Jars of Anger

A short story set in a future not too far away. As women are subject to ever tighter controls, 'Mrs Fixit' has been helping those in need.

I'm Vikki, mum of three. I mainly write about how I balance raising my kids with working, maintaining a household and trying to carve out time for myself, hopefully with a humourous slant. Sometimes I also post short fiction that I've written. This is one of those Other Stories.

In hindsight she thought, as she sat in the interrogation room, handcuffs biting at her wrists, she probably shouldn't have laughed.

A dawn raid: roused from their beds; their property invaded by officers who buzzed through it like drone bees, leaving not a corner undisturbed. Thinking back all she could picture was her husband's face in that moment. Poor Bill. She closed her eyes. She knew that face better than she knew her own.

While she was still too shell-shocked to register what was happening, Bill had been the first to find his voice. It quivered, whether with fear or anger she could barely tell. "What the hell is the meaning of this? Don't you need a warrant or something?"

"Nope." said the detective, pulling out the boxes stacked on top of the wardrobe and rifling through them. "Not when you're a suspect in a murder."

"Murder? I haven't killed anybody!" The disbelief in Bill's voice was palpable but the detective ignored him and, satisfied the boxes held nothing of interest, dumped them on the floor and moved onto the chest of drawers.

She felt sick as he pulled out her underwear, briefly inspecting each piece before dropping them to the floor. After thirty-five years of marriage there was nothing particularly sexy there, but the way he rubbed the fabric between his fingers before discarding them felt salicious. Then he found it. "Aha!" he spun round to face them. "See? Murder," he cried, waving the sprig of lavender at them, "by witchcraft!"

They'd had to knock her on the head to stop her from giggling; she couldn't stop the nervous laughter once it had started. Now she was worried again about poor Bill, had she seen him also take a beating as he tried to defend her, prevent them from throwing her in the back of the police van? She had an ache in her jaw from where they'd hit her and she hoped that he was safe and not in another cell.

She let the anger wash over her. It warmed her body and soothed her pain. Then she folded it up small and filed it away. She preserved her anger like others canned fruit; stored it in jars at the back of her mind until she needed it.

It was useful when she needed extra energy: a secret weapon she'd originally used to help keep the house clean. A good dose of anger powered her through the mopping and dusting. The fresher stuff was best but she did have a few vintages she'd bring forth when she needed some extra oomph, like for cleaning the oven. And over the years she'd found it useful in completing all kinds of less-than-savoury tasks.

The door opened and the same detective walked in holding some files under his arm. He sat across from her and studied her face for a moment before spreading crime scene photos across the desk in front of her. Photos of dead men.

"This is a small town, but there's been a LOT of accidents lately. A lot of men, good men, meeting untimely deaths. What do you know about all that?"

For a start, she wouldn't call them "good men", at least they weren't to their wives. "Well, I'm not one to judge, but I'd guess a lot of them drink too much."

"Hmmm. Not one to judge, yet you've been heard saying their wives were better off without them. And you know what people call you? Mrs Fixit. Why do you think that is?"

She shrugged. "I think it's mainly about getting stains out of things. Is it a crime to have knowledge and use it to help others?"

"It's a crime to kill. And then there's Billy Donovan and Tom Walters." the detective continued.

She kept her face as neutral as possible. "Are they dead too?"

"No, but they've been unable to get their girlfriends pregnant. You know the girls, didn't you?"

She nodded. "I tutored them. They both talked about wanting to leave for university, not about wanting babies, though. Maybe the reason they're not pregnant is they were being responsible and using protection?"

He slammed his hand on the table, reminding her that this wasn't a game. "All girls want babies! And those fellas had no problems with their ex-wives so why are they suddenly shooting blanks?"

"Are you suggesting that I'm giving men vasectomies while they're asleep?" she asked innocently. "And you're accusing me of murder? You think I'm clever enough to have orchestrated those accidents you were talking about?"

"Of course not!" he snorted. "You put a hex on them."

She bit her lip to catch her tongue. She'd been so careful not to leave any trace. Someone must have talked, there was no other way of linking her to everything. That thought made her angry but this time she didn't bottle the feeling straight away.

Anger was more useful than fear: she knew how to use it so she let it wash over her until it felt like she had armour painted on. She'd spent a lifetime looking soft, appearing delicate. She'd learned to wrap her sharp edges in a layer of marshmallow so no-one could tell what she was capable of. But if it had to come out then they were all going to learn.

This world wasn't built for clever women; often it seemed to be specifically built against them. She knew this and she'd fought anyway. At first with words, then protests, marches. Still the world had worsened, and so had she. They couldn't find a shred of evidence against her so now they were crying "witch", well, she'd give them a witch. She was ready.

They were interrupted by the sound of a knock. She glanced up at the mirror behind him: two-way glass. He looked over his shoulder too, then swiftly stood and swept out the door without another word. She sat alone for a moment, taking the time to strategise.

The door opened and a female officer in her late thirties walked in. She recognised her from the raid. While the men had been throwing her belongings about and breaking things this woman had quietly studied her bookshelves, leafed through the pamphlets on the table. Observing. Seeing. Looking deeper. Now she unlocked the handcuffs and said, "Go. Go now. They can't burn us all."

Thank you for reading, I’d love to hear what you think! Should I try writing more about this character? What would you name her?