo as around the corner came a brass band marching towards them, engulfing them in a boisterous wave of deep brassy tones and shrill piping trebles. The row of players parted effortlessly around them, like a current of water flowing around a rock. Sheila took in the faces of the musicians as they walked past, staring straight ahead concentrating on their instruments. Suddenly she recognized one of them. The blood drained from her face as she watched Bernard march past her, oblivious to her presence, with the smell of freshly ground coffee in his wake. Her head started spinning, her knees buckled and then everything went black.