Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Bit of a Mess

"Get out of it, you little bastard," Bernard cursed as he paced the room, rolled-up newspaper in hand: a thin, balding Nemesis on a quest for vengeance.
"I'll get you yet, you filthy creature," he hissed, as his target winged away unconcernedly from his umpteenth attempt to end its odious existence.

It was the biggest fly he had ever seen, with huge multifaceted eyes, glistening wings, and of such an iridescent blue-green colour it was almost beautiful. However, Bernard was in no mood to appreciate the wonders of nature; he only wanted to flatten the repulsive insect to pulp.

Precariously balanced on one leg atop the coffee table, he made a desperate lunge for the insect that he had stealthily stalked to its present resting place, a corner of the ceiling, where it was calmly preening itself. His improvised weapon struck the wall nanoseconds after the object of his attack gracefully exited the scene of intended carnage. The force of his blow was such that it unsteadied Bernard's already tenuous equilibrium. The frail table teetered momentarily on one strained leg, instilling for a heart-stopping instant the vain hope that he would escape the imminent fall to earth that threatened. Alas, with a protesting creak and a relieved crack, the table leg splintered, tumbling its unaccustomed burden to a sudden, painful landing on the base of his spine.

Waves of nausea rolled over Bernard as his vertebra sent messages of agony to his brain; sweat spouted from his brow as he sat in undignified torment amid the wreckage of a once elegant piece of furniture.

Upon opening his eyes as his suffering eased, the first thing to greet his pained vision was his enemy, perched on the windowsill in front of him rubbing its forelegs together in evident enjoyment of his predicament. Ignoring the outcry of his bruised body, Bernard sprang forward intent on squashing the fly with the palm of his hand. He lunged, flattened hand outstretched, only for his momentum to send him sliding across the now sloping tabletop. With a dull, tear-jerking thud the bridge of his nose made sudden and unceremonious contact with the now flyless windowsill.

Collecting what remained of his senses, he picked himself up and staggered off in defeat to his armchair to lick his wounds: a swollen, throbbing nose, twisted ankle, grazed forearm and, most painful of all, a crushed spirit. Picking a splinter of the table from his hand, he slouched disconsolately in the chair; the despised insect humming happily as it described circles around him. Although it appeared to him that the hateful insect was eager to continue the entertainment, that it was purposely tormenting him and even inviting further attacks, Bernard had no will left to mount another assault. He had been hunting the horrible thing for over an hour now with equally little success. The fly, on the other hand, had become so confident in its ability to evade him, it had taken to making kamikaze-like flights within Bernard's reach, even on occasion landing on various parts of his body. Yet no matter how craftily he had pursued his quarry, Bernard had yet to make a kill.

As he sat in misery, occasionally swatting half-heartedly at the fly's more outrageous incursions, he morosely pondered his life. There were just three things on this earth that he detested: untidiness, dirt and flies. Until a short time ago he and his surroundings had been immaculately clean and tidy; the house had exuded cleanliness. Not a thing had been out of place, and flies visited only briefly, soon leaving in disgust upon discovering the all-pervading hygiene. Then Mary, his wife, had left him, and all that had changed. Before that traumatic day he had lived in a world of scrupulously spick-and-span order, the merest speck of dirt anathema to him.

His father had died soon after he was born, of a protracted case of malaria, contracted while working on a new railway in India. His mother, associating both the disease and the country with uncleanliness and poverty, always having being a house-proud woman, became more so. She became so obsessed with protecting Bernard, her only child, on whom she doted, from filth and germs, that she spent almost every waking hour cleaning and recleaning her already spotless house and son. The scent of disinfectants, cleaning preparations, soap and polish accompanied him all the time, so much so that the outside fresh air almost smelled unnatural to him.

It would not be to put too fine a point on it to say that Bernard's mother wrapped him in cotton wool and smothered him in affection. She would not allow him to leave the house without first making sure that he was scrubbed clean and dressed in freshly laundered clothes. Upon returning home he would be made to remove all his clothing, bathe and don a set of newly washed garments. His food was presented to him on gleaming china, to be eaten with glistening cutlery, the food itself painstakingly ridded of all possible contamination. After meals he would immediately have to scrub his teeth of any remaining morsel, then rinse his mouth with antiseptic wash. His mother would stand over him to ensure his ablutions were carried out to her high standards. Even when he had to use the toilet she would be there, disinfectant in hand, ready to sterilise the bathroom of infection. In short, his perhaps over-loving, overprotective mother went to the greatest lengths to prevent his father's fate from befalling Bernard.

Under these circumstances it is surprising Bernard was ever allowed to come into contact with anyone outside the home. Somehow though, he met, fell in love with and eventually became engaged to Mary, a neat, clean-living girl, thoroughly approved of by his mother. When his mother died of bronchitis, probably aggravated by the fumes of the various cleansing preparations she breathed constantly, Bernard and Mary decided to marry and set up home together in the house he had lived all his life in.

By now himself obsessed with the hatred of dirt and disorder his mother had inculcated in him, he insisted at all times their home be spotlessly clean. His mother had never allowed her son to soil his hands; preferring to do all the cleaning herself to further protect her precious boy, so it seemed only natural to Bernard his new wife should take over his mother's role.

Mary was very meek and servile, not for her the modern trend of equality between man and woman. She had had an old fashioned upbringing that had instilled a belief that women were inferior to men; that the female should cater to the needs of the male. Her marriage vow to love, honour and obey was sincerely meant. She saw her wifely duty as one of subservience to her husband. He was the breadwinner, the one who braved the world and went out to work each day to earn the means of providing for her. It was her side of the bargain to stay at home to cook and clean for him, and she did this, happy in the knowledge that she was a good, faithful spouse.

It was Mary's hope that one day they would have children to complete her picture of the ideal marriage. However, she did not like to press Bernard on this subject, as he disliked children on the grounds that they were 'too messy.' Indeed, they rarely indulged in the act necessary for the production of offspring for the same reason, the stains on the bed linen being abhorrent to her husband. This to such an extent, that after their infrequent dalliances in such activities Bernard would insist that they get out of bed, no matter the hour, to enable Mary to change the sheets.

Because of Bernard's dominant character and her own mild nature, Mary complied with her husband's desires. She uncomplainingly cleaned and scrubbed until the house sparkled brightly. She swept, mopped, washed, polished, disinfected and deodorised from top to bottom, then started all over again. Rather like a painter of the Forth Bridge, her work was never ending. She spent all her day, apart from necessary excursions to the shops for food and cleaning materials, in constant war upon dirt. Armed with dusters, brushes and multifarious cleansing agents, she patrolled the house in search of grime; cleaning and recleaning already gleaming surfaces, never allowing dust and dirt the opportunity to settle in any nook or cranny; all in vain attempt to please the husband she dearly loved.

As in the case of Bernard's mother before her, all this sanitary activity took its toll on Mary's health and appearance. A pretty, frail little girl when she married Bernard, the constant contact with bleaches and other powerful preparations had adverse effects on her delicate constitution. Her face and hands became red and blotchy, the flesh dry and cracked. The eternal bending and kneeling induced a stoop to her back. She developed a nagging cough. Her time being filled with care for the house and her husband; she neglected her own looks. Her prettiness faded away. She bore all this without a murmur: she adored her husband and would do anything for him. That his respect for her seemed to wane as time went by in direct proportion to his increasing obsessive dislike of dirt, she tried to ignore. As far as she was concerned, as long as she remained a loyal and dutiful spouse, then all was sure to come out in the wash, so to speak.

Bernard interrupted his musings to throw a framed wedding photograph that had previously rested on the defunct coffee table in the general direction of the fly, which had become more impertinent in its violation of his territory. The silver and glass cased memory of a happier day crashed against the wall, feet away from its intended objective, which blithely buzzed off to alight on the sideboard, where it sat and stared at him with, to Bernard's mind, an expression of amusement on its vile face.

"Leave me alone, you disgusting beast," he snarled at the uncaring insect as he rose from the chair and crossed the room. Picking up the photograph, he separated it from the remains of its frame. "It's your fault things're like this, you ungrateful bitch. If you were still here, I wouldn't be living in this squalor," he said to the smiling face of his wife in the picture.

He looked around the room; at the dust on the sideboard; at the fly happily wallowing in it; at the broken table; the upset ornaments; the stains in the carpet; the grimy windows; the filthy curtains; the long-dead flowers in the vase on the once-shiny-screened TV. As his eyes absorbed the degeneration of his surroundings, he sobbed while his hands mechanically tore the photograph of happy faces in wedding dress, the resulting scraps of paper falling to the floor to join the accumulated jumble there.

He could not recall when things had begun to change. Now he considered it, he realised it was true that he had become increasingly demanding in matters of hygiene as his marriage had progressed. As his insistence upon spotless conditions had grown more exaggerated, so it had seemed his wife's attention to his wants diminished, as if she could no longer cope with her duties. He would arrive home from his work as a manager at White's, a high quality tailors, to discover that when he ran his fingers over tops of doors, under the cooker, behind pictures and other hidden areas, they would come away bearing traces of dirt. He became more and more angry; she had so far always been so diligent, so unremitting in her efforts to maintain the house as he decreed. He ranted and raved at her, compelled her to reclean the offending sites, which she did with tears in her eyes, as he watched over her, making certain the task was accomplished to his satisfaction.

As Mary's looks deteriorated he began to treat her with much less affection; to even regard with distaste her unkempt appearance; her ragged hair; her spotty skin; her work-worn clothes; the tired, harried look on her face. Their already rare lovemaking became non-existent; they ceased to go out together; he seldom spoke to her any more, except to complain about some imagined stain. Indeed, he treated her more as a housemaid, a mere drudge, than a wife and partner.

As his ardour for his wife decreased, so his passion for cleanliness and order magnified. He would regularly search the house for signs of dirt, real or otherwise, which, if found, he would have Mary dispose of. Every surface had to emit a pristine glow; every object and ornament had to be arranged with military precision, lined up in regimented ranks; the furniture in exactly the right place; the books in alphabetical sequence on their shelves; the very cleaning tools and materials properly arranged in their correct cupboards. He scoured every room for the merest suspicion of contamination, for any object not in its designated position, and woe betide Mary if his search was successful.

Mary bore this progressively more manic behaviour stoically and patiently. It did not occur to her to defy her husband, though often she privately wept bitterly in sheer frustration at being unable to please him, no matter how hard she tried. She had wedded Bernard for better or worse and accepted her lot with resignation, not realising that there should be more to married life, to life itself, than her sheltered upbringing and insular partnership had so far shown her.

Bernard lashed out at the insistent fly, which had just alighted on his leg, succeeding only in giving himself a resounding slap as it once more evaded his clutches.

He strode to the kitchen, opened the cupboard under the sink. "Where's that blasted fly spray?" he muttered to the depths of the cupboard as he flung bottles and boxes to the floor. "I know there was one. I can never find anything in this house."

The fly, like a faithful dog, had followed him and was cheerfully dive-bombing him as he sat on the floor amid the litter of his fruitless search for an effective weapon. He snatched a plastic bottle of window cleaner and hurled it at the source of his irritation but his aim was way off. The flimsy container splattered against a corner of the refrigerator; its top flew off, spraying its contents over a large area of wall and fridge door, from where it dribbled slowly like mucus to form a green, scented puddle on the tiled floor. The fly drifted over to investigate the mess, but finding nothing of interest, droned casually back to the lounge.

Bernard continued to sit on the cold, hard tiles, his head in his hands, his thoughts going back to what he now knew to be the turning point in his relationship with Mary.

He had only been marginally aware of their new neighbours at first: he avoided too much contact with the outside world, as it was not clean enough for his taste. The house next door had been vacant for a while and had become quite run-down - much to his displeasure. When his wife mentioned that someone had moved in, his only interest was that now perhaps the place would get tidied up. This did not happen, however - if anything, the house became more disreputable. Rubbish was thrown into the unkempt garden, dirty curtains were put up at the grimy windows and the peeling paintwork continued to peel. His hopes of an improved neighbourhood were dashed.

The occupants themselves, as Bernard discovered when he took to mounting long vigils at the window hidden behind the drapes, concerned that their slumminess might somehow infect his own property, were to his eyes a perfect match for their surroundings. The husband was a rough, unshaven, scruffy young specimen with tattooed arms, while his partner Bernard could only describe as a slut. She had bleached hair, exotic make-up, wore tiny skirts and revealing tops. She seemed to take a delight in flaunting herself. Indeed, she appeared to sense his constant observation and to take this as lustful interest on his part, for with a brazen, defiant look on her face she would often pointedly stretch or bend in his direction in such a way as to display greater proportions of her body. This much to Bernard's disgust - as if he was the slightest bit interested in spying her admittedly attractive charms!

He had little to do with the new neighbours, apart from his curtain-guarded observance of the worsening condition of the adjacent property and the outrageous exposure of the woman of the house. Mary, however, at first unknown to him, became extremely friendly with the slatternly wife, to such an extent that while Bernard was at work she spent greater and greater amounts of time in the company of the woman, either in her own home, or more often, next door.

Mary became mesmerised by the other woman; their completely opposite personalities seemed to draw her like a magnet. Where she was the loyal, faithful, house-proud wife, a believer in the sanctity of marriage, attentive to the desires of her husband, even fearing of him, Lynn, the neighbour, was totally the reverse. She and her untidy spouse believed in open marriage: extramarital affairs were encouraged rather than frowned upon. Lynn was very highly sexed: maintaining that her other half could not cater for her manifold needs.

"So what if I have a little nooky on the side?" she would say, a mischievous gleam in her eye, "It makes life more interesting, and it doesn't hurt Georgie. Anyway, he's got plenty of bits on the side of his own - the randy sod!"

A major part of Lynn's conversation revolved around sex and men: she was fascinated by both topics. Mary's sexuality had rarely been given the opportunity of showing itself. What little experience she had had in that department - infrequent, rapid, mechanical operations, that she had come to regard as somehow dirty - had rarely satisfied her. Although there had been occasions when an unfamiliar spark had been kindled in her: quickly to be doused by her own embarrassment and Bernard's disgust before it was allowed to burn into flame. She was not aware until Lynn came along, with her endless talk of her own experiences, that there could be more to the sex act than a covert fumbling, an empty feeling, and a visit to the airing cupboard for fresh bedding.

As for household chores: what was a little mess here and there? A quick flick round with a duster now and then was good enough for Lynn. Life was too much fun to waste time cleaning up. Besides, what was the point, anyway? Everything just got mucky again.

Her new friend's attitude to life and marriage came as a revelation to Mary. Her childhood education and her time with Bernard had led her to suppose that her sole aim in life was merely to be a good and dutiful wife, caring only for her husband and home. It had never occurred to her that it was possible to have an existence - a life - of her own, let alone one that contained excitement and enjoyment.

Mary was an impressionable woman, quite malleable and gullible, easily led by those stronger than she. Over the years Bernard had shaped her into his idea of the perfect little wife and mother substitute. Perhaps if she had not come into contact with the outside world in the shape of the new neighbours, she would have remained so: a diligent, if unsatisfied, doting wife. However, Lynn's bubbly, outgoing character and the delights of which she persuasively spoke: independence; freedom; excitement, turned her head. The frequent dwelling on matters carnal, too, awoke urges in her that may otherwise have remained dormant. Lynn felt sorry for her dowdy, naive friend and angry with her husband for keeping her a virtual prisoner in her own home. So much so, that she felt it incumbent upon herself to emancipate Mary from her bondage; her perpetual round of cleaning and washing, and teach her the ways of the world.

As the unlikely friendship developed, Mary spent less and less time in the pursuance of cleanliness and more in the company of Lynn. Of course, this very soon became apparent to Bernard, who no longer found it necessary to seek out dirt. The increasing negligence was all too obvious. His once immaculate abode soon began to lose its lustre. Waste bins overflowed, dust accumulated, bottles grew crusts around their necks, things were left lying about instead of being put back in their proper place. Bernard's clean orderly little world soon took on a similar uncared-for aspect to the house next door. It was almost as if his neighbour's neglect was spreading to his own home like some contagious disease.

Bernard rose from the floor and slouched back into the lounge, half-heartedly swatting in the general direction of the fly, which swooped over to greet his arrival. Surveying the squalid state of the room with dispirited eyes he went to the drinks cabinet, where he got himself a bottle of whisky and a large tumbler. Slumping in his chair, he poured a generous measure of the spirit, some of it dripping unregarded onto his already stained trousers, and mulled over the many rows on the declining standard of housekeeping that had ensued as her friend's influence upon Mary manifested itself.

At the start of the decline it had been relatively easy for Bernard to reconvert Mary back to the domestic paragon she had formally been. A few sharp words and she donned her apron and bustled off with her cleaning equipment, regretting her lapse. As time passed, however, and Lynn's hold on her became more pervasive, it was as if Mary gradually changed into a different person. Out went the docile, sweet-tempered little girl he had wed: in her place appeared a harder, more self-assured woman, almost the model of the woman next door. No longer was he able to control her; dictate to her; tell her how to behave, dress and look. Instead, now when he criticised her on the condition of the house, on her patent disregard of his demands; rather than timidly accepting his reproach, then doing his bidding, she was more likely to throw the cleaning implements at him and tell him to do it himself, then storm off next door.

The house became more rundown and shoddy. Grime accumulated everywhere. As his home degenerated, so his wife bloomed, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. No more the dowdy, plain girl of old. She no longer wore the drab, unflattering clothes he preferred. She took to wearing more revealing, sexier garments, ones that displayed a lithe, sensuous body until then hidden. Her hair was tinted and styled; she wore artfully applied make up and the scent of alluring perfume wafted from her instead of disinfectant. Bernard did not know her any more; it was as if a stranger had come to live with him. In truth, she frightened him. For, as her outward appearance changed, so too did her personality. From the shy, stay-at-home, obedient drudge and easily swayed, meek little housemaid, she became an independent, confident, attractive woman who stood up for herself. He was incapable of doing anything about it. She was not the girl he had married; he just did not know how to handle a woman like this.

Though he tried uselessly to forbid it, Mary took to going out with her friend to public houses and nightclubs; arriving back home at all hours of the night, while he waited, alone and worried, amid the settling dust of his changing life, frustrated and inadequate. On arriving home to find him faithfully waiting for her as she had once waited his own homecoming, she would taunt him for his fuddy-duddy ways, his obsessions and phobias and attack his very manliness. He suspected there were other men; indeed she hinted as much, but he dared not broach the subject, lest she confirm his fears and belittle him further. He was unable to cope with this new Mary; she made him feel small, impotent. His only hope was that the transformation was temporary; that it was only a passing phase that the old, tractable Mary he used to know would reappear.

Time went by, and Mary became to be more and more the mirror image of her friend, Lynn. Dreading losing her altogether, Bernard became the docile one. He fawned upon her, grovelled and sucked up to her, trailed her about the house like a lost dog. He plundered his savings to pour money on her, which she spent with avidity on new clothes, hairstyles and cosmetics. He did all he could to regain the woman he had known, but to no avail. It was as if they had exchanged personalities. Mary was now the dominant partner, he the submissive.

Bernard's distaste of uncleanliness and disorder still remained. His abhorrence was too inbred, too deep-seated to leave him even now. However, though it seemed that all the accumulated dirt of the years was gradually building up around him, as if it had just been waiting until now to descend upon him, he was powerless to do anything about it. The actual physical act of cleaning, the means by which he could rid himself of the distressingly mounting filth about him, was beyond him, alien to him. His wife had always seen to that kind of thing, and before her, his mother. He had never had to lift a finger to maintain the hygienic, sterile environment he had grown used to. There had always been a woman to scrub and polish for him. Now Mary had forsaken all interest in such pursuits - indeed, she was rarely in the home any more - he was completely lost, while the house got dirtier and dirtier. He felt as if he were drowning in a cesspool. It did occur to him to attempt the task himself, to do his own cleaning, but his unenthusiastic, spiritless efforts merely stirred up the dust instead of removing it, so he abandoned it in despair. He had become so accustomed to being mollycoddled; to assuming that housework was the sole province of womankind, that he could no more set to it than fly to the moon.

His grief over the change of his once dependable wife to the liberated woman who was only pleasant to him when she needed money and the loss of his spotlessly organised surroundings, affected him deeply. He still loved Mary in his way and could not bear the thought of losing her - or perhaps it was her housekeeping abilities he mourned the loss of. Whatever, the two situations combined made him bitter and morose.

His work suffered. Always a good timekeeper in the past, punctual and conscientious to a degree; he took time off, spending most of his days in bed, increasingly in the company of a bottle. He had not been previously a heavy drinker, rarely imbibing more than a glass on special occasions; now he took to alcohol like a drowning man to a life belt. He discovered that if he got himself sufficiently intoxicated he no longer noticed as much the state of his surroundings or dwelled too deeply on Mary's transformation.

Though drink granted him temporary absolution from his problem, it created more of its own. Under its influence for much of the time, his own appearance deteriorated along with that of his home. Unshaven and unwashed, no longer provided by Mary with a never-ending supply of freshly laundered clothing, he soon acquired the aspect of a man who had seen better days. The advancing shoddiness of his apparel, his uncared-for looks, the obvious indications of alcohol abuse, all rapidly became apparent to the other employees at White's on the rare occasions he deigned to go there. The junior staff, ever eager for promotion opportunities, soon made it known at head office that their manager was no longer setting the example expected of a man in his position. This, compounded by a slump in sales as customers drifted away to other shops where the staff presented more the kind of image they were seeking, led higher management to regretfully dispense with Bernard's services.

Taking a large gulp of whisky, Bernard sullenly eyed the bottle, the symbol of what had been the last nail in the coffin of his and Mary's relationship. With his job gone, and no money coming in, what little finances remaining going to fuel his growing dependence on alcohol, there was nothing left to keep Mary in the manner she was becoming accustomed to. It came as no great surprise therefore, when, upon stumbling from his bed late one morning, he discovered a terse note from his wife informing him that she had found someone else, had gone off with him and would not be coming back.

This event, though not entirely unexpected, completely devastated Bernard. Once (to his mind) a happily married man with a faithful, loving wife and a home that sparkled and gleamed; he, the epitome of a satisfied man, was reduced to living alone in this shambles; this filthy, neglected, befouled hovel; while his selfish wife was whoring with her fancy man.

As if conspiring to make his plight worse, the council dustmen were currently engaged in their annual strike for higher pay. Uncollected rubbish was mouldering in the streets, alleys and gardens of the town, and this in the longest heat wave on record. Ideal conditions to spawn the plague of flies that presently besieged the community. Bernard's disgust of flies was prodigious. He loathed the garbage-seeking, ordure-eating creatures with all his heart. He could not bear them near him. Despite the high temperature and stifling atmosphere he kept the doors and windows firmly closed for fear that the repulsive insects might invade his home. How the monstrously large specimen that had tormented him for much of the day had gained ingress baffled him, it seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

His thoughts back on his adversary, he placed his unfinished glass on the floor beside the chair, rose and stealthily tiptoed across the floor to the sideboard. There, on the once highly polished; now dust layered wood, the fly was sampling one of several rings left by his whisky tumbler in recent days. He watched in disgust as it dipped its tubular proboscis in the sticky circle with evident relish. Seeing an opportunity to strike while the insect's attention was thus diverted, he slowly raised his hand with palm outspread, and then brought it down with murderous intent. The flat of his hand struck the wood with a satisfying slap, raising a small cloud of dust. With a surge of victory inflating his slight frame he lifted his fingers one by one, fully expecting to find the squashed remains of his foe imbedded in the sideboard. All he found was the imprint of his hand in the dust. He could not have missed it! He had taken such careful aim. How could it have evaded him?