At first we talked as we walked the half mile or so to the main road to pick up a taxi. But Musgrove was soon out of breath and increasingly struggled to hold a conversation.  He had an obvious limp, and with his scrawny body and gaunt face he could pass for someone a good twenty years older.

We arrived at the main road and quickly flagged down a passing taxi.  Within ten minutes we were outside the petrol station.  I headed to the cash point while Musgrove uncomfortably loitered over my shoulder as I entered my PIN and withdrew the money.  The main door of the petrol station was locked, and we performed our transaction, eight cans of bargain-basement lager and a cheap bottle of whiskey, through the small security window before heading to Musgrove’s flat.  On the way a group of youths leaning against the wall of the forecourt, clearly familiar with Musgrove, hurled abuse. “Junkie, junkie, who’s your boyfriend?”  We walked more quickly, Musgrove’s limp permitting, as they started to follow us down the road.  To my relief his flat was just fifty yards away and the group had already lost interest by the time we reached our destination.

As I’d suspected, the ground floor flat was certainly nothing special.  The front garden was wildly overgrown, contained a rusty tumble dryer, and generally set the tone for the rest of his abode.  In front of the main door was a full-length metal security gate with a substantial padlock before Yale and Chubb locks on the door itself.  Stepping inside, there was the immediate overpowering smell of stale cigarette smoke and damp carpet.  In the poorly lit entranceway I negotiated the piles of junk mail and free newspapers accumulating on the floor, and Musgrove led me through to the combined living room and kitchenette. The carpet had originally been some kind of red and black patterned affair but now, decades old, it was worn and heavily stained and covered in empty pizza boxes and miscellaneous other rubbish.  I took a seat on a decrepit low-backed armchair.  It was probably the cleanest of his soft furnishings, but even so the stuffing was leaking out of the numerous cigarette burn holes and the springs dug uncomfortably into my back.  He caught me looking round with presumably a look of something close to disgust, and he appeared embarrassed. “Sorry about the mess.  I wasn’t expecting company.”  No kidding, I thought.

After just a minute or so in his flat I felt myself sobering up and didn’t like the sensation.  I opened a can of lager and took a large gulp, knowing that anaesthesia was probably the best way to survive Musgrove’s company and residence.  He sat opposite me on a similarly decrepit settee, and lit a cigarette before taking a long, thoughtful drag.  He looked at me inquisitively and, with his nose wrinkled, he looked more like a sewer-rat than ever. “What was that about the cement lorry again?”

I took a large swig of the harsh whiskey and immediately regretted it.  For a second I thought it wasn’t going to stay down, but with a few deep breaths the gag reflex abated.  After composing myself and then rinsing my mouth with lager, I responded. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Musgrove gestured for the whiskey bottle. “Try me.”

I wasn’t sure where to begin.  I suspected that to an outsider many of my woes would appear trivial, but to my surprise, talking to a stranger and someone I probably – hopefully – wouldn’t see again, was easier than I would have imagined.  “I suppose I’d just had enough of everything, a mid-life crisis you might call it, given that I’m still only thirty-seven.  I’ve been having a few setbacks at work and things haven’t been going well with Helen, my wife.” I looked at Musgrove, half expecting him to have fallen asleep, but he was sitting forward in his chair appearing genuinely interested.  I continued to struggle to find words as the whiskey took effect. “Well, things came to a head today.  This afternoon I had a meeting with my boss.  He told me I that could have a shit technician’s job but they wouldn’t renew my contract as a laboratory head unless I got some research grants … After all I’ve done for them – those bastards, they treat me like this.”  I pictured myself in Bob’s office earlier in the day, and with the wound still red raw I took several gulps of whiskey before continuing: “But do you know what … do you know what … my day got that little bit fucking worse.  I made an idiot of myself in front of him, pretty much had a mental breakdown, and then I went for a walk to clear my head and who should I bump into but my dear little wife going into some sleazy bed and breakfast with a bloke she used to work with.”

Musgrove sat upright in his chair, clearly surprised by the development.  “So you reckon there’s something going on between them?”

I laughed ironically. “He was virtually ripping her clothes off in the street, and she wasn’t exactly complaining.”

There was silence for a few seconds. “The funny thing is ... I thought something had been going on for a while.  I’d phone her when she said she’d be at home or at a friend’s, and she’d not be there and then she’d give some stupid excuse, and then she’d get text messages at all times of the day and night.  Sometimes, you know … no, pretty much all the time, I wish I’d never met her.  You know, sometimes I wish that bitch was dead.  I’d get the house, a nice inheritance and have the kids to myself.”  I was shocked by the ferocity of my outburst and the sudden release of pent-up frustration and anger.  But Musgrove appeared unfazed and just nodded in agreement.

For several minutes we sat in silence passing the whiskey back and forth.  The room was beginning to spin, perhaps only the intensity of my anger providing a focus to my thinking and keeping me awake.  Musgrove eventually broke the silence. “I could help you out if you like … I’ll take care of it … if you like.”  He said it cautiously and quietly, as if testing the water.

I was confused. “What do you mean take care of it?” I mumbled.  He took a long drag on his cigarette, his scrawny fingers and long nails stained with nicotine.  “I’ll take care of your wife … I’ll kill her for you … You said you wished she was dead ... I could even make it look like an accident, it’ll solve all your problems.”

I took another gulp of whiskey.  My thoughts were running on slow time as my consciousness began to ebb.  “What do you mean?” I said, slurring noticeably as I struggled to get the words out.

Musgrove responded matter-of-factly and seemingly growing in confidence. “I mean for a small fee, let’s say £5,000, I’ll kill your wife and you get rid of her, you get to keep the money and your kids – the perfect solution.”

I stared blankly back at him, still unsure whether he was being serious.  I drained the last half inch of whiskey in a single gulp and the bottle slipped through my fingers and hit the floor.  I was past caring.  After everything I’d been through in the last few months as well as that afternoon, I just didn’t give a shit anymore.  I looked into his cold empty eyes and I said the words – the last thing that I remembered from the evening: “Go for it,” as my consciousness finally deserted me.

At the time, of course, little did I realise that in those three words I’d set in place an uncontrollable chain of events that I would bitterly regret for the remainder of what would ultimately prove to be the final year of my life.

----

I woke a few hours later slumped in the armchair as brilliant shafts of sunlight streamed through the rips in the curtains and illuminated the dust-filled air.  As I lifted my chin off my chest, there was a burning ache in my neck from the unnatural sleeping position, but this discomfort was immediately surpassed by the intense waves of nausea that followed.  I rested my forehead on the arm of the chair and closed my eyes, but the nausea persisted.  Then the smell hit me, and looking down at my crotch and the large damp patch, I realised I’d pissed myself.