Chapter Text
The knock at the door came an hour earlier than Irene Jansen expected.
She stiffened in her chair, listening to the small, almost shy rapping of knuckles. She waited, let the silence hang in the air for a moment, before she stood - straightening her skirt and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Another, more frantic knocking came this time and hastily Irene crossed the living room and swung the door open.
‘Honey, I didn't have a choice,’ Madge Rapf said, holding up her bloodied hands.
Irene stared, her mouth slightly open, ‘we had a plan.’
‘The plan changed,’ Madge laughed nervously. Remembering herself, Irene craned her neck to check the hallway was empty, before pulling Madge into the apartment and closing the door as softly as possible.
In the soft yellow light of her apartment, Irene took in the sight of Madge properly - the blood splattered across her face, her coat, her dress, congealed in her hair and on her gloves. Madge’s lower lip wobbled. Aimlessly, she looked around, before deeming it unsafe to sit down on any of Irene’s pristine furniture.
‘Don't be mad at me,’ Madge said softly, ‘I couldn’t help it, honey, I couldn’t.’
Speechless, Irene sunk back down into the sofa, watching a fat droplet of blood fall from a curl of Madge’s hair to the carpet. Trusting Madge to perform their plan without a hitch was always a risk, but she hadn’t expected things to go so differently. They’d sat up late at night, discussed, plotted - schemed even. Irene supposed murder was a scheme, as ugly as that word was to her. The plan they had devised was much too sophisticated to be degraded by such a word. Fool-proof too - but not apparently Madge-proof.
She looked up at Madge’s pale face and realised she had to say something soon.
‘I’m not mad at you,’ Irene said finally. It was true, she wasn’t mad - not particularly. If anything, it was almost funny. There was Madge - usually so perfect, without a hair out of place - standing in front of her, the front of her dress soaked through with both blood and the night’s rainfall.
Nervously, Madge laced her fingers together, pulling her arms to her chest. As she turned her head, Irene caught sight of a welt below her left eye, a soft purple bruise forming around it.
‘Tell me what happened,’ Irene said, ‘Madge, you have to tell me what happened.’
Madge let out a sob. She flung herself down in an armchair, burying her face in her hands. Irene sighed. She sat down on the arm, hesitating before she moved to gently stroke Madge’s hair. Her fingers came away red. She wiped them against her skirt.
‘Madge!’
‘You are mad at me!’ Madge howled.
‘I’m not! I just want you to tell me what happened!’ Irene argued.
Indignantly, Madge looked up. For a moment Irene thought she was about to pick a fight, but quickly her eyes softened, dropping to Irene’s stained fingers. Carefully, she clasped her shaking hands around Irene’s.
‘I really didn't mean to,’ she said quietly, ‘I did everything we planned. I talked to Gert, I listened to her, I made her turn her back - I got her to go back into the kitchen - and then I put the poison in her drink just as we planned. I really did, honey. You believe me, don't you?’
‘I believe you.’
‘She came back faster than I thought. She saw me and… I panicked. She was angry with me… She knew about you… She called you names. Then…’ Madge’s lower lip wobbled again. She took a shuddering breath, ‘she… no… It was me first. I hit her. So Gert picked up the ashtray and hit me!’ She turned her head pointedly, showing Irene the bruise.
‘And?’
‘So I…’ Madge sat up straighter, almost righteously. She dropped Irene’s hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, ‘so I wrestled it off her and hit her back. She didn't expect me to be so strong. So you see, honey, at that point it was self defense - she hit me first and she can’t prove she didn't.’
‘I think this is a little much for self defense, Madge,’ Irene murmured. Self defense. Ha. Madge looked as if she’d stepped out of an abattoir, ‘how many times did you hit her?’
‘Why does that matter?’
‘I want to know what I’m walking into,’ Irene stood up. She folded her arms, pacing the room. Perhaps a little music could help. No - she needed to think, needed to think very carefully.
‘Walking into?’ Madge repeated.
‘Did you have a drink?’
‘Well, yes-’
‘Did you clear the drinks away - as we discussed?’
Madge didn't reply. Irene turned back to face her.
‘Don't you think it’ll look a little suspicious if there’s two glasses out on the table? Especially one smeared in your lipstick. Gert had few friends,’ Irene said, ‘plus, it’s a distinctive colour.’
Two little patches of red bloomed across Madge’s cheeks.
‘And did you leave the clue?’
Madge shook her head sullenly. She reached into her coat pocket and held up a battered old cufflink - one that belonged to Vincent Parry. Irene took it off her.
‘Someone needs to go back and clean up. Unless you want to-’
‘No, honey, I couldn’t. I’m so frightened.’
Irene wondered if that was a lie. She decided not to question Madge now.
‘Then stay here. Clean yourself up, have a bath - wash your hair. Get some new clothes, take whatever you want, I don't mind. Did you drive here?’
‘Yes.’
‘What were the roads like?’
‘The roads?’
‘Did anyone see you?’
Madge struggled for an answer.
‘Your car is bright orange. It shows up. Were the roads busy?’
‘No… No honey, they were dead - dead quiet.’
Irene nodded, ‘you’re alright. Just stay here.’
*******
When Irene returned an hour or so later, Madge was still in the bathroom. She hung up her wet coat and inspected the stain on the armchair. The fabric was damp and slightly soapy where Madge had attempted to scrub it away. A slight bloodstain was the least of their worries now. Irene reached for a soft purple blanket and carefully draped it across the chair. She pulled at the lavender rug on the floor to cover the droplets of blood. With a few spritzes of perfume the stale scent of blood that had taken over the apartment was gone.
She eased herself down onto the sofa, fumbling with her lighter. She wouldn’t forget the scene she saw. The door to the Parry’s apartment was unlocked and luckily Irene had beaten Vincent home - if he’d ever turn up. She had struggled through the dark corridor until she found the light switch, trying her hardest to block out the smell. Once the lights were on, she kept to her tasks, trying her hardest to ignore the body on the floor.
Irene knew Madge was not unlike a wild animal when she was backed into a corner. This whole mess was born of fear. Over the course of their friendship, she’d seen Madge panic once or twice, watched her go into a frenzy and work herself up until she burnt away. But she hadn’t expected this - she hadn’t expected the obvious strength it’d take to kill this brutally. Oddly enough, it didn't disturb her quite so much as she supposed it should.
Madge had left the ashtray on the floor beside Gert. Irene didn't touch it. Cigarette butts littered the floor and the table, piles of ash scattered into the carpet. Irene knew Gert didn't smoke. Vincent’s fingerprints would be across it. Madge was wearing gloves. With a handkerchief she pulled the cufflink from her pocket and tucked it beneath the edge of Gert’s dress. Just for insurance. She cleaned away the glasses, wiped the smudge of Madge’s terracotta lipstick away, poured the poisoned drink down the sink.
Now, Irene just hoped they’d got away with it. Another plan was forming within her mind. A plan simple enough she knew Madge could stick to.
The bathroom door opened and Madge stepped out, holding a damp bundle of her clothes.
‘I tried cold water, honey, but it just wouldn’t budge,’ she said.
‘Don't worry, we’ll have to incinerate them, it’s too dangerous,’ Irene replied.
Madge’s lips pursed, ‘this is one of my favourite dresses.’
Irene laughed. She took the bundle from Madge and wrapped it in paper, before dumping it into the incinerator. When she turned around, she got a good look at her friend - her freshly washed hair damp and coiled around her neck, Madge’s face was completely free of makeup, her skin slightly pink from scrubbing away dried blood. She wore a pair of Irene’s button down pyjamas. She looked… soft. Irene had never seen Madge look soft. She liked it, she smiled.
‘Lavender suits you,’ Irene said gently.
‘I need to get home… I…’ Madge’s voice shook.
‘Stay here tonight. Your hair is wet. You’ll catch a cold.’
‘I’ll be fine, honey, really I-’
‘Madge,’ Irene caught her arm, ‘I’m not angry at you. I promise.’ She felt Madge relax.
Irene supposed she should be worried, being this close to Madge. She’d seen Gert on the floor. Seen the bloodied ashtray, the blood in Madge’s hair. She’d tossed ruined clothes away, she’d cleaned up evidence to protect a murder. But oddly she felt safe, almost in control. She let her fingertips trail against the soft satin sleeve, her grip on Madge’s arm still tight. When she looked up, the other woman was staring at her with such a heady intensity that she struggled to tear her eyes away.
‘Tomorrow morning I’ll tell you what we’ll do next. Get some sleep tonight,’ Irene murmured, ‘we’ll be alright. Vincent will be found guilty, just as we planned.’
‘Just as we planned,’ Madge echoed, ‘where…’
‘You can have my bedroom,’ Irene said, ‘I’ll sleep on the couch.’
‘Honey, I couldn’t- I don't want to-'
‘Goodnight,’ Irene said firmly, and before she could stop herself she kissed Madge’s cheek softly, ‘get some sleep.’