Her head throbbed, her ribs hurt, her back and legs ached and the bruises on her arms pulsed in pain. However, despite all this, she felt good. In fact, she felt really good, as in Christmas morning when she was a kid good. The bastard wouldn’t be able to hit or kick her anymore. He was gone for good. She smiled at the thought, and then she chuckled a little until it grew into a full-throated laugh.

She did a little victory dance around the kitchen, laughing aloud and kicking up her heels. She was glad they lived out of town because if a neighbour happened to see her, they’d think she’d gone mad. She stopped after a moment and looked down at the husk of her husband lying on the floor next to the remains of the last meal he’d ever eat.

“The remains with the remains,” she thought to herself. She giggled again. Something suddenly welled up inside and exploded out of her in a great sobbing spasm. She dropped to her knees and wailed into her hands.

These were wails of ecstasy, of relief and of release, great emotional outpourings of joy and happiness at finally being rid of the mongrel cunt. The sobs shook through her body and eventually slowed. She wiped her eyes and face on the back of her sleeve then picked herself up off the floor. Now, all she had to do was get rid of the body.

This proved to be a lot harder to do than she thought. Even after years of unrepentant, vicious abuse from him, she still found it difficult not to have a little bit of sympathy and respect. Justification always came as easily and quickly as his fists and feet. He was sly, though. He never hit her where she couldn’t cover it.

She struggled with him to get his clothes off. These she took and put into a 44-gallon drum in the back yard. It was already stuffed with the rest of his clothes. She poured kero onto the lot and threw a match at it. It whuffed alight and she stirred the mess around with a steel rod, making sure everything in the drum was burning well.

She remembered standing in the kitchen watching him do exactly the same thing many times. He loved burning things in the drum. He’d deliberately collect newspapers, off cuts of timber and any yard rubbish just so he could burn it. About the only time she ever saw any animation in his eyes was when flames were dancing in them.  Or when he was beating the fuck out of her.

She threw the rod to the ground in disgust and went back into the house. The bastard was still lying on the floor, naked and disgusting, his big calloused hands clenched into poison fists and his ugly, blotched face screwed up in surprise and anger. She was surprised to see his penis sticking up hard, as if he were trying to say “fuck you” one last time.

There was a time when she enjoyed his dick, way back when they were both young and before he’d learnt he got more pleasure out of being mean and violent. Or maybe he was always that way and she’d just been cock-struck. Never again, she thought to herself.

She poked the body with her foot and screamed when it farted in response. Then she remembered reading somewhere that bodies did certain things after they died, like get erections and fart. She giggled to herself again then chastised herself for being so silly.

She picked his feet up and dragged him around to the back door. He was really heavy and it was slow going but eventually, she got him outside onto the landing. She got his car keys and drove his ute around as close to the landing as she could. Then she dropped the tailgate down and retrieved a large board from the garden shed. She put this between the landing and the tailgate of the car then started to drag his body across it into the tray of the ute. The board bent and groaned under his weight and for a minute, she thought it would break. But it held and she finally had him in the tray. She threw a big canvas tarpaulin over it, and then closed the tray.

She was about to get in the car when she heard the phone ring in the house. She debated whether to answer it then thought the better of it. She ran back into the house and to the phone on a stand in the hall.

“Hello?” She tried not to sound out of breath.

“Mandy, it’s Trent. Is Teddy there?” Trent was Teddy’s ‘partner’, whatever that meant. They worked together during winter, cutting dead wood to sell as firewood to nearby towns. In summer, they took piecework at any number of local orchards. Teddy could drive a tractor or a forklift as well as big trucks. Trent couldn’t drive a dinky car but used to tag along, pretending to help Teddy. Trent was a weasel, a coward and was stupid to boot.

“No, Trent, he’s not here. I don’t know where he is. I thought he was with you.”

“Fuck, Mandy, just tell him his number is up, okay?”

She started at these words.  What did Trent know about her plans?  “What the hell does that mean, Trent?”

“It means, you dumb bitch, that he won. His fucking number is up, ‘kay. You better fuckin’ tell him or else he’ll fuckin’ kick your arse, again.” He laughed at his own violent little joke.

“Fuck you, Trent, don’t you tell me what to do.”

Trent’s tone changed. He put on his insipid whine. “Aww, look Mandy, just tell him, okay? His number is up and he’ll wanna know.”

“Trent, please tell me what you mean.”

“Fuck, Mandy, no wonder he gets cut at you. His fucking number is up, you know, he won the fucking lotto.” It then dawned on her what Trent was saying.

Teddy always played the lotto, always with the same numbers. Even when they were flat broke, he always found the money to play. He said if he missed a week, his numbers would come up for sure. Of course, they never did, at least not until now.

“Are you sure, Trent? I’d hate to be the one to say he’d finally won only to find out he hadn’t.”

“I know those fucking numbers like I know my birthday. I’ve put ‘em in heaps of times for him, ‘kay? So just fucking tell him.”

“Where is the ticket, Trent?”

“Oh, how the fuck should I know. He usually kept ‘em in his wallet. Or in the top pocket of his work shirt.”

Mandy felt sick. She clasped her hand over her mouth to stop herself vomiting. “I have to go, Trent.”

“Just make sure he knows.” Trent hung up.

She stared at the handset in one hand, the other still covering her mouth. The words ‘wallet’ and ‘workshirt’ played over and over in her head. That would be the wallet and workshirt burnt beyond recognition in the 44-gallon drum in the backyard. Her eyes widened with horror and she screamed.