Lily's head lay heavily on my lap. I brushed wandering strands of hair back from her porcelain temples and untangled them from her long black eyelashes. She was quite beautiful. Exquisite, even.
A moorhen appeared around one of the shabby, cloud-coloured gravestones and gave us a crooked look before padding its way down the steep bank and launching itself out onto the river. The current took hold and in a few seconds, it was gone.
I sighed deeply and felt a peace that I had had not known for the longest time. After all the fights and arguments, the petty jealousies and bitter recriminations, we were reconciled, Lily and I. The sin and the wickedness of the world washed away.
The sun filtered weakly down from the watery blue sky, not quite reaching the frozen ground where we lay beneath the yew tree, but I was quite comfortable.
A robin perched on a carved marble skull and sang to us, and for a moment I was lost in the sweet song, and I forgot that robins are murderers too — they will fight to the death to protect what is theirs. I was just happy to be there with Lily; like Tristan and Isolde in the spring.
But the darkness would not let us alone, it always creeps in. Nothing goes uncorrupted. All things move towards their end, and our peace was no different. The graveyard gate screeched a terrible warning, and I twisted to see a heavy-set woman — Head of the W.I. type — fussing along the path the way these women do, wicker basket, coat, scarf and ridiculous knitted hat. The anger rose in my chest like bile, and I had to look away.
I focussed on Lily, I let her fill my thoughts and my breathing slowed. She was a picture of loveliness. I smoothed her shoulder and her cheek with my fingers and I’m sure we looked quite serene, sat there among the snowdrop sprinkled grass.
Patent leather heels click-clacked closer and closer. I chose the spot with great care, it’s a quiet place, not overlooked from any angle and is perfectly private. The church is out of the way and it’s not common for people to cut through unless they’re visiting a grave. Even so, the footsteps paused at our yew and I tensed. My thoughts went to the little pearl-handled knife I kept in my coat pocket.
“Good morning,” trilled the woman. Chief Jumble Sale Organiser, no doubt.
“Good morning,” I replied, without enthusiasm.
“Is it not a little cold to be lying out?” said the woman, Captain of the All-Women’s Lawn Bowls Association, her voice that perfect balance of accusation and innocence that people have when they pretend to ask but are actually telling; as if she and she alone had the right to decide, as if upon her shoulders lay the burden of earthly righteousness.
I turned my head only slightly; I did not wish for her to see my face and I did not want to disturb Lily. “We are quite happy,” I said. I daresay I did not do a good job of hiding the acid in my tone, my fury at the intrusion on our perfect morning was evident.
I recognised her type. Nosy. Bossy. Controlling. They aren’t used to having anyone stand up to them. She didn’t move but had clearly run out of things to say. I could almost hear her mouth opening and closing behind me. “Well, I… I must say…” she stammered.
My patience evaporated like my breath in the cold air. “No, you must not say,” I spat. “In fact, don’t say another word. Just leave us alone.” I could not see her reaction, but I could picture it; the reddening of her face, her eyes bulging with indignation.
The woman gave a squeak of rage and harrumphed away, her heels making even more noise in retreat than they did in approach. The muscles in my shoulders relaxed.
“There, there,” I reassured Lily. “Don’t worry, my love. She’s gone now.” We sat for a moment longer, but the peace was ruined and my mind began to race once more. I doubted that the woman would be back, but I could not take the chance.
I moved Lily’s head down onto the earth and folded her ivory hands across her chest. It had been my intention to wade out into the river with her, but the bank was too steep and I found that at the last, I had no desire to get my boots wet, so I rolled her down to the water’s edge.
I thought of Ophelia, the Millais painting. I had taken Lily to see it many times, and I’m sure she would have appreciated the resemblance. The blooming scarlet flowers of blood on her calico dress ruined the effect, but it could not be helped.
I knelt on the frosted grass and kissed her cheek one last time, then I eased her body out onto the water. So beautiful. So perfect. The river swallowed her with a soft gulp, belched crudely, and Lily was gone.
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Tom Cornfoot is a writer, designer, and illustrator. He’s spent over 30 years carefully developing a style of handwriting that’s almost illegible, doodling, and never getting around to learning to play the guitar.
These stories are plucked from the air, like everything else. There’s no consistent link or thread, unless of course you find one, in which case, it was entirely planned that way.
Words and pictures © 2025 Tom Cornfoot
You took us inside the mind of a remorseless killer. This passage epitomized his soullessness: "...but the bank was too steep and I found that at the last, I had no desire to get my boots wet, so I rolled her down to the water’s edge." Well done, Tom.
A slow, creeping, disturbing revelation of madness. It did not surprise me she was dead. Tension was built from the very first sentence. I WAS surprised, however, by the chills I got as he rolled her into the water. Mission accomplished, Tom.