Lindsey Chalmers, Redux

Mary's husband is acting differently. Is it really him?

Written for the 30 Days of Fright writing challenge, Day 18.

Every evening at five o'clock, Lindsey Chalmers left his workplace and drove home. Usually, depending on the traffic, he would arrive at his home within forty-five minutes.

Mary Chalmers eyed the clock. By mutual agreement, if he was not home by then, she could call him, on the understanding that he might not be able to answer his phone. She called him. He didn't answer his phone. She tapped her foot. Dinner had to wait until Daddy got home, unless he called and said otherwise.

George and Linda kept looking around from their places at the dining table, which had been laid to her husband's exact specifications. Their bodies and legs faced forward, as good children should. They understood the importance of obedience as well as their mother did.

‘He doesn't need to know if I give them a snack,’ she thought, allowing the rebellious thought to percolate through her mind. A glance around from the doorstep convinced her that no harm would be done if they had a biscuit each. Canny shopping had allowed her to save a bit of housekeeping money for ‘emergency supplies’ like this. Lindsey didn't approve of biscuits, but he didn't need to know about these ones.

One more check at the doorstep for a glimpse of a dark blue hatchback told her he was not near enough to catch her. She scurried up to her bedroom, dropped to her knees, and opened the divan drawer. Wrapped in a duvet was the Emergency Box, which contained two packets of biscuits, one of which was sealed with an elastic band. Beneath the divan drawer itself was the burner phone she kept for the day when she would take the kids and leave this semi-detached suburban reeducation camp. She pulled the drawer all the way out to make sure it was still there. It was. She slid the drawer back and, after wrapping the biscuits in a paper tissue, she scampered downstairs. No sign of Lindsey.

She looked outside again. No sign of Lindsey.

‘Take one each,’ she said to the children, ‘and eat them quickly.’ She watched them swallow the contraband with the same guilty relish that she felt when checking her secret bank account's balance. It was growing slowly, but it was growing.

She checked the clock. Six twenty-eight. Lindsey would have called by now.

Mary went to the daily calendar checklist he had made for her, which was divided into 15 minute intervals and noted the number of times she had called to find out where he was. Then she called him. Straight to voicemail again.

At six forty-five she called him again, and at seven o'clock. Then she served dinner.

The children were in bed eight phone calls later, and she had not heard from Lindsey. A thought drove right into her, as wicked as a passionate fling with a stranger: what if he had been in an accident? It walloped her again, stealing her breath away in its impertinence: what if he was dead? While she needed a breadwinner, she ached to get out of the long skirts and crisp white cotton blouses he insisted she wore every day. To walk around in jeans and a t-shirt would be bliss! To swap her low court shoes for trainers or heels—that would be a pleasure beyond the one he permitted her. Mary's heart fluttered at the thought of being free of his overbearing control. Nonetheless, she was a wife and mother; all her motherly duties having been discharged, it was time to be a wife.

The police assured her that there had been no road traffic accidents or serious crimes in the area. The hospitals had no record of a Lindsey Chalmers having been admitted that day. Where was he? While the thought of being free excited Mary, the uncertainty of his whereabouts was driving her to distraction. She had to know, so she could either slip back into the prescribed routine or plan a life without him.

It was just after ten o'clock when the sound of a key turning in the lock drew her attention to the front door.

10:07.

Lindsey Dean Chalmers had been known to sit in his car in the driveway just so he could come through the door when the minute hand was on the 12, 3, 6, or 9 of their old living room clock. She ran to the door, not knowing what to expect when it opened.

There stood Lindsey Dean Chalmers, as she lived and… fell.

She came to on the sofa, sitting with her head between her knees. Slowly, she sat up.

He had his hand on her shoulder. He was going to ‘show her something,’ which was usually followed by a cold silence that could last for hours, depending on the severity of the infraction. This would be followed by a lecture on Why He Was Right, which always lasted until he was satisfied that she would Never Do It Again. Lindsey Dean Chalmers was always right, without a shadow of a doubt. She looked warily at her master; she couldn't think of him in any other terms.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked, his baritone voice soft with concern. “You gave me a fright!”

Since when had Lindsey ever been given a fright by her being unconscious? This was the man who had beaten her senseless, then thrown a bucket of water over her, the first and only time she had tried to walk out on him. Mary eyed him suspiciously.

“I'll get you a brandy,” he said gently. Then he kissed her. A light peck on the forehead.

‘Somebody pinch me,’ she thought. ‘Lindsey has never loved or cared about me. He just wanted a slave.’ And he never let her near the drinks cabinet, although he left it unlocked. One of his weekly routines was to check the levels of the bottles he kept there. Why was he being so nice?

Mary sipped her brandy. Nothing untoward happened.

The following day, he picked up the children and cuddled them when they came into the kitchen. He helped to make the breakfast. His whole family looked incredulously at him. Lindsey ignored the looks and carried on.

Lindsey 2.0 continued to surprise and delight his wife. He asked for her opinion, tore the checklists off the kitchen wall, and asked if she had considered working part-time now that the children were in secondary school. The constant checking and surveillance was replaced with trust and spending time together. He had never taken an interest in her before.

Mary spent the entire week in a daze. The pedantic tyrant had apparently been killed and hollowed out by a new benign being who wore his skin like a Saville Row suit. It was hard to get used to. He was interested in everything about her, not to control her, but to empower her. When he gave her the keys to the car, she nearly fainted again.

As she turned out of the driveway, Mary mused on the events of the last few days. She drove to a park on the other side of town, then went inside, found an empty bench, and sat down to think.

She had hated life with Lindsey, but there was a part of her that wanted him back. Why? Because I got used to it.

Her new man, Lindsey Redux, as she had mentally dubbed him, was the polar opposite. The last thing she had wanted, when plotting to leave The Master the day before The Change, was a new relationship. But here it was and it was wonderful. So why do I feel like I'm cheating on my husband? Because Lindsey Redux is the gentle, sensitive husband I've always dreamed of?

The one thing she was afraid to do was the one thing she knew she had to: find out what had prompted The Change. But what if that brings The Master back?

After thinking through it for a while, Mary decided that, on balance, she'd be better off not asking questions. Yes, she would fully and completely accept him, no questions asked. Decision made, she picked up a few groceries, and returned.

That weekend was the most wonderful, glorious time she'd ever had. They bought a tent and went camping, laughing and playing as much as their unshackled kids did.

On Monday evening, Lindsey's key turned in the door at a quarter to six.

“Hi, Lindsey,” Mary called from the kitchen.

“Mary.”

She knew that tone. That tone. The one that bored a hole in her confidence and warned her that there would be Consequences. She turned the hob off and turned to face him. He was pinning a checklist to the noticeboard. “I gave you a week of the spontaneity you craved, and discipline completely broke down,” he said. “I know you find it rigid and uncomfortable at times, but the benefit of a disciplined life is order. We have tried doing things your way, and I think we can agree it doesn't work.”

It was a test? All that lovey-dovey kind-and-gentle husband behaviour was just an act? To prove that he was right to be such a tyrant all the time?

She stood by the stove with terror settling upon her like snowflakes. Her fear grew incrementally as Lindsey completed each step of the dance. She watched him write “Failed!” in two of the fifteen minute sections. Mary knew from experience which infractions they were: the children were not at the table and they were not sitting straight up looking forwards, as they should have been at that time. The next step was to put a hand on her shoulder, then push her firmly towards the checklist and ask her to explain why she had failed this Very Simple Task. A lecture would follow, after which he would give her five minutes to get back on schedule. Then The Silence would fall, during which she was expected to sit in the dining room, at the table, until he said she could leave it.

The Master had not just returned—he had never left. How could she have missed this?

He turned towards her while pocketing the red felt tip pen, then took a step forward.

And twirl.

She snatched up the saucepan and flung the boiling pasta full in his face.

He yelped in surprise, then screamed, staggering backwards.

She took the biggest knife and plunged it right into his chest, over and over again till the screaming stopped.

Mary Chalmers, husband-killer, aged thirty seven, knelt on the twitching corpse of her husband, shaking with horror at what she had done. She let the knife drop and clatter on the floor.

The kids were out at a neighbour's house for tea; they'd be back at half past eight. Her heart was hammering frantically in her chest. She'd have to get rid of it.

She took a deep breath. The sickly-sweet smell of boiled pork mixed with sweat and mid-priced aftershave filled her nostrils. She got up, staggered to the sink, and puked in it. She glanced blearily at the clock. Two and a half hours. She could do this.

Thankful that she had three identical skirts and blouses, Mary packed the biggest suitcase with Lindsey, who was easier to carry dismembered than whole. She shoved it in the garage for now. By twenty past eight, the kitchen was spotless and she had called his mobile phone seven times. As she made her way to the front door, she remembered the checklist. She tore it off the wall and threw it into the bin. One last look in the mirror. She looked like the old-fashioned housewife she had been for the last fourteen years. Now she had only to act the part for long enough to get away with murder.

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This story is part of a series:

Lindsey Chalmers: Remains | Lindsey Chalmers, Reborn | Lindsey Chalmers: Home At Last

If you, or someone you know, is experiencing domestic violence or abuse, and you live in the UK, go to the Refuge website to find out what to do.