by Paige Turner

THE VILLAGE OF Moreton-on-Weald had endured many things: floods, foot-and-mouth outbreaks, an unfortunate incident involving a runaway tractor and the mayor’s prize hydrangeas. But nothing, nothing at all, compared to the decades-long war that had been waged within the four ivy-choked walls of Number 12, Mill Lane.

Within that house lived Edwin and Mabel Chattoway, husband and wife for forty-three years, despite the fact that neither could stand the other’s presence for more than a heartbeat. Their marriage, if it could be called such, was a test of human endurance, an ever-escalating battle of wills, fought with muttered curses, pots flung across rooms, and words sharpened to the point of lethal precision.

The neighbours bore witness to it all, albeit unwillingly. Summer evenings, meant to be peaceful, were instead punctuated by the sounds of furious bickering, slamming doors, and, on occasion, something that sounded suspiciously like the wail of a goat. Most disconcerting of all was the repeated threat that echoed down Mill Lane, a grim refrain in Edwin’s gravelly voice: