Just & Equitable

Chapter One

The Affair

Be what you would seem to be – or, if you'd like it put more simply – never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.

Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

14 February 2011

With shouts of ‘Oh... my God’, ‘How could you’, followed by ‘You fucking bitch’, ‘Slut’, and ‘If I ever see that prick here again!’ and then he was running across the hallway, down the stairs. His feet, usually light and nimble, were now clumsy and struggling to get traction on the polished marble. He was more like a fish out of water than someone trying to run. Melvin fled the scene with arms flailing, leaving behind a trail of destruction as expensive china, vases and little ornaments met their end, all a combination of anger and being out of control.

His large right hand, a hand more used to ripping out weeds, swinging a hammer, using a chainsaw or wielding some other tool of trade, gripped the delicate new doorknob Melanie had insisted they buy the previous weekend… a door knob bought for its ornamentation as opposed to its utility.

He ripped it clean off the door, but not before opening it wide enough for his right foot to stop it from slamming shut, trapping him in this nightmare. Without looking back, he threw the doorknob over his shoulder. The clang, clang, clang, the object made as it rolled across the marble floor was music to his ears; he had not wanted to buy the thing in the first place.

Past the garage, down the front steps he ran, his feet regaining some control, his arms stopped waving, his entire body now more manageable than moments earlier. He stopped at the little front gate leading out of his property onto the footpath, a sudden urge overcoming him to run back to throttle Fred before tossing him over the balcony and into the harbour. Would Melanie run up to wrap her naked body around him, whispering accusations at him for not having rescued her from her brute tormentor sooner, before he would rip his own clothes off and… he stopped himself.

What had just happened? Had that really been… no he could not bear to relive the image. How could she, that bitch? His wife, his Melanie with Fred… and… and… in his bed and…?

It beggared belief. And… and… and? What was he to make of it all? What should he do?

Get away and get away quickly, something inside him shouted. His inner voice now stronger than the desire to run back, Melvin kept going.

A sprint across the road, narrowly avoided some fellow in his European sports car who no doubt was crawling along his street to gawk at all the houses.

It took only a second or so to jump into his utility for his escape. With a grunting clutch not accustomed to such rough treatment, Fozzy sped past the European number that had pulled over just ahead of his house.

Turning left at the end of the street, a barrage of abuse came his way with the screeching tyres of a delivery van.

The driver beeped the horn, yelling 'fucking asshole, watch where you’re going…' and showed him the finger. Fozzy neither apologised nor gave the matter a second thought. He had other things on his mind. He replayed the day’s events as he sped away from Nearcontent to head into the city.

At six that morning Fozzy had, like so many other mornings, a fight with his alarm clock. With it being week three of a sex drought he had high hopes for the day.

'Fucking thing,' he muttered under his breath. The unwanted thing was a Christmas present from Melanie, who did not believe in letting nature wake you.

No, Melanie had firm rules about what time he should get up, be at work and come home. When he had argued that for years he had done just fine letting nature wake him Melanie had dropped the subject for a while, until Christmas and then bang, she had pounced like a preying animal waiting for its victim. When he opened his present he nearly dropped it. It was a cicada the size of a wine bottle with bloodshot red eyes and oversized antennas.

One of its antennas served as the snooze button with the off button being underneath its body, conveniently hidden to make it difficult to find whilst in a half sleep half awake state. To turn it off you had to pick it up, turn it over and find the little button.

Whilst this was happening, the quiet chirping grew louder and louder and louder until it became unbearable. By that time you were no longer in the mood for a snooze, nor were you still lying down.

If you pressed the snooze button things were no better, with a reprieve from the chirping lasting less than a minute before it started again and with ever increasing volume.

The only successful way to turn it off was to get up and do so.

'See darling,' Melanie had purred. 'Now you have nature to wake you.' She had kissed him and the sex drought of six weeks back then had been broken. All was forgiven, for a while.

Despite his dislike of the thing, he did not dare get rid of it. If there was one thing he had learned, it was Melanie was quick to dish out punishment and slow to forgive.

With the alarm clock disarmed and brain slowly kicking into gear, Melanie poked her head through the door to announce, 'You might want to grab breakfast on the way today.'

She turned to leave, hovering for a moment near the door, for no reason other than to let him perv, at least that is what he thought she was doing. His eyes were glued to the figure hugging short skirt, thoughts racing forward to tonight and any animosity towards the cicada vanished. He was ready to forgive and jump her bones there and then. No doubt she was wearing a g-string with matching bra.

All of Melanie’s underwear matched, his credit card was witness to that.

On her feet she wore sandals that did up with a silver chain just above the ankle. On the clasp side a little silver heart hung suspended and if you got close enough to read it’s inscription you would know they were a birthday present with love from ‘my husband’. The sandals had started with a little hint.

'It’s my birthday soon.'

He had looked up from the paper. It had been a Sunday morning and he was enjoying the time to read the paper, a Sunday luxury with the alarm clock having the day off. 'I know.'

He knew because she had reminded him the day before and the day before yesterday and the day before and the day before that. She usually started reminding him at least a month before. Once he had told her there was no need, he knew exactly when her birthday was, but it had been like water off a duck's back.

'Well,' she continued, coming over to rub the back of his neck. Then she had kissed and nibbled his ear. 'I saw these sandals...'

A week later they had gone birthday shopping. The sandals had only set him back four hundred and fifty dollars, on special. At the time he had wondered exactly what he was paying for, but now, watching Melanie exit he thought it had been a good investment. She was hot and he was ready willing and able. This afternoon could not come soon enough.

His thoughts of lust and sex were interrupted with the beeping of his mobile phone, an inconvenience most of the time, a great inconvenience right now whilst his mind was in a happy, peaceful place.

You have one new message, the screen displayed. Sorry mate – not well can’t come in today. Fred.

Damn.

Fred was meant to help with the wiring on the roof today. He better get his skates on if he wanted an early mark and surprise Melanie.

Sometime after twelve the mercury climbed above forty-five. Sweat was pouring down Fozzy’s back and so far he had not even stopped for a piss. He straightened up to take another swig of lukewarm water. There was a temptation to spit it out, but he needed the fluid. It was not worth going to the car to refill his bottle with water out of the cooler just to come back up here and find it had heated up in the time it took to get from the car to the roof.

It would be time to call it quits soon if he was to get the surprise organised. He wanted to stop at the shops and get some expensive perfume Melanie almost bathed in and French champagne the trendies drank. He hoped this, combined with a table at Luigi’s, a most sought after restaurant with harbour views, was sure to get him back into Melanie’s good books.

Not that these things mattered to him, but he knew they mattered to her. He knew Melanie would love to be seen at Luigi’s. It provided ample bragging material for her girlfriends. They were always trying to outdo each other, which was something Fozzy could not get his head around. He remembered the first time Tiara, Melanie’s best friend, came around to the house and had gone from room to room making comments like ‘oh yes, this is much better than Sylvia’s place,’ and ‘oooohh, look at the bedroom upstairs, needs a woman’s touch though…’

At this remark he had retreated to the back veranda and poured himself a beer. Who was Sylvia he had wondered and why would the bedroom need a woman’s touch? One thing was sure his mates had never toured his house nor expressed any such views.

The ringing of his phone stopped his daydreaming. He put the water down and saw it was Melanie.

Quickly he pushed the answer button only to find he had accidentally pressed the end button. Bugger. He stared at the screen. Call ended. He waited. Nothing. He dialled her number. It went straight to message bank.

‘Hi this is Mel here, sorry I missed your call. Don’t leave a message because I don’t listen to them. Call back later if it is important. Ciao.’

Swearing under his breath he packed up his tools. He would call it quits and get organised.

Once all his gear was safely packed away he tried Melanie’s number with a similar result, no answer. Whatever she had wanted would have to wait. Before he drove off he left a note for the owners of the house explaining he would be back tomorrow to finish the job.

About an hour later, Fozzy parked his utility across from his house. Armed with gifts and a spring in his step he had crossed the road before jumping up the stairs to the front of the house two at a time. He opened the door quietly, listened and looked around. Hopefully Melanie was not home yet. There were still a few things to do to complete the surprise, like put romantic music on, have a shower and set the table on the balcony with champagne glasses, ice bucket and voucher to Luigi’s.

Before he went upstairs he grabbed two of their best champagne glasses and the silver bucket with ice.

The glasses were from their wedding, some brand of crystal with entwined hearts on them only to be used on special occasions, like anniversaries.

Leaving the kitchen Fozzy stood to admire the view out of the large living room window. It was a sight he never tired off. His gaze rested briefly on the work boots by the white leather couch.

They better be moved before Melanie would rouse on him for leaving them there to clutter the house he thought, briefly wondering how they had come to rest there in the first place. As his hands were full he decided the job would have to wait till upstairs was ready for Melanie. Taking two steps at a time Fozzy hummed to himself, pushing the bedroom door open with his left elbow before stopping dead in his tracks.

He could not believe his eyes. Fred, as far as he was concerned was not a pretty sight in khaki work shorts, but his hairy arse moving up and down on his wife’s body was even worse.

Smash, champagne bottle and glasses hit the tiled floor and the expensive liquid, having been contained in heavy green glass with a cork splashed everywhere, erupting like a fountain, joining the millions of glass shrapnel skidding across the floor heading for the Mohair rug in front of the bed.

'Ahhhh…' Melvin screamed, rooted to the ground and unable to avert his eyes from Fred’s hairy arse. Then he shouted obscenities and ran from the room.

Chapter Two

Without House or Home

'The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved.'

Mother Theresa of Calcutta

The stain on the left side of his shirt, just below the breast pocket was getting bigger, the stench behind the park bench getting worse. The number of flies, mosquitoes and other pesky insects had increased exponentially. The glue-like feeling of his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth was becoming almost unbearable. A size ten earthquake on the Richter scale erupted in his head as he sat up to recover from the early morning spew. Wiping the remains of spit dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Fozzy resolved to go home.

For a while Fozzy rolled the word ‘home’ around his tongue tasting its texture and meaning for the first time, exploring its pros and cons and ultimately spitting it out in disgust. Home, my arse, he thought, realising somewhere along the line marketers must have grabbed a hold of the word and moulded it to give it the meaning of the right house in the right suburb, with the right wife and trimmings, like swimming pool and celebrity designed garden.

It struck him, like lightening strikes its target, how superficial it all was. The resolve was made to go back and reclaim what was his, what he should never should have given up in the first place.

It was a long walk back to his car, left somewhere in a secure car park and having lost the ticket, it cost a small fortune to retrieve. Worse was having to spend some time explaining the situation to the non-English speaking car park attendant. Paid up and armed with an exit voucher, Fozzy took off his filthy shirt before getting into the small cabin, watching in horror as his mobile phone fell onto the ground with a loud clunk before proceeding to slide along the road towards a drain, disappearing into the large black hole, collecting a can of some sort along the way – all before Fozzy had time to swear or move.

‘Bugger’, he muttered as he peered into the drain before eventually abandoning any hope of retrieving the phone, with years of business and private records, as well as several days worth of unanswered and unlistened to messages and who knew what else, lost in the dark deep hole. Swearing and cursing Fozzy climbed into his utility, feeling somewhat naked without his phone, making a mental note to get a new one as soon as possible.

As he stared at the front of his house, nothing seemed different. There were no outward signs of any affair. Not that he was sure what those signs should be, but they were not there, he was sure of that much.

Would he feel better if men’s shoes were scattered at the front door, or the garage door open with a strange car parked in it, he mused? Of course he would not. If there had been some obvious outward sign he doubted he would still be parked in the same spot as he had been parked in five days ago.

With as much determination as he could muster, Fozzy pushed the driver door open and jumped out.

It was now or never.

For a moment he stood on the footpath just outside his shoe box sized yard, in front of the green wrought iron entrance gate, to admire the brilliance of the roses, his mother’s moving in present to her only son.

Soon there would have to be the autumn prune, with many other jobs requiring attention, from the thin strip of lawn on either side of the gravel path to the front door needing mowing, to getting rid of those persistent weeds poking their tops through the gravel and on a more immediate front the garbage bins from Monday night were still standing on the side of the road, which the lazy bitch had not even bothered to bring in.

With a sigh he grabbed the bins, hesitating before slowly climbing the last three stairs to the front door. What if she was home? What would he say? His right hand trembled as his fingers searched the trouser pockets for the key to his house.

It was so quiet and peaceful. Was it the calm before the storm? Pushing morbid thoughts aside, Fozzy took a deep breath with his eyes closed, suddenly wondering if he had made a mistake.

Had he acted prematurely by running away?

Had the heat been responsible for him seeing a mirage, his mind playing tricks with him, foreshadowing something that would never happen? What if Melanie had not actually been in bed with Fred? What if she had simply been lying on the bed waiting for him to come home for her own anniversary surprise? His heart started to beat a little faster and butterflies invaded his stomach. What if he had done Melanie an injustice by running out and not contacting her for the last four or five days?

It had been terribly hot on Monday. His mind could have played a trick on him. He stood frozen to the spot, his mind off on a frolic. What if…

A movie script could not have been written better. Intolerably and unusually hot weather results in husband blaming wife unjustly for an affair, yes ladies and gentleman here you have it, the heat almost ruined a marriage. It may have affected you in ways you thought unbearable but we are sure dear listeners your heart will go out to one Melvin Goodheart who nearly lost his wife over a mistake made because of our extreme heat wave. People watching their story would laugh, probably call him an idiot and admire his wife for being so tolerant. Who could blame them?

The unfamiliar resistance when he pushed the key into the lock roused him from his thoughts. Funny, the lock had been replaced less than six months ago after Melanie had some problems with her key and the locksmith had suggested simply replacing the lock instead of trying to cut another key.

'Mr. Goodheart,' he had said looking at Melanie’s and Melvin’s key, 'you know how it is. Once you make a copy of something it is never the same. They say it is, but it rarely is. If you really think about it, it is difficult to see how anyone could ever make a perfect copy of anything. Take twins, even identical twins are not exactly identical. My cousin Bertha has identical twins and they are so different as if they had been born on different days.' It had taken a mighty effort on Fozzy’s part to listen and try and get a word in edge ways. Eventually he had simply agreed to the new lock with six keys, not four as most locks had, but six and left Martin the locksmith to it.

He tried again, but the key did not want to slide into the lock. Had he pulled out the wrong key?

Martin had told him plenty of people called him in the middle of the night in an emergency thinking something was wrong with their lock only for him to discover they were so pissed they did no realise they were using the wrong key. It was good money, but a drain on his nerves Martin had confessed. Alarmed, Fozzy glanced at the shiny silver key with the blue cover on the back, and breathing a sigh of relief, realised it was definitely the key to the front door.

In his single days Fozzy had carried around a large set of keys on a key ring the shape of a beer can. But like so many things, he had got rid of it once Melanie had moved in. For a moment he stared at the single key wondering what had happened to the beer can key ring? It had been a present for his twenty first birthday from his mate Vincent, a reminder of the many beers he had consumed and the ones yet to be consumed.

From Melanie’s first ride in his Ute she complained of the key ring with keys. During any drive the can and some of the keys would hit the instrument panel of the utility, either loudly and incessantly or less frequently and loudly depending on the driving conditions, which never worried Fozzy. Melanie was a different story. He knew she did not approve from some of the comments she made combined with the look, the look that could wither a flower in an instant.

At first Melanie was subtle. She would say something like 'You know darling I read somewhere it’s not good to have so many keys attached to the ignition key.' There was a pause before she continued. 'Something about too much pressure for the ignition or something like that.' She would only shoot him the look briefly before resting her hands at the top of his thigh, just below the groin and then smile coyly and batting her eyelids.

'Really?' He would pretend he was taking notice and resisted the temptation to say something like ‘I’ve had this key ring for over ten years now and never had problems with the ignition.’ It did not bear thinking about how long the sex drought would last if he gave way to his true thoughts, and he did like her hand where she rested it.

Eventually, when the subtle hints got no results she became blunter, telling him the noise was giving her a headache and driving her to distraction and why on earth could he not be like everyone else and have less keys and a less conspicuous key ring. And then one day, after too many of these little spats he had given in.

Fozzy shook his head. This ruminating was getting him nowhere. There was one last attempt at using the key before he looked at the lock more closely. ‘That fucking bitch’, he muttered kicking the door with his left foot.

To think a minute ago he had played with the idea of the whole thing having been a mirage and his fault.

He slammed his fist into the door swearing under his breath, a sore hand the only outcome, with the door remaining firmly shut. How dare the bitch change the locks? What was she up to and what was she thinking? It was his house, his and not hers. Fucking bitch better not be home or he might….it did not bear thinking about. Thoughts of violence were resolutely pushed aside.

He had gutted and rebuilt the house himself, more or less, and all she had done was move in and change things around.

Like a bull at a gate he charged at the door.

It remained firmly shut. A sore left shoulder was all he could show for his efforts, along with his sore left foot. More swearing, kicking and cursing, but all in vain until he suddenly stopped to think, the back door was much easier to break into.

The little side gate into the backyard was conquered with a single jump. At the back door Fozzy picked up a large ornamental rock and threw it through the new glass windows. Smash, the glass shattered into millions of pieces, flying into every direction. Crunch, crunch, and crunch his work boots stomped through the shrapnel on the tiled floor of the veranda and entertaining room. Once inside he stopped, listened and looked around. No one seemed to be home.

The living, or more aptly described entertaining room was sparsely furnished, just like Melanie liked it. Once upon a time it had grey carpet, a table and some plastic chairs, a TV in one corner with an old lounge and a large painting across the fire place. Now it was very different. Melanie had insisted on a white leather lounge with matching coffee table, one of those designer ones resembling anything but a coffee table, onto which neither