‘Is Natalie at school?’ she said.
‘What do you want?’
Dorothy had thought about this moment every day since she discovered Simon’s body. Since they dug him up then put him back. She thought about what Archie said, if he could be trusted, and about the repercussions, the waves spreading from their discovery. Jim, Archie, Simon and his family, the family of Ailsa Montgomery. The family of Simon’s victim. If Dorothy told the truth all of them would be affected and it would be painful. Rebecca was still missing a husband, or at least his body. And what if Archie wasn’t telling the truth? He’d lied to her since Jim died, and Jim lied to her for a lot longer, so who could she trust?
She’d looked inside herself, tried to find the strength to make a decision. She’d gone back to yoga despite her injuries. She tried to meditate but the chaos was too much to block out. She played the drums for long sessions, trying to lose herself in the rhythms, but no use. She would always end up back in Piershill Cemetery, standing with mud on her hands, the smell of earth in her nostrils, staring at two skulls in the ground.
‘I never heard from your lawyer,’ she said.
Rebecca sighed and looked at her lap. ‘I can’t afford a lawyer.’
Dorothy nodded. ‘Some information has come to light.’
‘What kind of information?’
Dorothy looked at all the pictures of Natalie on the mantelpiece, a happy daughter without a dad. Maybe she would want to track down her father when she was older. What if she knew the truth? What about Archie’s accusations about Simon? No evidence now and there never would be, but the accusation would be out there.
‘I found some paperwork,’ Dorothy said. ‘Going through Jim’s things.’
‘And?’
Dorothy gulped, felt her stomach knot up. ‘It seems I was mistaken. About your husband and the life assurance.’
Rebecca sat up, put her fingers against the arm of the sofa. ‘Really?’
Dorothy nodded. ‘It wasn’t a conventional insurance policy but there was an agreement between Simon and Jim. You were right.’
‘OK.’ Rebecca was clearly wary of saying anything in case this vanished the way her husband did.
Dorothy spread her hands out. ‘So I’m willing to reinstate the payments to your account.’
Rebecca swallowed, her body tight. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘Our paperwork is quite specific though,’ Dorothy said. She looked again at the framed pictures of Natalie on the mantel, a homemade Mother’s Day card with a sparkly unicorn on the front. ‘The payments are only to be made until your daughter turns eighteen.’
Rebecca pressed her lips together.
Dorothy wondered what kind of man Simon was, what kind of father he would’ve been to Natalie. She thought about what Archie said he did.
‘Would that be acceptable?’ she said.
Rebecca took a breath. ‘Yes.’
Dorothy pressed her hands together and stood up. ‘Well, that’s all I came for.’
She walked to the door and turned. Rebecca stood there, arms trembling, blood risen to her cheeks.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I wish you and Natalie all the best,’ Dorothy said, and she meant it.
The pump gurgled and thrummed as it pushed embalming fluid into the body. Archie tapped the gauge, checking the flow into the carotid artery at the collarbone, the blood sliding out the other side and draining away through the hole at the bottom of the table.
Dorothy glanced at the names of the dead on the refrigerator, either waiting for treatment or to be dressed and viewed, then moved on into the next life. The business of death never stopped. People are always going to die and we’re always going to grieve and it’s always going to hurt. All you can do is keep going, because what else is there?
Archie noticed her as she came to stand by the body. He didn’t speak, just raised his eyebrows. She hadn’t spoken to him much since that night, didn’t want to cloud her thoughts. He’d kept his head down, put coffins together, done embalmings, helped at services, driven the hearse, done his job as well as he always did.
‘I went to see Rebecca,’ she said.
Archie stroked his beard, gave the embalming tube a shake. The colour was coming back into the man on the table, skin turning from old leather to a more healthy pink, the dehydration wrinkles filling out, artificial life returning to him. It was a trick, all of this. Dorothy preferred what they did with Jim’s body, it was more honest.
‘I didn’t tell her,’ she said.
‘OK.’
‘I didn’t think it would do any good. As long as what you told me was true.’
‘It was.’ Archie’s blue-gloved fingers tapped the deceased’s hand to massage the veins, bringing the dead back to life. ‘I swear.’
She wished she was sure, but the truth is no one is ever sure about anything, not really.
‘OK,’ she said, turning to leave. ‘I’ll let you get on with your work.’
She stood outside 11 Hermitage Drive and waited. She looked at nearby Blackford Hill, thought about all the neighbourhoods of the city you could see from up there, the tendrils of life spread out like a single organism, each reliant on being part of the greater whole for its continued existence. And the graveyards, cemeteries, mortuaries and crematoriums that linked the city too, the network of the dead, just as important as the living.
Amy opened the door.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, and waved Dorothy in.
Dorothy hadn’t believed it when Thomas told her a few days ago that Jacob was dropping charges against Amy. But the more she thought about it, the more it made a weird kind of sense. Then Jacob called her yesterday, and his reasoning confirmed what she’d guessed. He was lonely, needed help around the house. She was homeless, needed an address to get her Job Seeker’s Allowance and on the housing list. She was welcome to stay with him for now.
He certainly seemed happy enough with the arrangement, sitting at the kitchen table with a cheese sandwich in front of him. There was another sandwich across from him, and two full wine glasses on the table.
‘Sorry, you’re eating,’ Dorothy said.
‘Nonsense,’ Jacob said. ‘Sit.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ Amy said, coming past her into the kitchen.
Dorothy shook her head and looked at them both.
‘So this is really happening?’
Jacob shrugged, pulled a tiny piece of bread and cheese from his sandwich. ‘Looks like it.’
Amy took a bite of her sandwich, then a large glug of wine.
‘This doesn’t seem weird to either of you?’
Jacob made a face. ‘Less weird than a lot of other families.’
Dorothy supposed that was true.
‘What about trust?’ she said to Jacob. ‘She stole from you.’
Amy had the good grace to wince at her words.
‘Only out of necessity,’ Jacob said.
‘And I’ll pay him back,’ Amy said, mouth full of food. ‘Once I get on my feet.’
Dorothy nodded to herself, watched them eat.
‘And how does your daughter-in-law feel about this?’
Jacob grinned. ‘She hates it. Which is an added bonus.’
Amy got up and lifted a tote bag from behind the table.
‘Here are your cameras,’ she said, handing it over.
‘And here’s your cheque,’ Jacob said, sliding it across the table. ‘Thank you so much, for everything.’
Amy nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
Dorothy picked up the cheque and hoisted the bag on her shoulder, then lifted her eyes to the ceiling for a moment and turned to go.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ she said.
Middle Meadow Walk was busy with students, mums, office workers, people getting on with life. A young woman and her parents walked past, her in bright, baggy clothes and large-rimmed glasses, the parents in Berghaus fleeces and comfy shoes. Dorothy thought about her daughter
and granddaughter, all they carried with them in the world.
She spotted Thomas, steady, confident walk. He was in a fitted grey suit, no tie. She rose from her seat and accepted his kiss on the cheek as he sat. He’d taken her hand when they kissed, and still held it.
‘How are you?’ he said, more than just small talk.
‘I’m OK.’
He meant the business with Craig, not Simon, and she had to shift gears in her mind to accommodate. She still had marks on her neck from Craig’s fingers, bruises on her body from being thrown about. At her age, these things took a long time to fade. You carry ghosts of injuries all the time when you’re old. She raised a hand to her neck as the waiter took their order.
Thomas smiled. ‘Here.’ He took something from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table. It was Jim’s bone in an evidence bag.
She raised her eyebrows.
‘It’s clear you were acting in self-defence,’ Thomas said. ‘And he’s confessed, so there won’t be a trial.’
She could see dark stains on it, Craig’s blood.
‘You were very brave,’ Thomas said.
‘Jenny and Hannah have been braver.’
‘How are they holding up?’
Wind riffled the leaves on the trees above them as their coffees and pastries arrived.
‘As well as can be expected,’ Dorothy said. ‘It was Mel’s funeral today.’
‘You Skelf women are strong.’
Dorothy cocked her head to the side. ‘You think?’
‘Come on, you’re the strongest women I’ve ever met.’
Dorothy sipped her coffee, watched the stream of people up and down the street. Magpies in the trees were cackling, pigeons picking at crumbs in the gutter.
Thomas shifted in his seat. ‘What about Simon Lawrence?’
Dorothy tried to think how much he knew. The missing person, the negative DNA test. He would’ve heard about the disturbed grave, but she hadn’t told him anything about her search, and there was nothing to link the two.
‘I’m letting that lie.’
Thomas gave a slow nod of the head. ‘Probably for the best.’
Dorothy pictured the skulls in the dirt.
Thomas drank from his latte. ‘For what it’s worth, you know what I thought of Jim. He was a good man.’
She touched his hand on the table, looked him in the eye.
‘I’m glad to have you, and not just because you get DNA tests done super quick.’ She touched the evidence bag still on the table. ‘Or because you can sneak evidence out of a police station.’
He laughed. ‘So that’s how it is.’
She put on a mock shocked face and felt him squeeze her hand. A look passed between them.
She took Jim’s bone and placed it in her bag and sat there, happy in silence, just in the moment, with a friend on a sunny day, the world still spinning through the universe.
64
JENNY
Jenny took a handful of her dad from the ashes casket and weighed it in her hand. She felt the grit against her fingertips, the only father she would ever have.
She watched Hannah take a handful from the casket, which Dorothy was holding out. Hannah pushed her upper lip against her teeth, a look of determination that Jenny recognised from her as a toddler, from twenty years of knowing her daughter.
Dorothy was last to dip her hand into the small wooden casket. She did it with care. She had a stillness about her even now, her hand full of her husband’s remains.
Jenny looked around Bruntsfield Links. Just an ordinary day for commuters along Bruntsfield Place, for students heading to university and art college, for kids mucking about on their lunch break from Gillespie’s. The elderly couple ambling along Whitehouse Loan, the dog walkers throwing tennis balls for two collies by The Golf Tavern. Heavy clumps of white cloud cruised above them, away over Arthur’s Seat to the sea. A bin lorry crunched its way along Greenhill Gardens behind them, the creak and crank of the mechanism lifting rubbish into the jaws at the back.
Jenny looked at her mum. ‘Do you want to say anything?’
Dorothy stared at the ashes in her hand. ‘I don’t know.’
Maybe there wasn’t anything to say that didn’t sound trite and contrived, anything that made a difference to grief and longing, any way to express the absence of people you love.
‘Go easy, Jim,’ Dorothy said, opening her fingers and letting the dust fall.
Jenny looked at her hand then behind at the big house. They were fifty yards away, so they would be looking at her dad every time they stared out of the kitchen window. Jenny thought about what had happened up there and Hannah’s chase across this piece of grass. Maybe that would always be mixed up in their minds with this, but there was no avoiding it. Everything is connected anyway.
She let her dad slip through her fingers then brushed at the remaining ashes, which were taken by a breeze into the air. She smudged a bit between forefinger and thumb then popped her thumb in her mouth and sucked it clean, tasting the bitterness.
Dorothy had told her and Hannah everything about Simon, how Archie found him in the embalming room, how her dad helped get rid of the body, how Archie eventually told Dorothy what she hoped was the truth. Hannah had listened, but still seemed in shock about her dad.
Hannah dropped her share of her grandfather onto the grass, scattering it like seeds with a shake of her hand. It’s funny how we do that, as if we’re sowing something for the future, spreading the souls of the dead far and wide.
Jenny watched as Dorothy tipped the casket and began emptying the rest of Jim onto the grass, making sure he was evenly scattered so there were no visible mounds of ash. Way below the grassy surface were the hundreds of plague victims buried centuries ago, when Bruntsfield was outside the city walls, considered safe. Jenny imagined her dad’s ashes sinking through the layers of dirt, soil and loam, mingling with the ancient dead, then further still, the remains of dinosaurs or other ancient beasts, early life drowning in mud or dying from cold, all the ways it was possible to die. It was hard to stay alive sometimes.
Dorothy had finished, the casket upside down in her hands, the wind flapping at the bottom of her dress, people walking past on the paths, some curious, some oblivious. She turned to Hannah and Jenny.
It’s hard to stay alive, but sometimes it’s the only choice we have.
Schrödinger sat in the window seat and lifted his head to watch the three women come through the door. He licked at a paw and settled back down. He’d been tentative for a few days after his injuries, but he brought Jenny a mangled sparrow while she lay in bed yesterday morning, so he was back to normal.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Dorothy said, and started making tea.
Jenny touched Hannah’s arm as she looked out of the window at where they’d just been. Hannah lowered her head then turned to the whiteboards. Jenny thought about fathers and daughters.
There were three funerals on the slate. Archie had gone to prep Olivia Barlow for viewing, Indy was at reception taking calls, everything was back to normal.
Dorothy poured tea and the women sat in silence. Jenny ignored the bloodstained rug on the floor. She touched the bandage around her waist, pressed until she felt discomfort then pressed some more.
‘Are you OK?’ Hannah said, seeing her hand on her stomach.
‘Fine.’
‘I don’t know how to handle this,’ Hannah said.
Dorothy took her hand. ‘We have each other, don’t underestimate that.’
Hannah shook her head and Jenny wanted to hug her, squeeze until she made the big bad world disappear.
She heard the front door open downstairs then someone talking with Indy at the desk. She sipped her tea as the sun appeared between clouds and bathed Schrödinger in warmth. The steam rose from her mug and evaporated, becoming one with the universe.
Footsteps upstairs, then Indy appeared in the doorway.
‘There’s a woman downstairs looking for a private
investigator,’ Indy said. ‘Says she’s being harassed by her neighbour.’
‘Why doesn’t she go to the police?’ Dorothy said.
‘Her neighbour is a cop.’
Hannah raised her head and looked at Indy.
‘Well?’ Indy said. ‘What will I tell her?’
Jenny shared a look with the other women. She spoke to Indy.
‘Tell her we’ll be down in a minute.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Massive thanks to Karen Sullivan and everyone else at Orenda Books for their continued love and dedication. Thanks to Phil Patterson and all at Marjacq for their hard work and support. I’m also indebted to Creative Scotland for their belief in this book and their financial support during its writing. This novel was partly inspired by my time as writer in residence at William Purves Funeral Directors, and I want to thank all the staff there for their kindness and help. Needless to say, all characters and events in this book are fictional, and any mistakes with respect to details of the funeral business are entirely my own. And the biggest thanks once more go to Tricia, Aidan and Amber, for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Doug Johnstone is the author of ten novels, most recently Breakers (2018), which was shortlisted for the McIlvanney Prize for Scottish Crime Novel of the Year. Several of his books have been bestsellers and award winners, and his work has been praised by the likes of Val McDermid, Irvine Welsh and Ian Rankin. He’s taught creative writing and been writer in residence at various institutions, and has been an arts journalist for twenty years. Doug is a songwriter and musician with five albums and three EPs released, and he plays drums for the Fun Lovin’ Crime Writers, a band of crime authors. He’s also player-manager of the Scotland Writers Football Club. He lives in Edinburgh.
Follow Doug on Twitter @doug_johnstone and visit his website: dougjohnstone.com.
COPYRIGHT
A Dark Matter Page 30