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CUTTING EDGE by James Wood He was surprised how light she was. It was some years since he'd lifted her bodily, yet she seemed no heavier than when he first carried her over the threshold nine years ago. Her figure had altered very little in that time. Carefully he placed the body on the bed, almost as if he half-expected some sign of movement. But none came. Hurriedly he left the room. He was well behind schedule. The razor was in his hand again, the blood showing vividly red against the shining steel blade. He could understand now why they called it a cut-throat razor as he watched the blood slowly congealing on the metal. The doorbell rang. A continuous, insistent ring. Angrily he wiped away the bloodstain, then, glancing at the untidiness of the room, went to see who the unexpected caller was. 'Oh, it's you.' His tone was gruff, almost aggressive, and the door remained barely open to the caller. 'Can I come in?' The young man's tone was polite but insistent. ' I must talk to you, George. It's important.' 'Don't you think --' began George, but before he could finish the door was barged open and the razor grabbed from his hand. 'What the hell do you --' 'Don't be an idiot, George! She's not worth it!' For a moment there was a look of restrained defiance in George's eyes, then slowly he stepped aside and let the unexpected visitor in. The two men faced each other, uncertain about the next move. Then Michael asked, 'Where's Mary? Is she all right?' George saw the apprehension in the man's face but said nothing. 'I guess she told you about us? She threatened to tell you everything. Or at least everything that could hurt you and make you despise me. Make me sound like a real bastard, which I guess I am.' He waited for some comment. None came. 'Look, I'm sorry it happened. It was a lousy thing to do, especially to someone who helped me get a job. But these things happen. Particularly with someone like Mary.' 'Yes,' answered George. 'I suppose she is rather attractive.' 'She's a cow! And it's about time you knew it.' With difficulty George held his temper. Normally he would have beaten hell out of anyone who said that of his wife, but there was no point now. He just sat and waited. Waited for the other man to continue. 'I'm not the first, you know,' said Michael quietly. 'There were others before me. Quite a line up. Mary would boast about them and about the way she'd fooled you for the past five years. She's a bitch, George. A first class bitch! Vicious. Selfish. Sadistic. And the sad thing is that everyone knew about it except you.' George smiled, a defeated smile. 'Yes, that's really sad. You live with someone for years; you know what flowers she likes, what perfume she wears, even which toothpaste she uses. A thousand stupid little things, but you don't know anything important, really important -- like her taste in lovers.' The tension between the two men was gradually being replaced by a feeling of mutual despair; as if the husband had finally realised the truth about his wife and no longer saw the point in pretending, and the lover was too ashamed to hide things any more. 'You might as well know everything,' said Michael. 'No doubt my version is quite a bit different from your wife's, but that's for you to judge.' George made no move to stop him, so the young man continued. 'It started about three months ago. Mary had just dropped Martin Roberts and was looking for another pastime. And I was it. Don't get me wrong. I'm no saint. I only needed one invitation; that was enough. And at first it was fun. Being with her while you were beavering away in the office. "Poor old Georgy ," she'd say, "made you a partner in the firm and now you're making it with his partner. Gives a whole new meaning to executive perks." And she'd laugh. That cruel laugh.' George stared at the man, unable to accept the full meaning of his words as Michael continued, 'I'm sorry, George. But that's how it was. At least until I began to realise just what sort of a person Mary really is.' 'And how is it now?' 'Over. We're through. Maybe it was conscience, or maybe I just got scared. Or maybe I got sick and tired of her mean, sadistic ways. Who knows? But what I do know is that in the past few weeks I've grown to despise her and everything she stands for. Sometimes I feel I could gladly cut her throat!' George automatically looked at the razor resting on the table, cold and brilliant, while he waited for Michael to continue. 'Last night she came to my apartment. We had a row. I told her we were finished. But she wouldn't accept it. Called me a fool; said no one ever walked out on her. Threatened to tell you everything if I didn't continue with the affair. So I threw her out.' 'And she came back to me. Back to dear, old, reliable Georgy.' There was a pause; neither man knowing what to say next. 'What are you going to do?' asked Michael. 'What would you do?' 'Divorce her.' 'Or kill her?' 'Don't be stupid. She's not worth it.' 'Maybe -- but you don't love her, do you? Not any more.' There was no real answer to that, and George noticed how the other man's eyes searched the room looking for some trace of his ex-mistress. 'You're sure she's all right? George smiled. 'Don't you believe me? Do you think I've done it already?' He hesitated. 'Take a look for yourself. Look in the lounge, the kitchen -- or the bedroom. I'm sure you must know where that is by now.' The venom in his words made Michael hesitate, unsure what to do next. Eventually he turned and walked towards the front door, opened it, then, looking back over his shoulder, said quietly, 'I guess there's no point saying I'm sorry? Anyway, you don't have to worry about me anymore. I'm leaving the company. Got a chance of a job in The States. New job. New life.' He waited for some reaction. None came. George seemed to be in a world of his own; far, far away. Even after the door had closed on his adversary, his eyes continued to stare at the two dark stains on the toe of his shoe; two almost perfect rings of congealed colour. 'George, darling, what are you doing? What are you staring at?' The voice disturbed him. 'What? Oh, nothing, Mary. I didn't hear you come in.' He looked at her for a moment. 'How are you feeling?' 'Still a bit hazy. Stupid thing to do. I'm not the fainting sort. But you know how the sight of blood always affects me. I wish you'd be more careful when you're shaving.' 'I'm sorry. I managed to stop the cut bleeding but forgot about the blood in the wash-basin. I'm sorry, Mary.' 'Oh, don't keep apologising. The damage is done now.' 'Yes -- Yes, it is.' For some reason the words and the way he said them disturbed her. 'I thought I heard voices when I was in the bedroom. Were you talking to someone?' 'Yes -- Yes, Michael dropped in.' 'Michael Saunders?' 'Yes.' 'He's always dropping in.' 'I thought you liked him?' ''Just because I'm polite to your colleagues doesn't mean I like them. Actually I think he's a bit of a prig. Bored me stiff last night.' 'You didn't tell me you saw him last night.' 'Didn't I? We just happened to meet and he invited me for a drink.' She paused, watching her husband carefully. 'What did he want?' 'Just to tell me something. Nothing important.' She smiled with relief. 'Poor old Georgy. No one ever tells him anything important, do they?' Her hand patted his cheek, like an unconcerned aunt consoling her nephew. 'Isn't it about time you finished dressing? We're late enough and you know what that bitch Stella is like if you're late for one of her boring parties' Turning, she walked back towards her bedroom. Even in the privacy of her own home her walk had that same suggestive, inviting movement of the hips. Suddenly those hips -- those sensuous hips -- stopped and she turned to face her husband. 'Don't tell me you're still shaving?' she said with annoyance. 'Surely you've finished with this by now?' In her hand she held the razor, the gleaming cut-throat razor, from which light was reflected on to her pale, slender neck. 'No,' he said thoughtfully. 'No, I haven't -- not quite.' ©James Wood 1995 |
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