Deadly Vintage

Deadly Vintage

...Later

Head sideways on the table, the bottle of wine looks as if it’s been glued at right angles to a cliff of very expensive mahogany from this angle. If I could move I’d finish the bloody thing now and be damned. No chance. My days of luxuries such as voluntary movement and breathing, it would seem, are soon to be behind me. Shame; I was rather enjoying the wine.

Hang on. Look. There’s my hand in front go my face, partially obscuring the booze. One finger is tapping out a random beat. I wonder…

With a bit of experimentation, I think I can get my Hand to crawl, crablike toward the beckoning booze…

While I do that (because, let’s face it, this is going to take a while), why don’t I regale you with the story of how I got this fucked up in the first place…

***

...Earlier

“Your favourite” she said placing what appeared to be a fine shiraz on the table between us, next to an already guttering candle.

“And for you, my dearest, a very dear Merlot, to which I know you are rather partial. Although honestly I can’t fathom what you see in the stuff, love.”

“Don’t call me ‘love’! It sounds common.”

“Just a little joke, my beautiful wife.”

She actually thought I meant it and smiled condescendingly. 

But really I didn’t fathom the Merlot thing at all. The exchanging of our favourite wines had become something of a tradition between us. But Merlot? It must be the single most hideous grape ever cultivated and frankly I resented splashing out on this particularly overpriced plonk. Still, needs must and all that. We had been married ten years. Ten long years. Not too long, mind. Nor too short. One wouldn’t want to raise suspicion after all. You see, in truth, it was time for the Old Girl to die and for me to inherit. Hence the enticingly expensive Merlot. It was very important that the Battle-Axe sampled this particularly deadly vintage. I had even thought about tampering with the Rat-Dog-Handbag-Mutt’s food. She insisted on carrying the thing around with her everywhere and it insisted on shagging my slippers on a regular basis (I didn’t, before you get all judgemental on me. I’m a murderer, not a monster. The Dog Rescue Centre would have to do for the little bastard. Especially as “he reminds me too much of my late wife (sniff…))”.

***

...Later

Made it! Christ that was exhausting. I’ve crab-crawled my hand all of eighteen inches but it feels like as many miles. And it’s fecking Merlot. I don’t even like Merlot! Needs must and all that. Am I repeating myself? Anyway the hand crawling was the easy bit. This next bit is the real bastard. I get a rather doubtful hold of the base of the bottle with my last working digits and attempt to move the damned thing into necking distance. Now this could be tricky. Where were we? Oh yeah…

***

...Earlier

Date Night (what a hideous concept) had been her idea of course. In truth, this was probably the first time we had actually had a proper date in all the years we had been together. Our courting had mostly been conducted at parties, fund-raisers and dinner parties. Well, we weren’t the most romantic couple in the world; she a politician and I a hack journalist. This was a way of “keeping the spark alight” apparently, (try not to vomit). As I said, it was her idea and the only sparks that came to my mind involved matches and petrol. Still, a couple of hours a week listening intently to her thoughts on immigration and how wonderful a job the Prime Minister was doing might keep the Old Girl at bay and shouting only at her harassed minions, while I hid in the den with a glass or two, my old record player and Mr Rachmaninoff, seemed worth the sacrifice. 

In truth, this marriage of convenience had become rather inconvenient. As I have found, at my own cost, when marrying for money, one would do well to consider the trials of actually living with your victim - sorry - “loved one”. These people aren’t simply bank accounts with a mouth watering amount of zeros and decimal points. They are people after all and whilst one may be forgiven for holding that against them on general principle, you would do well to set aside a beautiful set of accounts and find a target you can at least live with for a few years. Unfortunately this “one last job” (as they say in films) had rather got the better of me. Or rather, that alluring and beautiful investment portfolio had rather gotten the better of my judgment.

***

...Later

‘Strueth, that wasn’t easy. There were a couple of moments there when I honestly thought the game was up. The two fingered carry, did not work out well. All I succeeded in doing was to launch the half empty bottle into a sort of spinning top dance, revolving on the bottom edges of its’ base in a circle. I nearly shat myself. Actually, it’s not entirely certain that I haven’t - whatever is in my system has done such a sterling job of paralysing me that for all I know I may well have a full load down there. If the Old Girl, face down in her tortellini, opposite were not already dead, she’d be pissing herself laughing at me.

Anyway, on to nicer things.

By the time the bottle had finished trying to scare the crap out of me and was once again on an even keel and more importantly, not dancing around the bloody table, I had pretty much given up. So much for last requests eh?

Ah, though. On closer inspection, the bastard thing has only come to rest standing half on the cotton place setting. The same place setting my head is currently lying sideways on.

Things that make you go “hmmmmmmmmmm?”

***

...Earlier

  “Darling?”

“Hmm?”

“Do pay attention dear. Honestly It seems you are in a world of your own these days. I was saying I do hope that lovely Mr Rees-Mogg gets top job when Boris steps down - not that I wish for that anytime soon! There have been rumours though… ”

You see what I mean? The Insane Posh Bint had to go. Christ, I was performing a public service here! And to think this Dame had a seat in the House of Lords? And what for? Damned Tory donors… 

“Sorry love. I mean Darling. I always thought you were more partial to Ms Patel?” (Well, baiting the Old Racist was one of the few perks of the job).

“Huh! That Immigrant! Well, at least she reinstated the death penalty. And not just for murder!”

Not a subject I was entirely comfortable with. Change of topic, I think.

“So, dear. How were things in the Lords this week?” I asked pouring a generous glass of Merlot for her.

“Oh, I was barely in the Chamber. So many lobbyists to deal with. They patronise generously but really, I do wish they were of a higher class. I sometimes wonder if it’s worth the bother.” (Her voting record, however, begged to differ. Still, money is money. (You’d be surprised at the things people do for it!))

I took a good slug of my Shiraz. Hmmm. Very acceptable. Perhaps a little bitter if one were to be picky, but booze, at the end of the day, is booze.

“Well, darling, I shouldn’t expect the Party would accept her for PM either.”

“Perish the thought!”

“Yes, well. Quite.”

I seemed to be relaxing now that the Old Fascist had got stuck into the Merlot. Either that or the Shiraz was stronger than I thought.

***

...Later

With a monumental effort (really, there should be an award for this kind of ingenuity), I have managed to pull the bottle to me by eating the place setting. Not that there weren’t some dodgy moments when the bastard threatened to slide off the cotton mat. And yes, place settings really do taste disgusting. Especially this particularly unwashed example. I made a mental note to use cleaner settings next time I laid the ta- oh, yeah. Fuck.

***

...Earlier

The poison, carefully chosen (I have a lot of experience in these things) to provoke a heart attack and become untraceable in a matter of hours, would now be working its’ magic, coursing through those expensively furred arteries. After all, the Munter was always heading for heart failure (assuming she actually had one). I was merely moving her appointment with the Reaper forward. It wasn’t as if she would suffer. Well.. perhaps just a bit.

“Anyway, enough of politics dear.” Christ, the Merlot must be working as well. The Nazi seemed positively ebullient. “How are your investments going these days” she continued.

Odd question though.

“Oh, absolutely swimmingly” I lied.

Not that my ill-conceived dalliance with the ponies would be a problem for much longer.

“So. How’s the wine?” I asked, trying not to smirk. Bloody strong stuff, this Shiraz!

A frown crossed the Tory Lapdog’s expensively maintained face momentarily before clearing.

“It’s wonderful darling. And yours?” She giggled.

She never giggled. Very unusual behaviour. I put it down to the Vin du Poison.

“Well, slightly bitter but otherwise, very acceptable.”

She giggled again. She was also looking rather pale, come to think of it. Might have overdone it with the dosage. I inwardly berated myself - this was a rookie mistake. Well, at least the end wouldn’t be long.

***

...Later

Now for the tricky bit, the coup de gras. I’ve managed to crab walk my hand back to the base of the bottle in front of my face and have sought to get as good a grip on it as I can. Not a minute too soon either as the guttering candle finally gives up the ghost, leaving me in darkness. I wonder if I’ll ever see light again? Well, no. Obviously.

I apply my dying braincells to co-ordinating my remaining digits as I twist my head as much as I can until I am nearly facing upwards. I open my mouth and pushed the bottle over in what I hoped is the right direction.

Fuck me, it works! A couple or large mouthfuls splash into my mouth, perhaps more if I can raise the end of this bottle. The patron saint of murdering bastards must be looking out for me tonight! Or, come to think on it, perhaps not…

***

...Earlier 

I raised a glass, toasted the Dying Politician and went for a refill. Well, that was unexpected. I had finished the entire bottle of shiraz. I suppose, it was very warm in the room and I had been, and still was, extremely thirsty. Well, that was my excuse.

Seeing as how her death was nigh, so to speak, I indulged in a little more baiting.

“Of course I should warn you to lay off the Merlot at this point dear. I have, unfortunately (at least for you), laced it rather generously with poison. You’ll be gone in minutes, I’m afraid. Tough for you but look on the bright side - I’ll be rich.”

Well, she was obviously quite paralysed at this point and in no shape to do anything with this world shattering news.

Oddly enough, her giggling turned into a full belly-laugh.

“Do you understand what I’ve done? Or what’s happening to you? Or are you too far gone?” I asked.

In between guffaws which were becoming disturbingly hysterical she managed to pull herself together enough to enlighten me.

“It’s just the irony dear!”

“What? What irony?”

“Your investments haven’t gone as well as you’d hoped have they?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dearest, I’ve been paying more attention to your finances than perhaps you have, and you are set to become a very real burden on me.”

“I really have no idea-”

“-Perhaps you would have done better to pay more attention to them yourself, darling. You certainly ought to have paid more attention to my finances.”

I felt sick, suddenly. I became aware once more of that thirst.

“Darling, I’m almost broke myself.”

She clutched at her chest, in obvious pain, but continued.

“I did at least have the presence of mind to insure you very, very handsomely.” Her voice no more than a strained whisper.

That raging thirst turned to dread.

“My poor fool of a husband… I have killed you… even as you sought to slay me…”

Unable to move even her head now, she gestured with her eyes to the empty bottle of Shiraz before ceasing to move or breath altogether.

Dear Christ. I ran a sweaty finger around the gritty residue at the bottom of my glass and tasted it. Bitter. Strychnine or some such deadly substance.

Well, I could at least appreciate the irony.

I sat there for a minute as the burning in my stomach turned to an inferno before reaching for the half empty bottle of Merlot to douse the flames.

Which was when I keeled forward, head sideways on the table, paralysed, to all intents and purposes.

***

...Now

The Merlot is still the most disgusting grape ever to be pressed but, lets face it, I’m hardly in a position to complain. In fact, I have to admit, it’s not actually all that bad…

Stephen Lavelle

7th April 2021