Patrick was a great believer in home produce. A bachelor of sorts with a girlfriend in every town, village and hamlet and there was a fierce contest between the ladies who were determined to win his hand at any cost. He, having accidently dropped his diary when dating his last conquest, was a Godsend and Samantha was able to make plans to win his hand in marriage. She was a strong minded girl and knew what she wanted in life and was not going to take a negative response from Patrick, as far as she was concerned he was hers. He had wheedled her to his bed with soft talk, kissing her ear, nose, cheeks and unzipping her dress he was able to kiss her breasts that clinched the one act play he was about to perform as he had with the other girls and had made love to her with a fiery determination.
She had risen before Patrick’s bleary eyes focused on the blue eyed blonde who was drinking coffee and eating toast and Strawberry Jam which he had made from his own strawberries. The pickings were the best he ever had. It was an excellent year for fruit.
Samantha started to read Patrick’s diary and the names and addresses and telephone numbers were all there. She recognized some of the names and made a disapproving noise with her tongue quite a few times. As he appeared she sat on the diary as there was no other place she could put it and she cursed herself for not thinking straight. She should have dressed instead of trying to lure him.
Most of his conquests had usually left his house by the time he rose from his shared bed, but she was there large as life scantily dressed in a pyjama top with only the bottom button done up. However tempting that cleavage with half a breast showing was, the aroma of hot strong coffee won the day.
She wanted him to make love to her again and again. She liked his rough treatment of her and was willing to give him what he demanded. Patrick poured a mug of coffee, made three pieces of toast and sat down opposite her.
His small talk consisted of, ‘Why don’t you get dressed?’ She pouted and said, ‘You don’t really want me to, do you? Surely I am the best piece of scenery you’ve seen for some time.’
Patrick only managed to eat one half of his three pieces of toast as Samantha got up and walked round the table and sat on Patrick’s lap astride and facing him. He sank into oblivion of sexual desire. He was suffocating and he was trying to catch his breath and eventually was able to disentangle himself from her vice like grip. He was breathing heavily and he only managed to crawl towards the shower room.
Samantha resumed her position at the table stark naked and tucked into his toast and Strawberry Jam. She was thinking that maybe he would be better off dead, yes, she had decided he had no balls to go with his weary willie. She was still thinking what she was going to do when he stuck the knife in her side. She got up and turned with an incredulous look on her face and the last thing she saw was Patrick standing soaking wet from the shower with a kitchen knife in his hand. She fell and on the way down hit her head on the corner of the table.
She was still bleeding and all over his parquet flooring when he wrapped her in a blanket. He wondered where he was going to place her before burying her in the part of the garden where he usually grew his beetroot. It was unusual for him to have failed produce. His beetroot always took first prize at the local farmer’s week where anyone could place their produce hoping to win the cup and the prize money. It was an incentive thought of by the farmers to encourage people to grow their own produce. He wasn’t sure whether human bodies were the best manure to help growth. He began to shiver, he was cold. He hadn’t dressed and he was covered in her blood. He whistled as he showered, the tune was ‘She’s funny that way!’
* * *
The knife wound wasn’t fatal, although she had lost quite a bit of blood. She could hear Patrick singing in the shower. She gently unwrapped herself and placed many layers of lint on the wound and covered the lint with four strips of plaster. She put on some white plastic gloves. She went back to the blanket and rolled herself up trying not to move. She was afraid that her stomach would give her away as hunger pains and certain gasses would eventually escape from her.
She sensed that day had at last turned into night. The French doors opened and Patrick pulled the blanket and dragged it over the concrete steps across the lawn, down some more steps and through a thicket of sharp thorny undergrowth. Patrick was hidden by the tall hedge and began to dig up the beetroot patch. Having dug a very large hole he tossed the spade up and started to scramble up the side of the hole.
He was hit forcibly on the head and fell back into the hole he had dug, the spade followed and Samantha started to push the earth into the hole until it was completely flat. She looked in the shed and saw some beetroot being grown under glass and transplanted them on top of the beetroot patch.
Samantha decided to have some bread and strawberry jam, she was hungry, being wrapped in a blanket all that time with no food.
She dressed and wiped clean everything she had touched and was ready to leave when blood began to seep through her dress. She clutched her side trying to stem the flow which by now was a copious flow, probably the wound had deepened as she was being dragged down the garden over concrete steps.
Samantha staggered to the front door and out into the street. A passer-by saw her on the pavement and called an ambulance straight away. Internal bleeding was the cause of her death.
The police called on Patrick Duggan to help them with their enquiries of the woman who was seen coming out of his house. But he was nowhere to be seen. His passport was still in a drawer in his house.
The following year the biggest and tastiest beetroot flourished from his beetroot patch and having won three times he would be allowed to keep the cup!