Thunder rolled above the house and he removed his coat and shoes. "Maria!"

He walked into the front room and saw her feet behind a chair. He ran over to her. "Maria!" She was lying down and he saw blood. He ran to the phone, picked it up, but it was dead.

Blood matted the carpet and squelched as he searched for her ugly head. Her clothes were the same she wore that morning. Her claret stained the furniture and the ceiling was measled with blood. A bloody axe lay next to her plump body. Martin smiled.

There was no sign of forced entry or footprints. It was murder, and everybody knew they fought all the time. Yet, only he hated her enough to kill her. Who else was there?

He sat in his old gravy coloured chair, staring at the pulped corpse, wondering what to do. There were two days left until he could leave this marriage. He couldn't get the keys to the new apartment until Wednesday. Even in death she wanted to stop him. It was in the darkest part of his mind which gave him his answer.

He decided he had to dispose of the body and live happy with his beautiful Lisa. No more wife to worry about. No more bitterness. No more Maria. He didn't care who killed her. The important thing was that she was dead.

He took her into the back yard and used the axe to chop her up into small pieces. Her wet red clothes were difficult to cut through and he put her spare parts into bin liners and tightened them. Arms and legs went into separate bags. The blood didn't concern him, but time did. He could clean up the blood, but he couldn't turn back the clock.

He loaded up the boot of her old Ford with her torso and stuffed the limbs to each side. He threw in a large spade and the axe. His heart raced as he drove away in the pelting rain, down the swampish roads and turned off the highway and towards the swollen river.

His shirt soaked in the rain as he dug a hole in the soft earth by the moonlight. Flicks of lightning helped him to see, but not by much. A kookaburra laughed at her demise and bats clicked as they flew overhead. The smell of mud and earth slithered into his nostrils and his hands hurt form the constant jarring of the spade. Rain dripped into his eyes and despite the misery, he was happy.

He gathered her parts from the boot and shoved them into the hole and covered her with mud. It was done. He left without saying a prayer.

His drive home was difficult. Panic flooded his system and rain lashed at the windscreen. By the time he arrived home, his strength was gone.

Martin allowed himself a gentle laugh as he walked through to the kitchen. He removed his shoes and socks and placed them in the sink. He froze as he realised how clean everything was. There was no blood where Maria's body had been.

"Good evening, dear. Pleasant trip?"

He turned to see his wife, Maria. She wore a grubby white dress stained red. He had a slight panic attack.

She sneered at him. "You dog. You thought you could get away with it?" Her voice was thick with phlegm and her mouth snarled.

"But you're dead!"

"No, but that whore of yours is. I invited her over for coffee and chopped off her head. I changed and put her in my clothes so you would get rid of her, and if you ever cheat on me again Martin, I'll make you pay." She showed him a DVD disk and laughed. "What's up?" she asked. "You look, what's the word, cut up, m'dear."