The Driver's Seat by Muriel Spark Page B

and repeats it in four languages.
    As the
knife descends to her throat she screams, evidently perceiving how final is
finality. She screams and then her throat gurgles while he stabs with a turn of
his wrist exactly as she instructed. Then he stabs wherever he likes and stands
up, staring at what he has done. He stands staring for a while and then, having
started to turn away, he hesitates as if he had forgotten something of her
bidding. Suddenly he wrenches off his necktie and bends to tie her ankles
together with it.
    He runs
to the car, taking his chance and knowing that he will at last be taken, and
seeing already as he drives away from the Pavilion and away, the sad little
office where the police clank in and out and the typewriter ticks out his
unnerving statement: ‘She told me to kill her and I killed her. She spoke in
many languages but she was telling me to kill her all the time. She told me
precisely what to do. I was hoping to start a new life.’ He sees already the
gleaming buttons of the policemen’s uniforms, hears the cold and the confiding,
the hot and the barking voices, sees already the holsters and epaulets and all
those trappings devised to protect them from the indecent exposure of fear and
pity, pity and fear.