My handbag looked as if something was moving inside it. Don’t be stupid. No, just there, it did though. I looked out of the bus window, telling myself to get a grip. It moved again. No. You just go on and on. Interfere with everything. The neighbours close their curtains and lock their doors when they see you walking up the street. My God, you are one nasty looking bitch. Did you not look in the mirror before you went out? By the way, I don’t seem to have a cup of tea in my hand. Make sure the kettle is boiled properly. I’ll know if it’s not. I want the milk in first. I’ll know if it’s not. She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Another ordinary day. He hadn’t worked for the last twenty years, poor soul. Life is very hard for him. No honestly, it must be coz he tells her every day. By God, he could hardly get out of bed yesterday. She put the kettle on and plonked her bag on the kitchen table. Something very strange was going on it. She pulled out her friend’s gloves and had a good rummage. Her eyes must be deceiving her because it certainly looked like they cuddled into each other on the counter. She hadn’t had a drink since last weekend, but, if gloves could smile. Her husband broke into her thoughts. Where have you been anyway? It doesn’t take all day to go to the shops. Probably not she thought, but I live with you, so it does. It’s not that he hated his wife, he just got fed up with her. She was turning into her mother, and believe me, he thought, that’s not a pretty sight. She‘s been wandering about in that old grey cardigan for years. Just like her mother did. Why the fuck did he marry her anyway? Oh aye, she got herself pregnant. It was back in the day, things were different then. He prided himself on being an honourable man, he done the right thing. Nobody else would take her on. The paternity of the pregnancy was questionable at the time. She swore blind though, what could he do? The whole town had got wind of it. The wee boy was alright he supposed. No back- bone. Not much of himself in him. She placed the tea and biscuits beside his chair, within easy reach. Something looked different. He didn’t want to ask if she’d had her hair done. She might think he liked it if he did. What’s that outfit you’ve got on, where the hell did you buy that? Is it not a bit short? A woman of your age, prancing up and down the street like a teenager. The whole town talks about you. I hear them. I watch them point at you in the pub. I’ve still got friends you know. But you, raking the town every weekend. She let him rave. She wouldn’t let him ruin this night as he had many other. Not tonight arsehole. This had been planned for months, her friend’s birthday. She hadn’t had a night out since probably the previous one. As much as she tried not to listen to his vile tirade, some of it soaked in. Under the skin, where it settled like fat deposit on her orange peel thighs. You’ve got all that paint over your face. It’s going to take cement to make you look any better. She looked in the mirror by the door, not trusting the image. She didn’t look that great, ok, but I’m not that bad? He wasn’t going to keep her in tonight. She slammed the door behind her. Fuck you. The closing of the kitchen cupboards wakened him from his snooze. The fire was glowing red, not quite out for the night. He yawned, that must be her back. He shouted through. Is that you. No reply, just the sound of another door being opened and closed. The sound of a dropped plate. Another one. He heard her pull the cutlery drawer and empty it over the kitchen floor. For God’s sake you dozy cow, what the fuck are you doing? She had the rolling pin that hadn’t been used since nineteen oat-cake hammering against the cooker that she never cooked on. Again. Again. He shouted but got no answer still. Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Strange. Small and dark. Another moved. That explained the carry on in the kitchen. Mice, no too small. Rats. The dozy cow was knocking the living daylights out of the slivery greasy little rodents. He hated rodents. He hated Tales of the River Bank on Watch With Mother. Why that memory came to the fore he didn’t know. He couldn’t jump about as much as he used to but he could still shout for his wife to get her arse out the kitchen and get this sorted out. He waited, the house silent now, willing her to him. She must be somewhere, for God’s sake. They held the rolling pin under their thumbs and slowly dragged it over the carpet. Their fingers were fat and swollen, the fabric being thick fleece. He thought he was seeing things, gloves, walking on their own, no human attached, dragging a rolling pin being held by their thumb and forefinger one step at a time using the other three fingers. They had destroyed the kitchen, he realised as they shrugged aside his chair. He wondered if he was still sleeping, but the fire was still a healthy red, the room was still the same, her collection of Edinburgh crystal in the cabinet. Her prized Lalique, last year’s Christmas present he had to buy her. Dozy cow. The painting of her beloved wee boy above the fireplace. He let out a scream that couldn’t be his as the left glove sidled up his leg. The other one jumped on hauling the rolling pin with it. These were strong, manual workers gloves he thought as he tried to reason what was going on. He kept on screaming, there was no reason to be found. He felt his knee break under the force of the first blow. The gloves worked their way up his body, bruising his ribs, breaking one or two, just for fun. He heard them laugh. He knew he was going mad, only a bitch like his wife could conjure this up. You Fuckin Slag he roared at the top of his voice as the gloves wrapped their fingers around his throat, holding on tight till the last gargle of profanity had escaped his miserable little body. His wife was shocked to find the house burgled and her husband dead when she got home from a great night out. The night just got better she mused when the police and doctor left.