Charmaine Morris

"I'm 'ain takin her in no car," Horace, the porter, said to Nurse Dacres as they stood in the dark halls of Gray's Hospital. "She can go in the ambulance like all 'em others."

"Calm down Horace. I'll give her a sedative. You've seen how she gets when she takes the tablets. Don't worry about it."

"You no gonna be stuck all mornin with tha stinkin smell." Despite his protests, Horace took the clipboard and signed the form.

"Listen, Horace, I really don't care. If Doctor Murdoch thinks these little outings will help Mrs. Peters, then who are we to say otherwise?" Nurse Dacres spun on her heels and made her way down the narrow hall to Mrs. Peters' room. Reluctantly, Horace followed.

Twice the lights at Hurst and Parkington changed and Horace was unable to move. He played piano on the steering wheel. He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Eveytin' a'righ, Missus Peters?" She didn't respond. He pushed his head outside and shouted. "Come on! Come on! Let's go, let's go!"

The digital clock on the dash read 9:30, 15 minutes past the time they should have arrived at Dr. Murdoch's office. "Sh-t, this is all I need: one p-ssed-off doctor and one looney rose-smellin' patien." He rubbed his nose and looked back at Mrs. Peters, wondering if she'd heard. Not likely, for she was rocking back and forth with her hands clasped in her lap and her head hung low. Her thick brown hair hid her face but Horace knew the expression: blank. He jammed his hand on the horn and shouted once more for the drivers up ahead to get a move on. As expected, nothing happened.

"Sh-t!' Horace fumbled with the radio, turning the dial, searching for something to take his mind off the traffic and Mrs. Peters. He stopped when he heard an excited voice.

".....police have warned that everyone should stay away from Dennington Street which is now completely blocked. I repeat: two people have been shot as gunmen staged a daring daylight robbery at the Dennington Bank. They..." Horace threw up his hands. "Great!"

The car in front moved and Horace was able to turn left. He intended to bypass the traffic and double back to Bentley where Dr. Murdoch had his office. Speeding down the lane, a figure darted before the car. Horace slammed the brakes. "F---!" The car stopped with a lurch, throwing Horace and Mrs. Peters forward, then back against the seats.

"You a'right?" Horace's voice came through a deafening heart beat. An injured Mrs. Peters would do him no good. But the woman barely raised her head. Horace assumed her fine and turned to the cause of his sudden stop. He yanked the door release, stepped out. The man was off to the side, dusting the front of his pants. He held a bag in his other hand. "Wha the f--- were you thinkin?! I could a --"

Thuck! Horace fell to the ground with a loud thud, a neat hole in his forehead where the bullet had gone in.

Mrs. Peters stopped rocking.

"Quick! Get in!" The doors opened and the car dipped. Two bags were thrown on the back seat beside her and someone got in as the bags were shoved up beside her leg. "What about the broad?"

"She's coming with us," the one beside her said.

The car sped off, bumped over the curve and entered Elm Street, narrowly missing another car coming from the opposite direction.

"Draw attention to us, will ya?"

"Sorry, Murph," the driver said. "What's wrong with her?"

Murph placed his hand under Mrs. Peters' chin and lifted her head. He studied her face, then brushed her hair from the plastic ID pinned to her left breast. He pried it free. Her head dropped. "Donna Peters, patient number 210, Pinehurst Psychiatric Hospital." He lifted the hair and examined her face, comparing her with the photo. Tyres squealed around the next corner. Sirens could be heard in the distance. "Hey Murph, she's a nut case."

The driver laughed. "Maybe we should take her with us to the Highway House ... you know, have some fun."

"That's right, tell everyone where we're staying, you louse!"

"Sorry, Murph."

The car jerked to a stop at the lights. Sirens announced two police cars, which hurtled around the corner. Both men ducked. The police car sped through the intersection and away from them. Gradually, the men raised their heads. The lights changed and the car inched forward, turning left onto Denton, heading for the highway. At the exit, they pulled to the curb and Murph reached over and opened the door, telling the woman to go. She didn't move. In the distance, the sirens told them the police were not far off.

"Beat it, Donna." Murph gave her a shove. She slid forward and unfolded her body, planting her feet on the dry dirt. "Out!" Murph shouted and pushed again. She stumbled but didn't fall. He threw the ID.

Donna opened her hand and let the two tablets Nurse Dacres had given her fall to the ground. She crushed them with the toe of her shoe. She raised her head slowly, as if unsure of her surroundings. She blinked several times, twisted her head from side to side like she needed to ease a kink in her neck. Then she bent and picked up the ID, which she pocketed. She straightened her clothes and shoved out her hand, thumb up.

A car stopped. The driver leaned forward. "Need a lift?"

"Yes, thank you."

He opened the door. "Where you heading?"

"Wedderburn Heights," Donna said with a smile.

The driver nodded agreeably. "You have family there?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Donna said. "My husband is about to die and I am going to take my son." The man's smile slipped but he held it as he put the car in gear and drove off.

Garth Peters glanced at his reflection in the brass knob on the door to his Colonial-style house and hesitated, waiting for the familiar uneasy feeling to go away. Inside, he placed his attachcase on the small table near the door. Normally he would be with Bobby, his son, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Thompson, would be there to welcome them. Garth would spend some time before going back to work. Today he was alone because he'd gotten the half-day as a reward for saving his company a bundle by spotting a glitch in the new accounting programme, Bobby was at a friend's for a party and a sleepover, and he'd thought it a good idea for Mrs. Thompson to take the afternoon off.

Wandering aimlessly through the downstairs rooms, Garth wished he hadn't been so generous with Mrs. Thompson. Even her company would have been welcomed at the moment.

He stopped by the den. It was cleaner than a hospital. Mrs. Thompson must have had a good morning, seeing as how she had managed to pick up Bobby's mess of toys and his junk, which was usually scattered about the room. Garth Peters made his way to his office. It, too, was neat and tidy. He raised his brow in surprise. He fiddled with the items on his desk, picking up the crystal paper weight and the gold-tipped letter opener. Neither had ever been this shiny. Not since ...

A sound caught his attention. He turned his head to the ceiling. Listened. Nothing. He sniffed and thought he smelt roses. Two years and he still couldn't get Donna's smell out his head. 'Donna.' He said her name in a sigh. He was deadly afraid of her, but still he missed her.

In the kitchen he gathered the ingredients for a ham sandwich, placed them on the counter and thought he could have eaten right off the top. Mrs. Thompson had really outdone herself. Lucky thing he gave her the time off; after all that cleaning, the woman must be dead tired. Still, there was something nagging at him. He shrugged. Pulled out the drawer to get a knife. Through the window he saw a man walking down the street with a bunch of flowers in his hand. 'Make sure you don't have any roses,' Garth said, chuckling at his foolishness and how, because of Donna, the thought of roses made him want to puke. He was embarrassed to admit to Dr. Murdoch that he, a grown man, had nightmares about roses. Once he'd run out of the grocer's because the woman had handed him a bunch and asked that he take them to Donna.

Strange: there were no knives in the drawer. He pulled another.

No knife in that drawer either.

He crossed the kitchen, remembering clearly how Donna used to fill every room with roses by the vase-full, and how she'd let them sit until the water was murky-brown and the petals had fallen off, leaving wilted stems and a stench like a damp room. She'd planted the entire corner yard with them. Before they'd married he'd thought it nice that Donna always smelt like a rose. But after Bobby was born, he realized that her smell grew stronger and stronger, affecting the baby and him. So one day, while she was away visiting her mother, he removed all the flowers, inside and out, cleaned the house and opened the windows to clear the air. When she returned, he'd braced himself for anger; but she never said a word, simply replaced all the roses the following day when he'd gone to work.

Garth couldn't find a knife. He thought Mrs. Thompson must have moved them; but why? He searched through the upper cupboards, sniffling and wiping at his eye as he did.

After the roses, he noticed that Donna became obsessive about everything, particularly cleaning. She polished and shined until the house gleamed like a jewel: all the knobs, silver, mirrors, furniture. And she would change clothes up to eight times a day, and bathe as often, as if the dirt was embedded in her body. She'd done the same, fussing over Bobby and bathing him till the child begun to bubble. But that was years ago; now Bobby didn't even remember his mother. It was amazing how easy a young child could forget - and so, too, adults, for Garth could not find one knife in the entire kitchen. He looked around to see the drawers and cupboard doors hanging open. The dish drainer had been emptied. He was at a loss about the missing knives and why, suddenly, his nose was draining like an open faucet ... like a sparkling, shiny faucet similar to the one in his kitchen and the brass knob ... and the paper weight. Garth's eyes flew wide and his body went cold. The counter. The scent. His watery nose and itching eyes. Donna! He turned to run but she was there, blocking the doorway, staring at him with her head hung to the side as if she was waiting for the answer to an earlier question. He swallowed.

'Hello Garth.' She smiled.

Garth was speechless.

'Did you miss me?'

He began shaking his head, nodded, shook, then closed his eyes. Wished her away. He opened them to find she'd moved closer. One hand was on the counter, the other hid behind her. He backed away, spreading his fingers on the surface behind him, searching for something with which to protect himself.

'So, Garth.' She drew her finger on the marble and raised it, turning it around and showing it to him. 'Why have you not visited me?'

He chose his words carefully. 'D-Doctor Murdoch said it was better if I-I didn't,' he lied.

'Where are my clothes?' She moved closer. 'These are filthy. I need to change.'

'Donna ... w-we packed them up.' His fingers worked behind him. He found the bread, the cheese, the ham. He could throw them, but he didn't think a ham sandwich would do Donna much harm.

'Where is my son, Garth?'

Snot ran down his nose, water, his eyes. He badly wanted to scratch but dared not move. His eyes fell back on her and he remembered the early visits.

Dr. Murdoch told him that Donna could be helped. He thought otherwise. She would be gentle and quiet until he and she were alone; then she would tell him she was coming for him. That she was going to beat him to death with her roses. And then she would laugh and say she was joking. 'You cannot beat someone to death with a bunch of roses, Garth! How silly of you!' But he never laughed. He believed every word she said, and that last day he'd left the hospital and headed for the sporting goods store where he bought a gun. The gun, which was in the back of the cabinet under the sink. Right where Donna stood.

Donna revealed her hand. It held the butcher's knife. He was not surprised. Tiny beads of sweat sprouted on his upper lip and brow. She raised the knife, turning it back and forth, examining it. She was as mad as he'd ever seen her.

Suddenly she advanced like a wild woman. He lunged to the side, missed his footing and landed hard on the floor, hitting his hip and elbow. He heard her curse and scrambled to get away. He saw a flash of metal in the corner of his eye and felt the pain running up his thigh. He howled and yanked free.

She struck again; the knife tore through his pants. The blade hit the floor and broke. He shimmied to the cupboard, knocked aside the garbage bin and reached in. Donna grabbed his ankle. He kicked, heard a crack. Donna shrieked. He almost said sorry but cursed himself for always being her husband. His fingers groped the dark cupboard. Where was the damned gun? His hand landed on metal and he pulled it free, though he'd never fired a gun in his life. He brought his hand around at the same time he spun onto his back, holding it firm with both hands and angling it across his stomach and by his knee where his good foot supported his weight as he pointed the gun at ... nothing.

'Donna?' His voice was weak. The pain in his calf was almost unbearable. No reply. Garth waited a few seconds before hauling himself upright. He ripped a dishtowel in two and tied it around the place where the knife had gone into his calf. He gritted his teeth and bore the pain in silence, all the while thinking he needed to find a better hiding place for the house key.

Garth talked to her as he dragged his injured foot from room to room. 'Let's call Doctor Murdoch, Donna. He can help you.' He shoved the office door and let it bang against the wall. He peered into the room. Slowly he checked behind the sofa and under the desk, pointing the gun as if he'd planned to use it. Donna was nowhere downstairs. Was she gone? Garth didn't think so. Donna wasn't the type to give up so easily. He paused at the foot of the stairs to consider his options: go up or telephone the police. He knew Donna wouldn't go quietly ... not this time. If he went up, then he would have no choice but to kill her. Either way, it was all about to end, despite what Dr. Murdoch said. A long time ago someone did something bad to Donna and it had turned her; Garth was convinced there was no cure for Donna.

He was bleeding all over the place and his leg was hurting. 'Donna! Where the hell are you?' Garth went up the first step and winced from the pain and effort it took to move his leg. He took another, stopped to catch his breath. 'This isn't good for any of us,' he said. He waited for her to respond but the only sound he heard was his own ragged breath. He held on to the railing as if it were a lifeline. Halfway up the stairs he paused. 'Donna? Where ... are ... you ... baby?'

'Right here, honey.' Donna flew down the stairs. Her arms were out like wings and she seemed to glide towards him with a knife in one hand.

Garth cried out and raised the gun and fired. She managed to stab him in the shoulder before she slammed into him, front-first. That, and the gun's kick, knocked him off his feet and sent them both down the stairs. They spilled apart at the bottom. Donna was in a heap; Garth, in pieces held together by skin. He rolled to his side and moaned. He must have broken every bone in his body, but still he reached out and shoved Donna.

She didn't move. He had recollections of familiar scenes in movies: 'War of the Roses', 'Mr. & Mrs. Smith': both were shows he hated.

Donna's eyes were closed; blood seeped from the hole in her stomach. Her head was at an odd angle and he wondered if she'd broken her neck. 'Donna?' He shook her again and called her name. Satisfied she was dead, Garth waited a few moments to build the strength he would need to crawl to the phone.

He crawled through the front door and collapsed on the porch, where he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was aware of running feet and half-opened his eyes to see dark blue police uniforms. They were quickly joined by the paramedics who attended to his wounds.

'Sir, where's your wife?'

Garth tried to speak between coughs. 'She ... she's by the stairs.'

The officers disappeared from his vision.

One returned. 'Sir, there's no one in the house.'

'My wife...she attacked...I shot...' Garth closed his eyes. Took a breath. 'Look again!'

'We have to take him, he's lost a lot of blood.'

'Look again,' Garth mumbled, as his voice faded and he was wheeled to the ambulance.