Nutrition
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: She was killing him slowly, so he decided to poison her.
_____________________________________________________________________
Jack looked at his wife across the kitchen table. She was taking delicate little mouthfuls of muesli with perfectly chopped pieces of apples and bananas. Jack looked down at his mush of sausages and eggs and at his girth just tucked under the edge of the table. An uncontrollable hatred welled up inside his full gut, something primitive. He belched. His wife was now sipping her extra vitamin c enriched jus d’orange. Every sip of juice and every spoonful of roughage rich muesli seemed to be saying I’m going to live twenty years longer than you, at least, with your pension, on continual long weekend trips.
Jack pushed his plate away and picked up his copy of the Scotland on Sunday. The full frontal of Tony Blair began to give him indigestion. He put the paper down. His wife smiled at him and said, rather smugly Jack thought,
“Not finishing your breakfast, dear? You know it’s the most important meal of the day. Gives you all the energy you need.”
“Saving myself for lunch,” he said.
Why did she never try to get him to change his diet, he wondered. Never chastised him for his pie suppers with pickled eggs or his steak pie pub lunches, just sat there nibbling a stalk of lettuce or carrot stick. Stoom.
It wasn’t as if he was stupid. He was a scientist, for Pete’s sake, a trained chemist. He knew that his body was a biochemical machine that was slowly being run down, pushed over the edge by too much stodge. He was weak, that was the problem, no self control. He needed someone to take him in hand, like a little boy. The way to a man’s heart, even in this age of healthy lifestyles, was still through his stomach.
“Shall I make you some thickly buttered toast to mop up what’s left of your breakfast?” she asked, smiling toothily.
“No!” he cried sounding a little disturbed.
His wife looked at him strangely. He saw her lying on golden beaches, sitting in the shade of palm trees with some Greek or Spanish Lothario, raising her cocktail glass, chin-chin. So that was her game, he thought. No evidence, no court could convict her, it was a perfect crime, the high cholesterol and the blood pressure did it, your honour. But he was on to her.
He smiled. “I’m off to my study for a while,” he said.
He backed out of the kitchen and closed the door behind him.
His wife shook her head and picked up the newspaper. For some strange reason Tony Blair didn’t seem to give her indigestion.
In his study Jack bolted the door and began to scan his bookshelves. He was a man to whom a mystery had been revealed. Perfume was his game but he knew a thing or two about other mixtures too. How had it taken him so long to see it? Her grand plan. She was, he admitted, a master criminal, much smarter than he had given her credit for heretofore. But from now on he would be as devious as her. Alchemists too could commit the perfect crime. And at last, there it was. He pulled the book down from the shelf and placed it with great care on his desk.
The cover read: The Chemist’s Guide to Poisonous Plants by Mrs H. Hartmarx Howe, 1902.
Beneath the heading there were two laurel leaves with a skull and crossbones in the middle. Jack blew the dust off the book, out of the ruts of the skull and bones, and opened it at the contents page. Jack was looking for the right one, that is, what he thought would be the right, the just poison in the circumstances. He began to hum to himself. He chanted in a sing-song voice Bryony, Black; Bryony, European White; Bryony, White; Cabbage Tree and Calabar Beans, ah, he cried, that would make a most excellent salad or a Hemlock soup, a tasty hemlock vichyssoise. Ignatius Beans, no they only grow in the Philippines. And then there it was, the plant that he knew from experiments in his Uni days, Atropa Belladonna, Deadly Nightshade.
“Belladonna,” he said trancelike. That was the one. He would put it in a sweet potato salad. Mayonnaise, German sausage, sweet potato, deadly nightshade. He smacked his lips. He vaguely remembered how the real Macbeth had put it in a drink offered to the Danes, hubble, bubble, toil and trouble, off to sleep they had gone and the Scots had fallen on them in their slumber. He would put a little in the wine too. The salad would be followed by hemlock pie just to be on the safe side. He of course would have egg and chips.
He would have to wait till night to scale the fence of the agricultural college and sneak into their herb garden, to the corner where he knew death flowered. He let out a demonic cackle.
That was when there was a sharp rap on the door. It was his wife. “Jack, what are you up to in there? Open up, I’ve booked the restaurant for two thirty.”
Jack smiled to himself. He unbolted the door.
His wife entered suspiciously. “What have you been doing in here?” she asked, scanning the room. Her eye fell upon the open book on the table. She looked at him severely.
“Just looking for a cure for toothache,” he said, cupping his jaw in a large hairy hand.
“No you’re not,” said his wife, “you’ve been planning to poison me again, haven’t you?”
“Not … not really,” he began.
“Oh Jack, I’ll have to tell your psychiatrist about this,” she said.
Jack suddenly felt cold.
“And look at your hands,” she said.
Jack looked at his hands. They were covered in hair. He turned them over and hair was sprouting from the palms. He laughed and looked at her innocently and raised his hands in the air.
“Oh God,” she said, angry and horrified. She ran out of the room and into the kitchen. She opened the medication box. Tipping a bottle of pills on the worktop, she began to count the number of tablets. She put the bottle down and picked up the phone. She dialled the number.
“Doctor Rank, please,” she said. Jack sidled into the room and sat down at the table.
“While you’re on the line, ask him for something for my toothache,” he said.
“Hello, Doctor Rank? Yes, Jill Wells here, it’s about my husband, Jack, yes, he’s stopped taking his medication. A week by my count, yes he’s already plotting to
poison me, you’ll have to give him an emergency injection, another couple of days and he’ll be shopping for axes.”
She put the phone down. There was silence for a minute, then Jill said in a controlled emotionless voice, “Doctor Rank is coming. A little jag and you’ll be feeling well again.”
Jack smiled, revealing two sharp incisors. “My teeth really are killing me,” he said.
“Better you than me,” said Jill. “Now,” she went on, “I’ll call and cancel the restaurant and I’ll make lunch. How do you fancy steak, egg and chips? I’ll do it in lard, just the way you like it, eh?”
Jack managed a resigned smile. He raised his hands in supplication.
Jill put the chip-pan on the cooker and began to hum, busying herself around the kitchen.
“Why don’t you have a lie down on the sofa, darling? And a read at the paper, there’s a good opinion piece about Tony Blair,” she said.
Jack felt a slight pang of indigestion in his chest. He felt his stomach juices swirling about.
Lying on the settee, he could hear his wife humming and then singing, “We’re all going on a summer holiday,” in a loud gleeful voice.
Swearwords: None.
Description: She was killing him slowly, so he decided to poison her.
_____________________________________________________________________
Jack looked at his wife across the kitchen table. She was taking delicate little mouthfuls of muesli with perfectly chopped pieces of apples and bananas. Jack looked down at his mush of sausages and eggs and at his girth just tucked under the edge of the table. An uncontrollable hatred welled up inside his full gut, something primitive. He belched. His wife was now sipping her extra vitamin c enriched jus d’orange. Every sip of juice and every spoonful of roughage rich muesli seemed to be saying I’m going to live twenty years longer than you, at least, with your pension, on continual long weekend trips.
Jack pushed his plate away and picked up his copy of the Scotland on Sunday. The full frontal of Tony Blair began to give him indigestion. He put the paper down. His wife smiled at him and said, rather smugly Jack thought,
“Not finishing your breakfast, dear? You know it’s the most important meal of the day. Gives you all the energy you need.”
“Saving myself for lunch,” he said.
Why did she never try to get him to change his diet, he wondered. Never chastised him for his pie suppers with pickled eggs or his steak pie pub lunches, just sat there nibbling a stalk of lettuce or carrot stick. Stoom.
It wasn’t as if he was stupid. He was a scientist, for Pete’s sake, a trained chemist. He knew that his body was a biochemical machine that was slowly being run down, pushed over the edge by too much stodge. He was weak, that was the problem, no self control. He needed someone to take him in hand, like a little boy. The way to a man’s heart, even in this age of healthy lifestyles, was still through his stomach.
“Shall I make you some thickly buttered toast to mop up what’s left of your breakfast?” she asked, smiling toothily.
“No!” he cried sounding a little disturbed.
His wife looked at him strangely. He saw her lying on golden beaches, sitting in the shade of palm trees with some Greek or Spanish Lothario, raising her cocktail glass, chin-chin. So that was her game, he thought. No evidence, no court could convict her, it was a perfect crime, the high cholesterol and the blood pressure did it, your honour. But he was on to her.
He smiled. “I’m off to my study for a while,” he said.
He backed out of the kitchen and closed the door behind him.
His wife shook her head and picked up the newspaper. For some strange reason Tony Blair didn’t seem to give her indigestion.
In his study Jack bolted the door and began to scan his bookshelves. He was a man to whom a mystery had been revealed. Perfume was his game but he knew a thing or two about other mixtures too. How had it taken him so long to see it? Her grand plan. She was, he admitted, a master criminal, much smarter than he had given her credit for heretofore. But from now on he would be as devious as her. Alchemists too could commit the perfect crime. And at last, there it was. He pulled the book down from the shelf and placed it with great care on his desk.
The cover read: The Chemist’s Guide to Poisonous Plants by Mrs H. Hartmarx Howe, 1902.
Beneath the heading there were two laurel leaves with a skull and crossbones in the middle. Jack blew the dust off the book, out of the ruts of the skull and bones, and opened it at the contents page. Jack was looking for the right one, that is, what he thought would be the right, the just poison in the circumstances. He began to hum to himself. He chanted in a sing-song voice Bryony, Black; Bryony, European White; Bryony, White; Cabbage Tree and Calabar Beans, ah, he cried, that would make a most excellent salad or a Hemlock soup, a tasty hemlock vichyssoise. Ignatius Beans, no they only grow in the Philippines. And then there it was, the plant that he knew from experiments in his Uni days, Atropa Belladonna, Deadly Nightshade.
“Belladonna,” he said trancelike. That was the one. He would put it in a sweet potato salad. Mayonnaise, German sausage, sweet potato, deadly nightshade. He smacked his lips. He vaguely remembered how the real Macbeth had put it in a drink offered to the Danes, hubble, bubble, toil and trouble, off to sleep they had gone and the Scots had fallen on them in their slumber. He would put a little in the wine too. The salad would be followed by hemlock pie just to be on the safe side. He of course would have egg and chips.
He would have to wait till night to scale the fence of the agricultural college and sneak into their herb garden, to the corner where he knew death flowered. He let out a demonic cackle.
That was when there was a sharp rap on the door. It was his wife. “Jack, what are you up to in there? Open up, I’ve booked the restaurant for two thirty.”
Jack smiled to himself. He unbolted the door.
His wife entered suspiciously. “What have you been doing in here?” she asked, scanning the room. Her eye fell upon the open book on the table. She looked at him severely.
“Just looking for a cure for toothache,” he said, cupping his jaw in a large hairy hand.
“No you’re not,” said his wife, “you’ve been planning to poison me again, haven’t you?”
“Not … not really,” he began.
“Oh Jack, I’ll have to tell your psychiatrist about this,” she said.
Jack suddenly felt cold.
“And look at your hands,” she said.
Jack looked at his hands. They were covered in hair. He turned them over and hair was sprouting from the palms. He laughed and looked at her innocently and raised his hands in the air.
“Oh God,” she said, angry and horrified. She ran out of the room and into the kitchen. She opened the medication box. Tipping a bottle of pills on the worktop, she began to count the number of tablets. She put the bottle down and picked up the phone. She dialled the number.
“Doctor Rank, please,” she said. Jack sidled into the room and sat down at the table.
“While you’re on the line, ask him for something for my toothache,” he said.
“Hello, Doctor Rank? Yes, Jill Wells here, it’s about my husband, Jack, yes, he’s stopped taking his medication. A week by my count, yes he’s already plotting to
poison me, you’ll have to give him an emergency injection, another couple of days and he’ll be shopping for axes.”
She put the phone down. There was silence for a minute, then Jill said in a controlled emotionless voice, “Doctor Rank is coming. A little jag and you’ll be feeling well again.”
Jack smiled, revealing two sharp incisors. “My teeth really are killing me,” he said.
“Better you than me,” said Jill. “Now,” she went on, “I’ll call and cancel the restaurant and I’ll make lunch. How do you fancy steak, egg and chips? I’ll do it in lard, just the way you like it, eh?”
Jack managed a resigned smile. He raised his hands in supplication.
Jill put the chip-pan on the cooker and began to hum, busying herself around the kitchen.
“Why don’t you have a lie down on the sofa, darling? And a read at the paper, there’s a good opinion piece about Tony Blair,” she said.
Jack felt a slight pang of indigestion in his chest. He felt his stomach juices swirling about.
Lying on the settee, he could hear his wife humming and then singing, “We’re all going on a summer holiday,” in a loud gleeful voice.
About the Author
John McGroarty was born in Glasgow and now lives in Barcelona, where he works as an English teacher. Although he has been writing short stories for many years, Nutrition is only his second to been seen publicly.