No-one was more shocked by the sudden death of Dessie Reilly than his wife, Biddy; even as she stood over his twisted body, blood dripping onto the lino from the chef’s knife in her hand.
“It’s only me!” the singsong voice came a second after the front door opened and slammed shut and just before Joan McGuire came face to face with a scene she had never expected to see in her neighbour’s kitchen.
“Jesus! Biddy! What the… what the fuck have you done?!” Joan fell to her knees, slipping in the congealing pool of Dessie’s blood, pressing her hands onto the puncture wound in his throat. Her face was contorted in shock and horror as she looked up at her friend, still standing there, motionless, holding the knife.
“BIDDY!” she screamed, “BIDDY!?”
Joan knew he was gone; there was too much blood and her fingers could detect no pulse under his unnaturally white skin.
Pulling herself up from the floor, her knees sticky with Dessie’s blood, she stood eye to eye with Biddy, although Biddy’s eyes were clouded over and staring down at her husband’s corpse.
One last hiss, “Biddy!” and Joan struck, leaving a crimson handprint on the other woman’s cheek, finally snapping her out of her stupor.
Biddy dropped the knife and began to cry.
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