Brief Treatment

VI. Out with the Bathwater

Norman returns from dinner, drunk—stops cold. Elizabeth’s luggage. Her fur coat. Then, her voice. Upstairs, his wife’s silhouette moves behind the frosted bathroom door, running a bath. She’s home—returned a night early.

Panic turns to opportunity. He recalls the classic Brides in the Bath murder method: a jerk of the ankles, hydraulic shock, submersion, drowning. Clean. No evidence of foul play. It’s perfect.

Upstairs, he hesitates—until her road-drill voice calls to him. He enters the dim, misted bathroom and creeps toward her bath cap. First attempt—failure. Her ankles slip; he faceplants into the corner. Improvisation takes over. With brute force, he drowns her the old-fashioned way.

Silence.

Shock flips to elation. The shift is immediate—rehearsal becomes reality. He leaves the body in the tub. Steadies. Calm now. Transformed. In control. Officially a murderer.

Visions of disposal flicker—bodies in trunks, canals, flames. He settles on the cellar, descends with her luggage and coat to dig a grave.

VII. Red Handed

Norman digs in the cellar—mid-disposal—muttering old trial transcripts. 

Upstairs: Stenning, off duty, returns to check in—house ajar, lights on. Something’s off. He enters, following the voice. Norman emerges from the cellar, mid-recitation—caught off guard.

Stenning presses: he heard a confession. Norman deflects—another “reenactment” of an old court case. Polite turns adversarial. Stenning lingers—imposes. Norman holds—barely.

Uninvited, Stenning offers himself a drink. Downs it, then asks to use the loo.

Pressure spikes. Norman stalls—too late. Stenning heads for the bathroom—for the body. Nearly at the door, Norman diverts him: it’s out of order. Clogged. He’ll have to use the rose bushes.

Outside, Stenning relieves himself—Mrs Ramage peeping. Inside, Norman watches both—the thrill sharpening. A genuine thrill this time. Stenning returns, unsettled that Mrs Ramage may have seen. One last probe about the whereabouts of his wife, Elizabeth? Norman shuts it down.

Taking the hint, Stenning leaves—all the more suspicious.

Alone, Norman moves fast—types a forged letter in Elizabeth’s voice: she’s left him for another.

Back to the cellar: quicklime dusted on the grave. Control restored. Back on top. 

VIII. Matching Suitcase

While Norman works in the cellar, Elizabeth arrives—alive. Drops her bag and coat, then heads back to the car for more.

While she’s out, Norman emerges—stops. Another fur coat. Another suitcase. Same nameplate. Wrong place. De ja vu. 

Someone’s at the door—her. Impossible. Yet there she is.

Panic fractures into realisation: he killed the wrong woman. Millie was impersonating Elizabeth, trying to call his bluff. The woman he loved is dead. The intended victim stands before him—alive and staring daggers.

He holds it together—almost. Elizabeth, irritated, explains her early return and need for a bath.

He intercepts—stalling with a drink, deflecting, obstructing. Their dynamic resurfaces—sharp, bitter, familiar. He steadies her with alcohol—it works temporarily. She heads for the stairs. He redirects—car, snow, anything to delay. She relents—storms out to put the car in the garage.

Alone, Norman bolts upstairs to Millie’s body in the bath. He drains it, hauls her out—fumbling. The body slips—down the stairs. Too late. He drags her back to the tub—resets just before…

…Elizabeth returns. Heads upstairs. He tries to stop her—fails.

She enters the bathroom. Sees Millie. Dead in her tub. In a wig. Wearing her Bathcap.

IX. Prenuptial

Elizabeth confronts him with one look. She knows.

Norman claims it was an accident. She dismantles him—calm, precise, surgical—until the question lands: why didn’t he call for an ambulance immediately? He buckles. She connects it—his Brides in the Bath murderer obsession. Not chance. A sex game gone wrong.

Desperate, he pivots: an accident, a fall, a clean story for the police. He begs. She listens—then turns it: why should she provide his alibi?

He counters with leverage—her career, her reputation, their marriage. If he falls, she doesn’t walk away clean. He’ll make sure of it. The balance shifts.

She asks about his plan. Quicklime. Burial. Amateur hour. No body, no crime—but a missing person with no credible story either. As a doctor, she reframes it: it must read as an accident. She slipped and fell. A tragic accident. Norman sees it—hope returning.

She sets her terms: no divorce, absolute fidelity, a flawless public marriage. He agrees.

Elizabeth takes control—orders him to conceal the grave.

X. Webs We Weave

At the cellar door, Elizabeth spots it—her coat and suitcase beside freshly turned earth. She replays his reaction to her early arrival. Not surprise. But shock. Terror.

It lands: she was the target. Millie took her place. He drowned the wrong woman.

He denies it—pointless. The balance flips. She lays it out: a failed conspiracy, a fatal miscalculation, the wig, the bathcap, the misty bathroom. He scrambles—nothing sticks. So he pivots: call Sergeant Stenning, end it here. Without trust, there’s no point in striking a deal.

She doesn’t call. Instead, she tightens the terms—colder, harsher. He resists; she reminds him he needs her alibi. Checkmate. Time is against them. They align on one path: he stages it as an accident while she calls the police. Clinical. Immediate. They’ll settle their agreement later.

A look—understanding. Norman heads to the bathroom to stage Millie’s fall. Elizabeth watches. As his back turns, a flicker of smug triumph.

XI. Sentimental Waltz

About to call the police, Elizabeth finds the forged farewell letter—proof Norman meant to "disappear" his wife. Suspicion confirmed. Upstairs, he stages Millie’s “accident.” She confronts him—rage erupts. He attacks. They crash down the stairs. She’s out cold.

He recovers first—pivots: frame Elizabeth for killing his mistress, then stage her suicide. Perfect motive. He drags her to the kitchen, rigs the gas. She revives, but plays dead. As he leans in, she strikes—stabbing a meat thermometer into his gut. He staggers back while reading his internal temperature.

She cuts the gas stove. Breathes fresh air. Control flips.

Norman limps to the bay window—calls for help—then realises: he discredited Mrs Ramage. No one will believe her.

Behind him, Elizabeth starts a hidden voice recording—constructing her version of events. She performs a false attack for the audio, pleading victim in voice while, in reality, she advances, stalks, and wounds Norman.

Playing it up, she panics at the window for Mrs Ramage—then seals the view with curtains. Inside, she builds the crime in sound: screams, struggle, self-inflicted blows—evidence of “assault.” Norman, losing blood, can’t reconcile the contradiction.

She closes in—cutting him down while narrating self-defence. Whispering, off-mic, she drops the act—baiting him, promising to take credit for both bodies.

Desperate to preserve his legacy, Norman corrects her—loud, precise. He confesses—intent, premeditation, ownership, credit. All captured.

She stops the recorder. Thanks him for the alibi. 

Bewildered, he collapses—bleeding out—scrawling a final confession in blood: I killed her.

Knocking—forced entry. Stenning and officers flood the house.

Too late.

Norman fades. Collapses.