I thank my LadyCibelle and Techsan for their patience, proof reading, editing skills and of course encouragement they always give me. As I've been known to fiddle with stories, after they've seen it. I take full responsibility for the content and any cock-ups in this story.
While I'm at it, I think from now on I'm going to thank all my friends out there, who write to me and encourage me to continue writing and posting these demented ravings of mine. Your emails are greatly appreciated.
This is not a stroke story, so if you were looking for one of those kind-of tales, I would suggest you'd be better served looking elsewhere.
I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time. "Damn, it was still only ten minutes to eight." My mind calculated. Ten minutes to the end of my life, as I knew it. Or would it be? Would she change her mind and not come? I looked down at the manila envelope I held in my hand. Damn, why, how had it come to this?
Lindsey and I had been married seven years. Hey, was that it? No, it can't be, I thought. It was guys who were supposed to get the seven-year itch, not wives. Life had been good to us, I had a good job but I was home most of the time. We had three lovely children on whom Lindsey appeared to dote. We had no money worries and she hadn't shown any signs that she didn't love me anymore or was getting bored. So why was she doing this? What was her problem?
Let's go back a bit and I'll tell you how this all started. I think I can actually put a date on it: the early part of last January. That was when BT upgraded our local telephone exchange and that enabled us to finally get broadband Internet access. Of course I signed up straight away and spent a good few hours playing around on it. Jesus, what a bleeding change from the old dial-up.
Lindsey sat and watched me for a couple of nights. She had never been into computers but decided she'd better bone up on using it, as the children would soon be at an age where they would want to play on it and use it for study.
"What with all this in the news about paedophiles and the like approaching young girls on the Internet, I'd better know my way around so they can't blind me with science!" Lindsey had said.
Lindsey signed up at a local college for a computer starter course. I'm at home with a computer but I've got to admit I'm not much good at teaching other people how to use them. I'm too damned impatient by half, like when the pupil has a problem and I've fixed it before the pupil knows what the hell has happened. "Yeah, great, but what the hell did you do? You did it so fast I couldn't keep up!" The times I heard that one.
I know Lindsey got on great with her computer beginner's course, and she even joined a mothers watchdog group that someone advertised down at the local library. All I ever got to know about the group is that they apparently monitored children's chartrooms looking for dodgy characters and the like. I've got to admit that I never did take much notice.
I remember Lindsey saying that she wasn't going to have too much time to do anything herself for the time being, as those chat-rooms needed monitoring when the kids were home from school. Whilst ours were so young she just wouldn't have the time. But she said there would come a time when the children got a little older when she could do her fair share.
For maybe a month or two Lindsey was on the computer a couple of hours every evening, chatting away to friends she made in this group of hers. I can't say I took too much notice, although I'll admit it did cut into my own computer time. I can remember thinking we'd have to get another set-up if she kept this up. But then the novelty of it appeared to wear off, as quite suddenly Lindsey stopped going on the net and took to having long conversations on the telephone in the kitchen, obviously to other mothers in her awareness group, some of which I knew from the school, others I didn't.
Well, time went on and Lindsey must have started using our home set-up during the day whilst I was at work - Lindsey was a stay-at-home mum - because I rarely saw her use it in the evenings anymore. Well, maybe just on a couple of occasions to write the odd letter and the like.
Now as far as I knew, things were going along just fine with our marriage. Well, that was until just after my birthday in late May. My mum and dad sent me a nice new digital video camera so that I could film the children growing up and send them copies on disk.
Oh, I'd better explain. Once my father had retired, my folks had moved out to New Zealand to live near my brother and sister who had both emigrated with their respective families some years back. No, we didn't emigrate, although I wanted to; Lindsey didn't want to move so far away from her family. I suppose I can't blame her.
But, hey, video takes up a damn sight more room on a hard drive than still pictures do, so it called for a bit of an upgrade on my system. Which was going to take the form of a larger hard drive, the maximum memory I could fit on the motherboard and some general tidying up of the computer's installation. You know getting rid of all that junk stuff and programs that you don't really need installed on there. Eventually I decided on a complete reinstall.
Look, I do a bit of writing on the side, so I keep all kinds of junk programs on my computer. Whilst installing the new drive I had to decide what to get rid of, and what to keep. One program that I'd picked up somewhere along the line was a key tracker. Did it work? Well, I didn't have the faintest idea? What use was it to me? Well, I got hold of it in the first place because I thought it would be handy to keep an eye on what the children got up to when they were old enough to get on the computer. You know you hear some bloody funny stories. But in the meantime, the disk had been laying around with all the other junk in my desk draw.
Anyway, before I installed the new hard drive, I figured it wouldn't do any harm to run the key tracking program and a couple of other odd freebies I had lying around, to see if they were any bottle. As I said I was planning a clean install after I'd fitted the new hard drive so it made sense to check out these programs under the old installation. I installed the key tracker and the other programs, then played around with them for a while. The key tracker I left on the system set to run from start up. I'd see what it had done in a few days.
Did I tell Lindsey about the key tracker? Well, no, I didn't, I couldn't see there was much point, as I doubted she would know what a key tracker was anyway.
It was on the following Saturday morning Lindsey had gone out shopping with her mother taking the children along. I figured she'd go round her mother's for lunch; that was her normal Saturday routine and it allowed me to get on the computer and play for a while, without any disturbance.
I went back to the computer to find out whether the bloody key tracker had recorded anything. To be honest I was highly sceptical that it would have recorded anything. "Well, bugger me!" I thought, when I turned the read back function on it had recorded a whole load of crap. Pages and pages of bloody rubbish that I couldn't really make much sense of.
There I was scrolling through an endless list of individual keystrokes, trying to make heads or tails of what I was seeing. Until suddenly I realised that someone had been accessing a strange email account! Well, there was a bloody sign-in name and email address, you know those bloody @ signs stand out like a sore thumb, and then a bleeding password. The email address I didn't recognise but the password definitely rang a bell. HARBEL would mean nothing to most people but it was the first three letters of my wife's father's and mother's Christian names. They'd used it as the name of their canal boat.
But I'm afraid it was the email address email@example.com that had definitely got my undivided attention, a bit on the lively side. The most annoying thing, or maybe it was the thing that caught my eye in the first place, was that name Sexy-legs. That had been one of my older pet names for Lindsey. But I must add I hadn't used it in years... well, since our first born started repeating things. Funny how you have to change your vocabulary when the kids come along, isn't it?
Pissed off, you bloody bet I was. Lindsey was not only the only other person who used our damned computer, but she was also 33 years old. Take 33 from 2005 and guess what you get? Yeah, you got it; 1972 - the year Lindsey was born. Sexylegs1972! What kind of a bleeding email address is that for a married woman with children to be using?
"Just a bleeding minute," I remember thinking, "just who was Lindsey writing to using a name like that?" I'll give you one guess as to what my next action was. Well, of course I logged on to the email host and did some snooping. Fuck the bleeding key tracker. I didn't need that anymore; I was on the warpath and into that bleeding email account quicker than greased bloody lightning.
Now if there is one thing that Lindsey has always been, then it's a bloody hoarder. A bit like me really, she hadn't deleted a bloody thing, not one bloody email from the Prat, by the look of it. All stored away nicely, were all of her emails to and from firstname.lastname@example.org.
"I'll give the bleeder Dream-fucking-boat!" I thought to myself. I fucking ask you, what kind of a slimy castrated git uses a name like that? Oh, the castrated bit... well, that's what he was going to be when I got my bloody hands on the bugger.
.... There is more of this story ...