My dreams were dark. I was not one to usually remember dreams, or even fragments, and I didn't, afterwards, actually know what story my subconscious was showing me. But it was dark.

I slept deeply though, the shadows of my dreams failing to rouse me. I woke, sort of, when Amanda came home and climbed into bed next to me, sliding her freezing feet between my calves to warm them, but then I was back in the land of darkness and threat.

When I awoke, I expected to be still tired, but I wasn't. I was refreshed, as if I'd slept the perfect number of hours between not enough and too much so you remained doe eyed for the rest of the day.

Amanda was still asleep and I let her rest. I could recall her cold feet, but I had no idea of what time it had been. She'd be allowed to go in later after a night call. Let her sleep. Maybe I'd make breakfast in bed and a cappuccino in an hour or so.

I didn't get the chance. She was up and dressed and downstairs with me within fifteen minutes. It always took her, no matter how long it took me, half the time for her to get ready. If we were going out, a shower, hair and clothes would take me roughly half an hour. I had to be dry, hating to put anything on over damp skin. She would happily get out of the bath, air dry on the bed for ten minutes and then put her pyjamas on, ignoring the fact they still stuck to her in the places she wasn't quite dry. I couldn't do that, so it took me a little longer. I couldn't just scoop my hair up into a bobble or dab a quick bit of lipstick and mascara on and be stunning. I took time. She, I think, pressed a button and everything came out on robotic arms, allowing her to simply stand and then walk.

"I was going to bring you breakfast in bed, baby," I said, kissing her forehead.

"Gotta go, sorry sweetie. I need to stop putting my phone on 'Do Not Disturb.' I woke to half a dozen calls and as many texts."

"Oh? What's up?"

"They've found a body." She was matter of fact about it. They could have discovered a discarded loaf of bread. It was her coping mechanism. Death was death. Just a word.

"Oh?" I felt a little more emotion. "Where?"

"By the train lines. Maybe a suicide. Someone walking in front of the train or something."

"She's been hit?"

"A right mess, it seems."

I shook my head. I hadn't thought of that. I killed her and let her fall, but the fact that a train might come didn't occur to me. I left her where she fell, across the tracks. I felt violated somehow. How dare the train do that to her? Hadn't she suffered enough? Hadn't I done enough to her? Why did the train have to come and potentially erase the evidence of my ministrations?

Of course, it might have meant that I wouldn't be found out. My part in her death could be lost in the shattered bones and pulped guts and obliterated organs that were sprayed across the train.

But, maybe not. She was laid down. She would have been run over, not exactly hit. A flash of excitement ran through me, chased by the chill of fear. The fact that her throat had been cut could still be blatantly evident, the gaping slash calling out to the police, and my wife, to ensure it was discovered.

"Can we go out tonight? Date night?"

"Sounds good," I said, thinking just the opposite. "I'll call your mum."

I left it a little while to call my mother in law. It was always something I tried to put off until I absolutely couldn't any longer. She was pleasant enough, in an ever-pessimistic sort of way, but I always felt uncomfortable in her presence. I wasn't being judged, probably, though there was an underlying current of distrust or dislike that really got on my nerves. I'd gone through much with her daughter and proved my love and dedication many times over. She had no reason to doubt me, yet I always felt that she did. I knew she wasn't homophobic, but everything she said was iced with a thin layer of nose in the air derision.

"Mand and I would like to go for a meal tonight, if you wouldn't mind babysitting?"

"Amanda texted me earlier," she said sharply.

Amanda knew my reticence so had chipped in before I was able to make it too late to organise. Rose, my wife's mother, emphasised the name heavily, as if giving it a few more pounds of tone would make me stop abbreviating it. It wouldn't. Amanda didn't mind my pet name and, in fact, liked it, as long as I didn't call her Mandy. That, she hated. The frosty reception I had on the one time I forgot that rule was enough for me not to be so remiss in future. To Rose, however, Amanda was Amanda. She'd been christened that and, as such, that's what she should be called. Did I use the abbreviation deliberately more because it wound her up? There was a strong possibility that yes, I did.

"Ah, OK," I said, wishing that could be the end of the call.

"I told her I'd be there around 8."

Early enough for us to be out before there was no point in us going and late enough for the children to be in bed so she didn't have to interact with them and could concentrate on her soaps.

"That's great, thanks."

"You know I'd do anything for my daughter and those adorable little scamps."

I ignored the deliberate exclusion of me. I also didn't rise to the 'do anything for' comment. We'd need to be her taxi both ways, which meant one of us, at least, would have to remain sober, and she'd be paid by the hour. In addition, she would, no doubt, be raiding the cupboards (and not failing to point out the lack of decent food even though she never left hungry). The kids wouldn't know she was there until we told them the next morning and then they'd be upset that they hadn't seen 'Mamar'.

"Of course you would," I said with as little trace of sarcasm as I could muster.

"Will the children be in bed?"

No, we'll keep them up just for you.

"They will by then."

"That's a shame."

"Never mind, maybe next time."

"Maybe."

There was the usual pause of us both wanting to end the conversation but not really knowing how to, then:

"Bye then," Rose sighed, as if she wished I'd either just hang up or completely disappear, being out of her and her daughter's lives forever.

"Bye."

I put my phone down and breathed heavily. I felt exhausted. The displeasure in Rose's voice was clear. I had the sudden surety that my mother in law knew what I'd done and had been waiting for me to confess, her final sigh because of the realisation that I wasn't going to. She knew.

She didn't, obviously, but the more I wasn't caught, the more I was surely going to be.

It was a blip. A bubble of trepidation. It was gone as soon as it had appeared but it left an acidic, bitter taste in the back of my mouth. The calm returned with the blink of my eyes, as if a curtain had been pulled over it, leaving it suffering in a hospital bed, tubed up and barely able to move. Euthanasia would be a good option. Take away the threat of guilt (or feelings of) by smothering it with a pillow stuffed full of diversionary tactics. My tea was cold, or would be if I'd made one. I needed to make a cuppa so it could go cold then I'd nuke it in the microwave. Maybe grab a hedgehog sandwich, stuffing salt and vinegar crisps between a couple of slices of well buttered bread. Date night. What would I wear? Jeans and a t-shirt or something smarter? Maybe I'd get a haircut. Some highlights.

I knew I couldn't keep it up indefinitely. At some point, the feelings of guilt would catch up with the reality of guilt. Still, the jangling nerves that I should have had when speaking to Amanda should have been there. But they weren't. Mentally, I was battling with myself. Emotionally, I was an iceberg floating on a sea of Titanic wreckage.

It was, almost, fun. The discourse within me was, in a way, entertaining. The angel and imp had vacated my shoulders and were now raging their tiny war within the confines of my head, making my ears ring with their battle cries. I should sit back with some popcorn and an orange Fanta, no ice, and enjoy the show.

But I couldn't. And no, I shouldn't. The children needed collecting from school. They'd want feeding and I promised Grace that I'd make slime with her. Life went on, even if I was planning on bringing it to an end for someone.