Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror by Matt Drabble Page A

hanging fruit was just waiting to be picked. She had done her research more thoroughly than ever before; this was the one mark that could set her up for life and she wasn’t about to miss the boat. She had spent hour after hour pouring through ever piece of public knowledge on both of the Miltons. Research was always the key, but it had to be done quickly. Her window was always closing and she had to reel the fish in.
    Janet looked up as Marigold entered the spider’s parlor. The old woman had once been proud and dignified, and there were endless photos of her standing beside her husband looking regal. Now, however, she shuffled in. Her outfit was a green two piece suit that looked in need of a clean. Her black shoes were a poor match, and her accessories screamed a lack of attention. Janet’s eyes lit up at the sight; the woman was in worse shape than she could have hoped for.
    “Madam Gamboulie?” Marigold asked falteringly.
    “Sit, sit my dear.” Janet motioned to the chair opposite her.
    “I…, I’m not sure that I should have come,” Marigold said. Her accent was pure upper class and she stank of breeding.
    Janet ran her eyes greedily over the older woman; the glinting gold and sparkling stones were worth more than her car and she felt a cold stab of eagerness.
    “Please dear, Reginald wanted you to come. He’s spoken to me often and he was most insistent,” she said reassuringly.
    Marigold looked up with hope in her eyes as Janet had known she would. She could read the preening peacock with ease. Marigold was obviously a woman who was lost without her husband. It wasn’t difficult to ascertain that it was he who had worn the trousers. Marigold was ripe for plucking; at least until her ears were filled with common sense and her bank account was protected.
    “But how can I be sure?” Marigold said attempting to maintain a casual façade.
    “Ah of course, zee minds of zee modern children,” Janet garbled.
    “Oh I hardly think that I am a child,” Marigold blustered.
    “In zee eyes of Madam Gamboulie you are all children. So much hurry, so much rushing, no eyes with which to see what cannot be seen.”
    “Maybe this is a mistake,” Marigold started to rise nervously, her eyes darting around the gloomy room.
    Janet felt the posh cow’s condescending attitude as her home was evaluated and dismissed despite the darkened room. She launched into her act. “You have a need for other people to like and admire you I think, but you are critical of yourself. You have some personality weaknesses, yet you are generally able to compensate for them. You have considerable unused capacity that you have not turned to your advantage. Disciplined and self-controlled on the outside, you tend to be worrisome and insecure on the inside,” she recited. It was part of what was known as a Barnum statement. It was a profile that Marigold and about 90% of everyone else would accept as an accurate description of themselves. Janet’s hands were under the table and she pressed the first button on the hidden remote control. The large amp under the table rumbled with the testing function of the surround sound system. Marigold immediately gasped and looked terrified.
    “He is not happy, your husband, he is very angry,” Janet warned ominously.
    Janet smiled to herself contentedly as Marigold sat down quickly as though slapped. Her research had led her to know with reasonable certainty that Marigold would be almost pathologically scared of her husband. Their home would have been a dictatorship - not a democracy - and good old Reggie would have run a rod of iron over his kingdom.
    Janet had begun pushing Marigold’s buttons as quickly as she could manage. One of the most common emotions associated with death was guilt. She had left scrawled messages at Marigold’s various activity locations; the hair salon, the fitness centre, and her regular lunch wine bars. All of the messages had simply said “I know”. It was an ambiguous