The television played a slow-motion shot of a fielder sprinting to catch the ball. As he ran across the pitch, his hands cupped, the telecast cut to his wife sitting in the stands, her face taut in anticipation, her fists balled tightly. It cut back to the player who caught the ball and fell down, rolling to safety. A split second later, he stood up, holding the ball over his head, waving his arm in triumph.
Madhu slapped his knee and yelled, “YES!”
In his excitement, he ended up spilling some of his drink. The floor would be sticky tomorrow. He knew she would hate to clean it up.
He hadn’t noticed her yet. She had been careful to keep her movements quiet. She stood there, holding a knife that she’d brought from the kitchen.
He poured more rum into his glass and then reached for the water bottle lying on the floor next to him. He topped it off with water, his hands shaking slightly as he did it. He was too drunk to defend himself properly. The pills she had mixed into his biryani had started working. She could do this. She could. And just as he was about to place the bottle back down, she raised her arms over her head and brought the knife down into his back.
Her hands were trembling, and she wasn’t as strong as she needed to be. The knife hit something, probably a bone, and didn’t go in fully. He let out a gasp, followed by a gurgling sound, and turned to look at her. She squeaked in fear and pushed the knife down harder, biting her lip to keep from screaming.
“You bitch,” he slurred, reaching out to grab her. She took a few steps back. “I knew it, I knew…” A bit of saliva dribbled down the corner of his mouth and he swallowed. He was going to throw up, she was sure of it.
“Bitch…” he said again, after a beat. This time it came out more like a moan, like the alcohol was no longer numbing his pain. As he tried standing, she desperately moved her hand behind her back, trying to get a hold of the balcony door. If the plan didn’t work out, she could always jump from the balcony. Their flat wasn’t high enough, but what other choice did she have? She had already provided for Priyanka.
He was stumbling towards her now, using the sofa for support.
She finally found the handle and unlatched the door to the balcony. She took a deep breath and stepped out. He lunged at her, but his shirt got caught on the pointed backrest of the sofa. This made him angrier and he swung back to try and free himself. But he turned too fast, too wildly, and ended up stumbling and falling on his back.
There was just a small, strangled sob. And then, silence. The sticky night air gently blew around her as she stood on the balcony, unsure if she was safe.
It was only when she heard the sound of laughter and the loud cricket commentary from the floor above that she took a deep breath and relaxed. She stepped back into the house and looked at his chest to check if he was breathing. He wasn’t. His shirt’s ends fluttered gently in the breeze that blew in from the balcony door, but other than that there was no movement.
He was gone.
The fall must have done the trick, driving the knife further into his back. She had to work quickly.
She stepped around him and surveyed the scene. It looked normal, except for the blood on the floor. She avoided touching him, in case he suddenly got up. She wouldn’t put it past him; he had a knack for showing up when he wasn’t wanted.
She went into the kitchen, put the remaining biryani back into the fridge and cleaned the counter. She grabbed a glass and poured some alcohol into it, making sure to wipe the glass clean with a small towel. Then she went to the bedroom and took out his spare phone from its hiding place, using the same towel.
Going back to the living room, she stood over him. He was definitely dead; his chest wasn’t moving at all. There was no way he was still breathing. It seemed safe for her to unlock his phone, just as she had done on the night she first found out what he was up to.
That night, when she had seen the pictures and the messages, she’d dropped the phone and run to the bathroom to vomit. But today she had steeled herself for it. She had to make sure no one else saw them. She used the towel to hold his finger to unlock the phone and proceeded to delete the entire chat. Then she put the phone away back in its hiding place.
His actual phone, the one he took everywhere, was charging near the TV. Its twelve per cent battery would run out soon. She yanked the wire out and put it on the counter. She made sure she didn’t leave her fingerprints anywhere.
Excerpted with permission from The Accused, Vasundhara, Westland.
