A Holiday in the SunA short story by Alison T. Bond

I made a plan that day. I wasn’t going to back down again. Not this time. This holiday was going to be my choice: no rambling in the rainforest, no trampling the flora and fauna of some wild outcrop. It was going to be just a beach holiday. A Kindle-infused fortnight to catch up on all the books that my friends had listed as ‘must reads’. All the books I hadn’t had time to read because of catering to my husband’s every need, his every whim, whilst he tinkered in the garage, taking his bicycles apart and then putting them back together again.

We had booked two weeks off work and were looking for late deals. He, as usual, was against the lounger-break idea. He wasn’t happy unless it was an educational experience. Even in civilisation, there had to be a trip to the seedy part of town to discover the true nature of the indigenous peoples of the area.

I have no idea why I married him. No, that’s not true actually. He came into my life when I had been alone for too long, perhaps a little weak. He had been charming and unlike any of my previous boyfriends: he had an adventurous streak, daring even, certainly energetic and perhaps just a little bit mad. I had followed him, sheep-like, wherever he led. Within weeks, we were married.

And here we were, ten years later. I was tired of following him around and my needs never being heard. All I wanted was a hot climate, a shimmering pool, an impressive cocktail menu. Yes, fully inclusive bliss. Is it too much to ask? One normal holiday in a decade.

‘It’s not about the tan, woman. It’s about being in a different state of mind. That’s the ticket. The spice of life. Experience. Getting away from the office. Anyway, I was looking at trekking in Peru,’ he said, flicking mindlessly through the sports channels.

‘No.’ I was adamant.

‘Well, I’ve already booked it. So there.’ His pet lip burst out childishly. The adventurous young man I had fallen in love with, now acting like a petulant toddler, stamping his feet. Shocked at the sheer cheek of my refusal.

I told him: ‘I’m not going. Find someone else to take. And by the way, the marriage is over. I’ve had enough. I won’t be here when you get back.’

He barked with laughter. ‘As if. Who else would have you? Little mousey woman. Bit past your prime to be turning away the only man who’s offered to marry you, or ever would, for that matter. Who? Eh, tell me, who?’

I do know what happened, but, to be honest, it’s all a bit of a blur. I think, perhaps, that it was ten years of his constant abuse that happened. Chipping away at my confidence, chipping away at my soul. The little girl who had shown so much promise at school, reduced to virtually nothing.

As I sit here, watching the happy holiday-makers, the families having their two weeks in the heat of the sun, I smile and nod to them, but chuckle to myself. They don’t know that I am not like them. Two weeks in the sun? No, not for me. I’m here for the duration. Thankfully, there is no extradition treaty between here and good old Blighty.

I’d like to say that it was all done in the heat of the moment. But I think you may have already guessed that I’d be lying. I’ve had years to get everything together. The truth is much simpler. So simple, in fact, that it was easy to make my husband’s death look like a crime of passion, not murder. A woman fleeing from years of verbal abuse, having suffered for so long, just snapped, stabbed him in the chest and then fled in terror.

But, let’s face it. It took me quite some time, to pre-fill my Kindle with all the books I would need to last me a lifetime.

© Alison T. Bond 2014email: tinytallulah@icloud.com