Flash Fiction Friday

"Kept Man"

Lady Helen Walton sneered, her clipped accent dripping with venom. She’d once had a fling with the notorious gangster Curtis ‘Cocky’ Warren, who introduced her to drugs, and she’d had a soft spot for the lower orders ever since.

“Yah, I should never have married you,” she spat, her tone thick with disdain. “We both know why I did: my family’s money. You were a bum, barely scraping by, when I plucked you from that incestuous little village in the arse-end of nowhere. I flew you first class around the globe, squandered my fortune on you, took you to the finest restaurants, taught you how to dress, and introduced you to my high-society friends. And what do I get in return? You lounge in that chair like a man awaiting execution, constantly whining about your trivial nonsense. My God, you must think I’m utterly stupid. Do you know how dull you are?”

She snapped her fingers, flicking her wrist in his direction, demanding another bottle of wine, her eyes glazed from cocaine.

“I was born to be waited on hand and foot, and waited on I shall be. You’ve been leeching off me for decades, so don’t expect any pity.”

Martin ran his nicotine-stained fingers through his slicked-back hair. Sick to death of her vicious bullying, he silently handed her the third bottle of the evening. His hound-dog features masked his self-pity. He endured her relentless insults, his anger simmering beneath the surface, his confidence shattered by her venomous tongue.

Lady Helen dominated his life with her shrewish face and biting humour. Her put-downs were legendary among their friends, a sport she relished, watching him squirm under her savage one-liners. Martin knew he had to grow a spine and stand up to her.

Her words were vindictive, each one a needle piercing his heart. She spent her days zoned out on pot, sprawled on the Belgravia sofa, scrolling relentlessly through social media, criticising others, and indulging in excess while he toiled at a job he despised in one of her father’s clothing factories scattered across the city.

Desperate to blot out her toxic ramblings, Martin reached for the bottle, his hands trembling. Lady Helen snatched it away, her words slurring as she tore into him. “Give me that; you can’t handle your drink, you little snowflake.”

“Perhaps,” he stammered, trying to calm her, “we could toast to our charm and wit, my love.”

Her laughter cut through the air like a dagger. “Poppycock! Charm and wit?” she sneered, taking a sip. “You’ve no charm, Martin. You’re as poor as a church mouse, scurrying in the shadows. At my father’s factory, your only wit is that he thinks you’re a half-wit who can’t be trusted.”

She erupted into hysterical laughter at her own comeback.

Martin’s bony fists clenched in anger but also cunning. He’d stayed with her for the money, but her dominance left him feeling emasculated, a servant in the house her father’s wealth had bought. Her addictions to drink and drugs only deepened his nightmare.

Caught in a storm of emotions, Martin stood at a crossroads, torn between breaking free and the fear of losing her financial support. Their relationship was a war zone, trapping him in a cycle of arguments and abuse.

The door creaked open, and Anthea, the nanny, appeared timidly. Her heart-shaped face and full lips parted, taking Martin’s breath away. “I’ve put the children on the train back to boarding school, and I’m heading out for the evening,” she said, smiling at Martin before backing out and closing the door.

Lady Helen’s eyes glinted with spite. Her sharp mind missed nothing. “Good God, you think I’m blind?” she hissed. “I’ve seen how you look at that slut. Mark my words: by morning, she’ll be gone, looking for a new job, and you won’t be far behind, you stupid moron. I’m filing for divorce. I’m tired of your simpering, always agreeing with me. I need a real man to make me feel like a woman, not a cashpoint.”

Martin could no longer bear being alone in this house with her. Twenty years of suppressed anger erupted. He leapt from the chair, rifled through the sideboard, and pulled out a gun, his hand shaking. Lady Helen burst into a hyena-like laugh, unflinching. “You haven’t got the balls, you cretinous little ponce,” she taunted.

Her final words.

In a moment of sheer madness, Martin pulled the trigger twice. His shoulder jolted with each shot. “Take that, you cantankerous bitch!” he roared.

The bullets pierced her skull, catching her by surprise. Her mouth hung open as the wine glass slipped from her hand, shattering into shards on the floor.

Martin collapsed to his knees, vomiting on the Persian rug, unable to believe what he’d done. He dialled 999, his voice trembling. “I’ve killed my wife,” he confessed, his words faltering. “She treated me like a whipping boy; nothing I did was ever right.” Exhausted, he slumped onto the couch.

The police arrived and arrested him. At the trial twelve months later, Anthea testified about the years of abuse he’d endured. The judge, recognising his anguish, accepted his plea of temporary insanity. “Your wife made your life a living hell,” the judge declared, sentencing him to three years.

“Take him down,” the judge ordered the prison officers flanking him in the dock.

As Martin descended the stone steps to the cells below, Anthea gave him a small wave. A smirk played on his lips. He couldn’t believe his luck. He’d be out in six months, finally free from Lady Helen’s toxic grip.