For well-nigh forty years Jarden had harboured visions of murdering his wife. It’s not that he wanted to murder her. It’s just that he had flashes of pictures enter his imagination of his wife lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. Or pictures of her drowning in a lake. Something like that. And he thought each time that he could commit such a murder, but he didn’t want to. He couldn’t understand why such thoughts and images entered his mind in the first place.
Forty years of marriage had however been tiresome. He longed for it to end one way or another. And now, after forty years, he was having his first affair. His nauseating wife was definitely in the way. His visions of her murder became suddenly more attractive.
He was saved the trouble! His wife accidently drove over a cliff, plunging into the river. She was pinned beneath the car and the little life left in her was drowned.
Jarden couldn’t believe it. It’s always a shock one way or another. “I can’t believe it,” said Jarden to this man called Harry. “How much did you say I owe you?”