The unnamed narrator of this tepid little horror story is a British cab-driver who doesn't like women, marriage (""If brains were stronger than balls, no one would ever get married""), or much of anything. Then, however, he meets a sexy young thing named Jacqui, becoming more or less enraptured--especially when Jacqui gets pregnant. But Jacqui is foul and decadent, prostituting herself for kicks. . . which drives the cab-driver crazy. (""I kept having these horrific visions of him [the baby] inside her womb and some dirty old pervert lying on him and sticking his horrible diseased old cock in my child's only home."") So, pushed over the edge by amoral Jacqui, the cab-driver semi-intentionally--in his sleep, sort of--smothers her to death. . . which makes him feel proud. (""There's millions of fellers would like to kill their woman at some time or other. . . . Hardly one of them will just grab her stupid neck in their hands and wring it and stop her in her tracks for good! I'm that one who did it."") His only problem is the dead body: first he hides it in a freezer; he contemplates all the grisly possibilities for disposal; but finally, his love for Jacqui having returned, he decides to mummify her and preserve her body in a secret room--which he does, with amateurish novelist Loughran providing clinical details. (""It was while I was taking Jacqui's middle out that I found my child."") Not enough style for black comedy, not enough plot or character for suspense: a limply longwinded version of an anecdote told many times (and far better) in horror short-stories.