‘I’m sorry,’ he said. His voice was ragged between wheezing breaths.
Hannah shook her head, could feel her hands trembling and tears in her eyes.
Craig crouched over. He took his hands from his wounds and placed them on his knees. Blood ran down his neck like an oil spill. The front of his shirt was soaked, more blood oozing from below his ribs.
‘You don’t get to be sorry,’ Hannah said.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
Hannah scratched at her wrist, tears down her cheeks. ‘You’re my dad.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m just a man.’
‘She was my friend.’
‘It wasn’t about you.’
Hannah felt bile rise in her throat.
‘You’re my dad,’ she screamed.
Craig looked at her. He seemed unable to focus, his balance wavering. His back bent in slow motion then his legs gave way and he slumped to his knees like he was praying.
‘The worst thing is,’ Hannah said, ‘this isn’t over.’
‘It’s over,’ Craig said after a long pause.
‘No. Mel is dead. Her parents will always be without a daughter.’
‘I didn’t mean any of it.’
Hannah walked towards him.
‘And I will always have a murderer for a dad,’ she said.
She was aware of flashing lights behind her on Melville Drive.
He was on his knees, panting, head down.
She got onto her knees next to him and took hold of his hair. Lifted his head up to look at his face. His skin was waxy and grey, eyes just black holes.
‘I wish you were dead,’ she said.
He focused on her for a moment. He smiled and tried to raise a hand but it flopped at his side.
‘Me too,’ he said.
61
JENNY
Jenny looked around the chapel. All of Melanie’s friends and family were here, Cantonese music burbling in the background, a large buffet of homemade food on a long table, Mel’s body in an open coffin at the front, pictures of her and flower arrangements scattered around. Most of her family were in bright silky clothes, a lot of red, which Dorothy had explained was lucky. Jenny smiled at two small kids feeding each other dumplings from napkins in the corner.
She touched her bandages. It only hurt when she breathed. Seven days since the stabbing and surgery and it felt like a year. Partly from the pain, every movement making her stitched-up stomach muscles rage. But the time also dragged because she was chewing everything over, the ripples in the universe that would reverberate through their lives forever.
She still needed help to get dressed this morning, four days after her release from hospital. Surgery went well, no major organs touched by Craig’s knife so it was really just a patch-up. They implanted a wire mesh to help her muscles knit together then observed her for two days to make sure she avoided infection or complications.
Jenny managed to get her blouse on herself but Dorothy needed to pull on her tights and shoes for her. To have your mum dress you like she did forty years ago was a humbling experience. Dorothy said Jenny didn’t have to be here, but she wanted to do it for the Chengs. She had her doubts when Victor asked the Skelfs to do the funeral. After all, they were connected to Mel’s murderer. But the Skelfs also found out the truth about Mel and got Craig arrested. Jenny wanted to be here for Mel, for her parents and brother, for every young woman controlled and lied to by an older man. Even if she could hardly move and was worried her bandages were visible through the thin blouse.
Craig was still in hospital, his injuries more serious than Jenny’s. Dorothy really did a job on him. Surgery on his mouth had been long and complex, leaving him unable to speak. The chest wound punctured his lung and they were still draining it and fighting infection in his chest cavity. A police officer was stationed in the room and Craig was on suicide watch having tried to jump out of the window when he first came round. Jenny thought about that.
Despite not being able to talk, he had confessed, grimly typing out a statement in front of Thomas. It was much the same as he’d told Jenny. He and Mel were walking along the path by the golf course and arguing. She tried to phone Fiona and tell her about their affair, about the baby. He panicked, strangled her in a fit of rage, then dragged her body deep into the bushes and ran.
Jenny thought about Craig’s suicide attempt. He was a murderer and a liar, and he had betrayed women over and over again. But he was also a father to Hannah and Sophia. And of course Mel’s baby, DNA tests confirmed it.
It was such a colossal mess. Jenny wondered if Fiona had been to see him in hospital. Jenny had toyed with the idea when she was released from her ward, to see him face to face, get answers, confront him. But there were no answers.
She’d had trouble sleeping since she got home, nightmares of stabbing and strangulation, violence and retribution. She dreamed of killing Craig and felt sick when she woke up sweating, stomach wound screaming in the dark.
‘Are you OK?’
It was Victor, eyes wet as he swallowed.
‘How are your parents holding up?’ Jenny said.
‘They’re not really, none of us are.’
‘It’s hard.’
Vic looked round the room at his relatives. ‘But we’re glad we know the truth. We’re glad there’s justice.’
Was this justice? A young woman was dead, what could compensate for that? Jenny wondered if she wanted Craig to kill himself, but she couldn’t even work that out.
‘Have you seen Hannah?’ Victor said.
Jenny scanned the room but couldn’t see her. ‘I’ll go and find her.’
She suddenly needed distance from this and she was already stepping away, her stomach burning. She touched Vic on the shoulder and left him looking lost.
Indy was sitting at reception looking equally lost. Jenny sometimes forgot how hard all this must be for her too.
‘Is Hannah about?’
Indy pursed her lips and looked upstairs. ‘She needed a moment.’
The front door opened and Jenny turned. Liam stood in the doorway looking sheepish, but he smiled when he saw her.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi.’
‘I saw you on the news.’
‘I’m famous now.’
Liam looked into the chapel, saw everyone milling about. ‘This is a bad time.’
‘No,’ Jenny said. ‘We can talk through here.’
She led him to an empty viewing room and realised it was the same room she spoke to Orla in. When was that? Less than three weeks ago. Ripples and reverberations, echoes and feedback.
‘How are you?’ he said.
‘OK.’
She wondered how long people would keep asking how she was. At some point they would stop and she’d miss it. Because maybe then would be the time she really needed to talk about how she was.
She ran her fingers across the bandages under her blouse.
‘Just don’t make me laugh,’ she said. ‘I’ll burst a stitch.’
‘Jesus.’ Liam was paler than she remembered, dark circles under his eyes. But then she wasn’t exactly radiant herself.
‘I owe you an apology,’ he said.
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
‘Actually, I owe you a lot more than an apology.’ He held her gaze for a moment then turned to look at the curtains. ‘You were right about everything.’
‘Wow, can I get that in writing? It could come in handy for my next argument with someone.’
He smiled and she remembered what he looked like talking about his paintings in the studio. We are our processes, not our results.
‘You opened my eyes,’ Liam said. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
Jenny shrugged.
‘I’ve moved out and filed for divorce,’ he said. ‘I asked her about the gardener, she denied it but it was obvious. She’s actually a really bad liar when confronted.’
‘I suspect most of us are.’ Jenny thought about lies. ‘
I’ll give you the rest of the photos I took, if that’ll help with the divorce.’
He looked at her as if it had never occurred to him. ‘That would be a help, yes. I’ll pay you for your time.’
Jenny waved her fingers, a small gesture. ‘No need.’
‘You’re trying to keep a business going, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Then I’ll pay you.’
Jenny stared at the plinth where the coffin would go for a viewing. Thought about the thousands of deceased who had passed through here on the way to the ground or the furnace. All those stories, all that life, snuffed out.
‘Anyway,’ Liam said, ‘it sounds like you have plenty of your own stuff to deal with.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Was he really your ex-husband?’ He looked ashamed to have read about it.
Jenny felt a lump in her throat, tried to swallow. The pain in her stomach tugged at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Liam said.
‘Don’t be.’ Jenny couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Liam took a deep breath and it made Jenny’s muscles ache to hear it.
‘What was it like?’ he said eventually. ‘When you were following me?’
Jenny hadn’t been expecting that question, had to think about it for a few moments. ‘I don’t know.’ She ran a finger along the plinth, hoping for a splinter to snag her skin. ‘I suppose it felt creepy, like I was doing something wrong. But it was also kind of thrilling, watching you and finding out about your life.’
‘I’m pretty boring.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Anyway, boring is underrated, I wouldn’t mind some boring in my life right now.’
That got a small laugh out of him.
‘This might sound crazy,’ he said. ‘But after all this calms down, maybe we could meet up for coffee or a drink sometime.’
He glanced up then away. She watched him acting nervous and thought about Craig standing over her, the kitchen knife in her guts. She thought about him with his hands around Mel’s throat, Dorothy’s throat. She thought about standing in someone’s open grave with her mum, dirt under her nails and a weight in her heart. She thought about the funeral happening right now, the pain of losing a daughter, and she thought about life and how it was stupidly short and you had to try and live it even if it killed you in the process.
‘I’d like that,’ she said.
He shuffled on the spot, smiled, held her gaze. ‘OK, great.’
He looked around like an actor waiting for his prompt.
‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be in touch.’
‘Sure.’
He was suddenly energetic, out of the door and down the hall, then gone.
Jenny rested her weight on the plinth, just the latest dead soul to sit on this piece of wood in this room, and she tried to think of a possible future.
62
HANNAH
Hannah looked out of the window at Bruntsfield Links. Clouds scudded across the sky throwing patches of light and shade on the grass, shifting like a shoal of fish. She thought about collective consciousness, how fish and birds move in groups in a way that suggests they have knowledge of each other’s minds. Insects too. Maybe humans are the same, maybe we move in patterns that acknowledge each other’s intentions, have awareness of others’ thoughts. Recent experiments across disciplines pointed to a more connected universe, quantum biology, psychology, biochemistry. No man, or woman, is an island, and all that.
She felt Schrödinger rub against her leg. She knelt and stroked him, tickled his chin, and he gave off a subsonic rumble of a purr that she felt against her hand. Signals and communication everywhere.
She straightened up and went to the whiteboards. Mel’s name was at the top of the funeral board now, removed from the investigation board. She thought about the names connected to Mel – Xander, Bradley, Peter. They had been connected, of course, just not the way Hannah imagined. She thought about the name that wasn’t on the board. Her dad lying in hospital, his body repairing itself, drawing energy from a drip and his food, mending his torn skin and flesh, blood swilling round his body, his neurons firing. She pictured him kneeling on the grass a week ago, blood pouring out of him, looking like a lost boy praying for forgiveness, or maybe just for life to end. Then she thought about Peter Longhorn, his body buried or cremated by some other funeral director.
‘Hey, you.’
Indy came through the door. A shared look, like a sad smile but a hundred times stronger, the burden of loving someone in a world of pain.
‘Hey.’
Indy held her arms out and Hannah went to her, let herself be held like a baby as tears came to her eyes.
Neither of them spoke for a long time, just breathing and tears. Then eventually Hannah pulled away and wiped at her eyes and cheeks with her sleeve, sniffed.
‘Vic was asking for you,’ Indy said. She tucked a strand of hair behind Hannah’s ear and left her hand on her cheek for a moment.
Hannah went to the kitchen table. The rug still had bloodstains on it, it took a specialist cleaner to get it out and he didn’t have an appointment slot until next week. The blood was both her mum’s and dad’s, their DNA mingling like they did when Hannah was created, or when they kissed each other or fucked. She was the combination of their lives, just like the stain on the carpet.
‘I can’t be down there,’ she said.
Indy watched her but didn’t move. ‘They wouldn’t have come to Skelf’s if they had a problem with it.’
Hannah touched a finger to the table. ‘Maybe they don’t have a problem, but I do.’
‘You have to go easy on yourself,’ Indy said, pain in her voice.
‘Do I?’ Hannah said. ‘My dad killed our friend. And his own baby.’
‘Exactly. Your dad, not you.’
Hannah looked out of the window, more clouds desperate to get somewhere. ‘I can’t help how I feel.’
‘It’ll take a while,’ Indy said. ‘But it will get better.’
‘It doesn’t feel like that.’
‘I know.’
Indy was talking about losing her parents and Hannah felt ashamed all over again. Being selfish when others had gone through so much, the Chengs downstairs, Indy with her parents, wives without husbands, children without fathers, parents without daughters.
She breathed, in and out, as the murmur of people drifted up from downstairs, a door opening and closing, conversation filling the air.
‘What about Peter?’ she said eventually.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Indy said. She hesitated, reached out a hand but let it drop.
Hannah gave her a look. ‘We both know that’s not true.’
Indy folded her arms. ‘Peter made his own decisions.’
Hannah picked at an invisible mark on the table. ‘I backed him into a corner.’
‘He was having an affair with a student who died,’ Indy said, voice rising. ‘It would’ve come out.’
‘What about his daughter?’ Hannah was crying again. A tear landed on the table next to her finger and she wiped it away. ‘That kid is going to grow up without a dad.’
Silence for a long time. Words didn’t matter, just vibrations in the air, molecules moving to transmit meaning from a brain to a mouth to the air to an ear to another brain.
‘Come downstairs,’ Indy said at last. ‘For Mel.’
Hannah looked up and saw sadness and worry in Indy’s eyes, radiating from her like heat from an open furnace.
She wiped her cheeks and nodded, walked past Indy with a touch of her forearm, then went downstairs, legs unsteady.
At the bottom she almost walked into Xander coming out of the chapel.
‘Oh, hey,’ he said, shuffling his feet.
‘Hi.’
‘I was hoping I’d see you,’ Xander said. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into jeans. ‘I wanted to say sorry. You were just trying to help and I was a dick.’
Hannah looked
past him into the packed room, saw the end of the coffin where Mel’s feet would be resting on the soft lining.
‘I was a dick too,’ Hannah said. ‘We both just miss her.’
Xander nodded. He was the grieving boyfriend, it was easy to forget that. Everyone is the main character in their own story, has their own life to lead, full of sorrow and joy, boredom and excitement, life and death.
‘OK,’ he said, and headed to the toilet.
Hannah went into the chapel, pulling at her skirt to straighten it. She stood watching Yu and Bolin hunched over in the front row. Her throat tightened, her stomach was a stone. Vic saw her and came over, took her in his arms and held on, powerful grip, strong cologne, his body against hers.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For everything.’
She pulled away and shook her head, looked around the room again. There was no escaping this, she was part of it, linked to everyone here, everyone on the planet, drowning in sorrow, sinking in sadness, looking for a reason to keep going.
63
DOROTHY
She rang the doorbell and waited. Looked up Craigentinny Avenue to where there were now roadworks. Guys in hi-vis and hardhats watching a digger tear up the tarmac, dust and noise in the air, rumbles under her feet. A few cars were stopped at the temporary lights. A disruption to ordinary life, just a little thing to throw you off balance, that’s all it took.
Rebecca opened her door and straightened up. Her hair was a mess and she wore a loose T-shirt and joggers.
‘Can I come in?’ Dorothy said. She had to raise her voice over the sound of the digger up the road. Some dust caught in her throat and she swallowed.
Rebecca folded her arms across her chest. ‘No.’
‘Please, it’s important.’
Rebecca looked her up and down and considered it. Eventually she unfolded her arms and turned inside.
‘Two minutes.’
She walked into the living room and Dorothy followed. There was a laptop open on a sofa, a recruitment agency website, and Rebecca closed it as she sat down. Dorothy went to the other sofa and sat, hands in her lap.
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