He didn't wake up and struggle, she was glad for that. It wasn't the struggling that bothered her, but having to explain herself.

For a second nothing seemed to happen. He just lay there, the only difference being that this particular morning a knife was sticking out of his neck.

A tiny trickle of blood appeared at the groove in the blade and then, as if liberated, came flooding out and stained the white sheets crimson.

Strangely, at that particular moment she wasn't thinking about him at all but was remembering the morning the knife came into her possession outside Kenna's shop.

It was a bright warm Saturday and a good morning for shopping.

A group of people walked around the knife as it lay naked on the pavement, staring, fascinated, but at the same time avoiding it because of its vicious look, spoiling their innocent errands by its very presence. She heard the words "robbery" and "jumpover" mumbled from the crowd.

On an impulse she'd picked the knife up, and with a slight feeling of embarrassment dropped the thing into her environmentally friendly shopping bag, not really knowing why until now.

As it turned out the knife was pretty much useless. At home she'd scrubbed it clean. The serrated edge suggested a very good bread knife but when she tried to cut a loaf it hacked the bread to bits so she knew immediately tomatoes were out of the question. It was very pointy and sharp at the top so she tried eyeing potatoes but the thing was far too cumbersome. A tiny compass on top of the handle showed her flat faced eastwards, that was that.

It was a mystery as to why she'd picked that particular morning to kill him. He'd given her a punch on the arm the night before which left an ugly bruise, just to put her in her place. But she had learned her place a long time ago. He'd taught her that much, over and over again. The difference was, this time he'd hit her in an almost joking, friendly sort of manner.

The argument arose over the DVD player that Mrs Obdje from upstairs was selling, cheap. Mrs Obdje had won some money on the Lotto and was buying everything new for her flat. He loved films and had wanted to get a DVD player but for some reason didn't want to take this opportunity.

She made the mistake of arguing the point with him.

Knowing it was a grave error even as the first word came out of her mouth. That's when he gave her the friendly dig and had said "go on you sap".

But why hadn't she killed him the time he beat her so badly she had to stay indoors for three weeks, quiet as a mouse and later lying to her friends and neighbours that she'd been to Birmingham to visit an ailing sister. Or the time he'd knocked her front teeth out. Or the worst time of all when with blood blinded swollen eyes she had to make her way to the nuns' flat on the second floor for help. She struggled down the staircase with only the handrail as a guide.

It took all her concentration to count the stairs from the seventh floor to the second. She had hoped that nobody would see her but just as she got to the balcony where the nuns had their flat she heard the sniggers of two little boys. Only when she got into the safety of the flat and felt the nun adjusting her torn blouse did she realise her breasts were exposed.

For a long time after that the kids in the flats had nicknamed her 'red titties'.

It was then she'd wanted him dead, imagined him falling from a scaffold on a building site or being run over by a lorry or getting into a fight in a pub and being beaten to death by five strong men and many such violent endings.

His blood slowly soaked the sheets, gathered in puddles and disappeared down into the mattress.

She wondered if she had enough money to hire a rubbish skip and also buy a new mattress.

But then figured the police would probably take the mattress as evidence. The thought brought her some comfort.

Suddenly another problem struck her, if his blood seeped all the way through the mattress it'd drip onto the carpet and that would have to be changed too.

It was amazing how much blood a human body contained and a wonder there was space for the heart and lungs and kidneys and such. That made her think of dinner. There was pasta in the kitchen but no sauce. She'd get some in the supermarket and have a really nice meal before she went to the police. The only trouble was, it was far too early to eat, but she wasn't sure if they fed you in the police station. They must do, she thought, but wasn't sure what the food would be like.

Porridge sprung to mind but that was just a silly idea.

She wondered were the police the same as they are on television, on programmes such as The Bill for instance. On those shows, if someone gave themselves up they were always kind and sympathetic. They'd bring hot tea and cigarettes and the like into the cell. "Cooperated with them, " that was the term they used. They'd even say it to the judge at the trial that the person was good and cooperated and didn't cause any trouble at all. Then the judge would be easier on that person and even if he had to give out a sentence it would be the easiest sentence he could think of.

She'd never known anyone who'd been to prison. There was that terribly rough woman who'd lived next door for a while, she'd gone to great lengths avoiding her and was sorry to have done that now.

Then a terrible thought struck her. What if a policeman came to the door at that very moment for some other reason altogether and discovered the body? They'd never believe that she meant to give herself up. "You were going to give yourself up?" they'd say and add in mocking tones, "Yeah, we believe you."

She decided she was being silly thinking of the police calling to the door. They'd lived in that flat for 22 years and a policeman had never called, not even on one occasion.

Blood still seeped out, slower now. She wondered if he was still alive and thought of feeling his pulse but dismissed that because as a girl she had played at being a nurse and could never find a pulse anyway. He gurgled for a second, just a tiny little gurgle so she guessed he was still alive all right.

The washing machine in the kitchen began its final spin which reminded her to put a capful of bleach into the basin where the net curtains soaked, to keep them white. That was the trouble with smoking, everything ended up the same shade of brown. She looked around the room and wondered what it would look like painted lilac, her favourite colour, or yellow even, that would brighten it up.

That made her think of the yellow dress in the window of the charity shop across from the supermarket. It wasn't really yellow, it was pale blue with large yellow flowers but from the distance it looked pure yellow. It was short, well, above the knee anyway and it didn't have sleeves.

She still had that ugly bruise on her shoulder from the punch but her lilac cardigan would cover that. Then she changed her mind because anybody could have a bruise on their shoulder. There was no humiliation in that. It was not as if she had two black eyes and a burst lip or that her legs were bruised all over.

The dress only cost 12. She could wear it to the police station. It was turning out to be a very nice day, the sun was already warm.

So, get the shopping, then the dress, come home, put on the dinner and go get changed. It wouldn't take long to cook, it was fresh egg pasta but that'd still give her time to change. She'd decided not to wear any makeup.

Then a really good idea occurred to her. She'd get a plastic sack and tear it open and place it under the bed. Then put newspaper on top of that and it should soak the blood and save the carpet. The curtains were soaking in the basin. Experience had taught her it was sheer hell trying to get bloodstains out of that carpet.

She wondered would the police leave everything in a mess when they searched the house? Would there be fingerprint dust on everything? On all the glasses in the kitchen and the table in the sitting room? She didn't know what fingerprint dust looked like but imagined it must be like baking soda or flour after you sieve it. She closed her eyes a moment and could see fine powder floating in rays of sunlight all over her flat and landing gently on every surface.

Then a very strange thing happened. The body seemed to stop moving. It wasn't moving anyway but now it seemed to move even less. It was very peculiar that. But one thing she knew, at that moment he was dead.

Laurence Byrne was short-listed for the Hennessy First Fiction Award two years ago. He lives in Crumlin.

'Housekeeping' is part of a group of stories dealing with life in a Dublin community.

How to enter New Irish Writing, edited by chief critic Ciaran Carty, is published on the first Sunday of every month and is open to writers who are Irish or who are resident in Ireland. All stories published will be eligible for Hennessy Literary Awards, which will be announced in April 2008. Stories should not exceed 2,500 words. Up to six poems may be submitted.

Address entries (with a SAE) to: New Irish Writing, Sunday Tribune, 15 Lower Baggot Street, Dublin 2.