The house had really begun to stink. Passers-by wrinkled their noses, eyes darting for the cracked sewer pipe or the dead horse that could produce the offensive stench. Neighbours muttered darkly about their house value. Something had to be done, not by them, naturally, but still, someone more suited to the job would have to do it.

Glenda was past caring. She had worse things to worry about than the smell of her house, and what her neighbours thought of it. Tom had lost his job. He had failed to turn up nine days in a row at the Michelin garage, the letter had come, but he didn't care- deigning instead to sit in front of the blaring television, seemingly regardless of the effects it had caused. The television. Glenda tsked; ever since they'd won the 32in, surround sound, 5million megabyte shrine to daytime TV a month ago on a scratch card, Tom had become unbearable. Sitting taciturn on his mouldering armchair, the pint of lager always topped up, Glenda wasn't sure he'd even moved in the whole four weeks.

She stood at the greasy kitchen worktop, making less-than-appetising, dry and tasteless ham sandwiches for Tom's dinner. Still it would be him suffering it, not her. Glenda had found a packet of Hobnobs in a rare expedition to the pantry. They spoke of days of when she'd been a house-proud, pantry-stocking new wife, when Tom had returned from his old satisfactory job every day to a clean house and steaming meal. And there'd been a child once, her child. Well he was gone now, along with a lot of things. She rocked back and forward where she stood, and pushed away the painful, stabbing tendrils of old emotions. The times when she'd howled and screamed in grief were over. She was strong; she had to be to live in this close neighbourhood, with the silent man in the stinking house.

The neighbours were disgusted enough as it was, but they'd probably have a heart attack over their morning kippers and iron-pressed newspapers if they knew the full extent of their quiet neighbours descent into destitution and filth. Fair enough the little boy had died, such a shame of course, oh yes I met him, a sweeter child you'd never meet, patted him in his pram, bit of a hush-hush business you see, a terrible shame it was; but still the parents were expected to pick themselves up again. Devote their lives to God, charity or such like. It's what one does when tragedy strikes isn't it? No? Well they should.

Glenda shrugged away the cold, searching glares seeking to see past yellowing net curtains and concentrated on cutting the bread. Where was the knife? Was it margarine or lard she was spreading on the damp bread? "Do you want butter or margarine dear?" she trilled, a vision of her former life spurring her into action, who knows, maybe it would spur a reply. Or not. Glenda's eyes narrowed and lips trembled with irritation and hurt. She'd married this man, and for what? A cold statue that was more likely to prove Einstein's theory than twitch his big toe.

She marched through to the filthy, dark and putrid living room, passing the front door in the process. She slipped and almost toppled. She scowled down, searching for the culprit as she righted herself. On the floor was the day's post, and yesterday's, and most probably the day before that's. She was enraged that someone would leave such things lying with the express purpose of tripping her up. She pricked her ears, listening out for the smothered giggling that she so often almost heard after such incidents. She knelt down and tore up the invoices and their envelopes savagely. That would fix them!

She regained her march and glided into the living room with the icy aloofness of a duchess (she thought), glaring at the television, hissing with sudden malice and rage in recollection of the attempt on her life, slammed the plate on the table in front of Tom, all to magnificent affect she decided. She looked down at her right hand. The plate had smashed, and she was clutching a shard. As she squeezed it, blood welled around the edges then ran down her wrist. She watched it entranced, willing it to reach the crook of her elbow, in a morbid mind race. Funny, she thought, I'd be running to the sink and disinfecting my hand by now. Then a drop fell to the floor and the spell broke. Again she hissed in anger, upset that she still deserved no reaction from Tom.

"What do I have to do to get your attention?" she whined. Tom didn't reply or move, he sat facing the TV, carving-knife sticking out of his chest exactly as it had done for the last three weeks, ever since he and Glenda had argued over who had come worse off in their miserable marriage.