by Iris Carden
Out damn spot! Karen
groaned, and rolled over. Lady Macbeth. She was thinking of Lady
Macbeth. Lady Macbeth awake in the middle of the night, trying to
clean away her guilt. How could you wash away guilt? Not when the red
blood was running down the walls of the house of sin. Was that Lady
Macbeth? No, it was another play, wasn't it? Agamemnon – it was the
prophetess – what was her name? Iphagenia or something?
Could she wash away
the guilt, the sin? How much could be washed away? Karen decided to
try. She wasn't really sleeping anyway. Just dosing, and being nagged
by thoughts of blood and sin and evil.
Perhaps she could wash
it all away. She started in the kitchen. She'd heard on A Current
Affair that there could be millions of micro organisms in the
kitchen – e.coli and other
disease-causing nasties. She pulled on her gloves, got out the
“hospital strength” disinfectant, and began scrubbing.
She
emptied cupboards, and scrubbed down the shelves, she washed and
rewashed every pan, fork, dish. She threw all the tea towels and
table cloths in the washing machine. She swept and mopped the floor.
Then she got out a scrubbing brush and on hands and knees scrubbed
every corner of the floor. She cleaned the oven, and emptied the
fridge and cleaned it out.
Next
was the lounge. She vacuumed, dusted, tidied and polished. She washed
windows, cleaned the sills, washed fan blades. She found some sugar
soap in the laundry and washed down walls.
Then
it was the bedrooms. She emptied wardrobes, turned mattresses,
vacuumed and vacuumed again. She washed curtains, and washed sheets.
She hung quilts outside to air in the sun. When had it become
daytime? It had been night when she started, she was sure of it.
There was still so much to do. What was the time? She looked at the
clock. Midday? How had that happened? She should eat something,
breakfast, lunch, something. But that would dirty the kitchen, and
she'd only just got it clean.
Karen
went on to the linen cupboard, emptied everything out and started to
wash shelves, and re-arrange linen. Was it clean enough? How clean
was clean enough? If A Current Affair
checked her house, would they find the blood dripping down the wall,
the deadly e.coli, the
house of sin? Out damn spot!
The
laundry. She mopped, scrubbed, washed walls, sorted shelves, washed
down the washing machine (between the constant loads she was running)
and the dryer. Why was it dark when she went out to hang out that
last load of wash? How late was it now? Seven pm? Seven? What time
had she started? Two am? Something like that? Was the house clean
yet?
The
front patio was next. It was swept, tidied, the furniture
re-arranged. Then everything was hosed down for good measure. When
A Current Affair came with their
cameras and their test kits, they wouldn't find the e.coli,
the sin, or the blood. Not on Karen's patio. She wouldn't be the
housewife caught out for everyone in Australia to see, and know that
her drains were death traps, that her house was evil. Out damn spot!
There were no spots in her house, or there wouldn't be. When the
Trojan prophetess saw the walls, would she see the blood and the
guilt? Not, if Karen could help it.
She
was aware that she was hungry, but she couldn't stop, there was too
much to do, and to eat would mess up the kitchen. She was tired as
well. But if she went to bed, she would have to wash the sheets
again. She'd have to hide the evidence, the guilt, couldn't let the
prophetess or A Current Affair,
or CSI catch her out.
The spots would all have to be gone, then she could eat, then she
could rest.
Next
was the toilet. She knew the germs and micro organisms loved the
toilet. She began by scrubbing the walls, and the floor, with
“hospital strength” disinfectant. She the window. She cleaned
the cistern – inside as well as out – it paid to be careful.
There was no knowing where A Current Affair
or CSI would look. A
prophetess fresh off the ship from Troy, what would Appollo let her
see? Wash it away, the germs, the e.coli,
the blood, the sin. Out, out, out damn spot!
She
scrubbed the bowl, flushed, scrubbed again. Then she carefully
disinfected all of the pipes that were visible. Every nook and
cranny.
That
was it – there was only one room left.
Karen
went into the bathroom. She began with walls, windows, curtain.
Disinfectant, lots of disinfectant. Who knew what was lurking? House
of sin. The red blood is dripping down the wall. Scrub, scrub.
She
washed the mirror, and looked at her reflection. A woman in her pink
satin nightie and oversized yellow cleaning gloves. Her hair was
unbrushed, and there were huge dark semi-circles under her eyes, and
a huge purple bruise beginning to show across most of the left side
of her face. Two teeth were broken. She looked like some sort of
tormented being, like Lady Macbeth. Out, out, out, damn spot!
What
time was it? Through the window the sky had gone from black to
glowing red, with black on top. Sunrise was coming soon. And she
hadn't slept since when? She was tired, but she wasn't finished. No,
she wasn't finished. They could come at any time; the prophetess, A
Current Affair, CSI,
the police. If she didn't finish, they'd find it all, the e.coli,
the blood, the sin, the guilt. Out, damn spot! How much had Lady
Macbeth had to scrub to get rid of that spot? The floor, time to
disinfect the floor. “Hospital strength” disinfectant, was that
the strongest you could get? Was it really what they used in
hospitals? Hospitals had to be really clean, didn't they? You
couldn't have micro organisms in hospital.
She'd
left it to last – the absolute worst part. The bathtub. How could
she deal with it? Clean it the same as everything else, she decided
at last. Throw out the rubbish, and then scrub and scrub and scrub
with her brush and her “hospital strength disinfectant”. That was
how she would do it. She'd get rid of the blood, the sin, the guilt,
the e.coli. She'd be
ready when A Current Affair
arrived, not like the woman whose house had the micro organisms in
the kitchen for all Australia to see.
Garbage
bags, that's what she needed – strong ones. She knew she should get
the ones from the garden shed. (Why hadn't she thought to clean the
garden shed? Who knew what evil, guilty, micro organisms could be
growing in there?)
In
the garden shed, she found the strong bags, and another thing she'd
need: the ratchet-powered secateurs, the long-handled ones that Barry
used to cut thick branches. That's how she'd handle the garbage from
the bathtub, the same way Barry handled the big branches he'd pruned
– but them down into smaller bits, put them in the strong bags, and
then put them in the wheelie bin. Of course, after the garbage truck
had been, she'd have to disinfectant the wheelie bin.
She
took the secateurs and extra strong bags to the bathroom. Just cut
the rubbish up, put it in the bags, and put the bags in the bin. Then
she could scrub out the tub with her “hospital strength”
disinfectant, and forever get rid of the sin, the guilt, the evil,
the blood, the e.coli.
Not even the prophetess, or CSI,
or A Current Affair
would find any sign of it.
Just
cut up the rubbish into small enough pieces. How big a piece was
small enough to handle? She positioned the extra strong, extra sharp,
ratchet-powered secateurs at Barry's elbow. Half an arm, she should
be able to lift, after all, most of the blood had gone down the drain
by now, hadn't it? It had to be lighter than it had been when it had
hit her that last time, and every other time. She cut, the thud was
sickening. But suddenly, she knew it was going to be all right. For
the first time, she really believed she could do it. The end was in
sight. A few more cuts, take out the garbage, and it would be all
over.
Then
she just had to wash up. There'd be no more blood, no more guilt, no
more e.coli, no more
sin. She'd be ready when they came to the door: all of them, the
police, CSI, A
Current Affair, the Trojan
prophetess. She would smile when they swabbed her drains and tested
for micro organisms. All Australia would see she was ready, her home
was clean. Lady Macbeth would wash away her spot.
