by Claire Allan
‘Can we help you, Officer?’ Ciara asks.
‘Perhaps if we can have a sit-down we could chat,’ a tall man, his face solemn, says. ‘I’m Detective Inspector David Bradley, and this is my colleague Detective Constable Eve King, from Strand Road police station.’
My heart thumps.
‘Has someone been hurt, Officer?’ Stella asks.
My stomach lurches.
‘This is in relation to Mr McKee,’ he says. ‘And really it might be better if we sit down.’
Ciara leads the way into the living room. The furniture has been pushed against the walls, some dining chairs lined against the window. Space has been cleared by the far wall for a coffin. For his coffin. So that mourners can file in and pay their respects, leave a Mass card, say a prayer, look at his body, embalmed and laid out looking like a waxwork of the man he was.
I perch on one of the dining chairs, leave the soft seats for DI Bradley and DC King. Alex hovers beside me before sitting down. Ciara and Stella hold hands and sit on the sofa.
‘If you could let us know what this is about,’ Ciara speaks, ‘because we’re expecting to hear from the undertakers and we want the house ready for the return of my father’s remains.’
DI Bradley takes a breath and looks at each of us. ‘I’m afraid there will be a further delay to the release of your father’s remains. Following discussions with Mr Steele, the undertaker tasked with making all funeral arrangements, and Dr Sweeney, your family physician, we have decided that in this case there is cause for a postmortem examination to be done.’
My heart races.
‘But why? He was ill. The doctor said it was one of those things. This is ridiculous,’ Ciara says, anger evident in her tone.
DI Bradley pauses for a moment, as if he is checking that Ciara’s rage is spent, then speaks. ‘While preparing your father’s remains, there were some marks to his body that warrant extra investigation. I should stress, at this time, this is a formality. It’s our duty, and the duty of the coroner, to investigate anything that may explain your father’s sudden death.’
‘He had terminal cancer. He was recovering from major surgery. That’s what caused his sudden death. Dr Sweeney said so.’ Ciara is on her feet, dragging her fingers through her hair. ‘This is ridiculous.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ DI Bradley said gently. ‘However, it’s policy in cases such as these.’
‘What kind of marks?’ I ask. All eyes turn to me. ‘You say Mr Steele found marks, what were they? What does he think may have caused them?’
‘I don’t have that particular information at hand, and it would be remiss of me to say anything more until after the postmortem. Any findings will be for the coroner to determine. We appreciate this must be very distressing for you all,’ DI Bradley says.
Ciara snorts. ‘Well, that’s okay then,’ she snaps. ‘Take my father and carve him up all you want. It’s okay as long as you appreciate how difficult it is for us.’
‘Sweetheart,’ Stella says gently.
Trying to smooth the waters again, I imagine.
Ciara’s face crumples at the softness of her tone and Stella pulls her girlfriend into a hug while DI Bradley and his colleague watch. I’m sure they are used to this. To seeing grief – raw and angry – in front of them. I wonder how many times they’ve had conversations as distressing as this before.
I hear Alex speak next. He is standing in the doorway looking pale and tired and worn out. ‘Is there a suggestion of foul play?’ he asks.
All eyes are on him, Ciara even breaking from her embrace with Stella to watch, as he speaks.
DI Bradley shifts in his seat. ‘As I’ve said, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to comment at this stage, but we are looking at all lines of inquiry.’
‘So that’s a yes,’ Ciara says. ‘Jesus Christ. This is ridiculous.’
The woman who had been introduced to us as DC Eve King clears her throat. ‘We’ll keep you informed every step of the way. Should a family member wish to come to Belfast with us while the postmortem is carried out, this can be facilitated.’
I’m aware I’m not openly reacting to any of this. That I am sitting here numb, listening. I’m trying to take it all in. Foul play? Really? What must they think of me?
‘For our records, would you mind if we asked a few questions?’ DC King asks.
Ciara throws her hands to the air as if she can’t believe what is happening.
I mutter a quick, ‘We’ll do what we can to help,’ knowing that it wouldn’t really matter if we minded.
She takes a pen and notepad from her pocket. It feels so serious, so formal.
‘Can I ask who was in the house last night with Mr McKee at the time of his death?’
‘We’ve been through this already,’ Ciara says, but there is less fight in her now. She is sagging and sits down on one of the armchairs, her head in her hands.
‘All of us,’ I say. ‘That’s me, Heidi Lewis. My husband, Alex Lewis. Ciara, and Stella Brown, Ciara’s partner.’
‘My aunt, Kathleen Douglas, was here, too,’ Ciara says. ‘My father’s sister.’
‘And where is she now?’ DC King asks.
‘Staying with a friend. She was very distressed. Dr Sweeney gave her some tablets to help her sleep.’
The policewoman nods. ‘And it was you, Mr Lewis, who discovered that Mr McKee had died?’
Alex nods. ‘I went to check on him just after eleven and I noticed he didn’t appear to be breathing. I checked his pulse, but he was gone.’
‘And who was the last person to talk to Mr McKee?’
I shrug. It’s hard to know. We’d all been making our way up and down the stairs over the course of the evening to take care of him. Or to take care of Lily. Or to use the bathroom. It was all muddled.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say and DC King looks to Ciara, who shrugs, too. ‘We were all in and out with him during the evening.’
‘Okay,’ Detective Constable King says before taking contact details for us all.
There seems to be an awful lot of red tape in this ‘just a formality’ business.
‘What happens now?’ Ciara asks.
‘Well, your father’s remains will be taken to Belfast, where the postmortem will be carried out. There are no facilities for this to take place closer to home, unfortunately. We should have preliminary results fairly quickly and we will keep you informed.’
‘Will his remains be released afterwards? Might it still be today?’ I ask.
‘That depends on the results of the postmortem,’ DI Bradley interjects. ‘But we will keep you …’
‘Informed,’ Ciara butts in.
‘If you could, Officer, that would be appreciated,’ Stella says, the lilt of her Glasgow accent softening the tension.
‘We are very sorry for your loss,’ DI Bradley says as he stands. ‘By all accounts Mr McKee was a well-liked man.’
Ciara nods. All fight seemingly gone. I don’t. I don’t react at all. I don’t stand up or follow the officers to the door to let them out. I think I’m afraid my legs will give out from under me if I even try to stand.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Heidi
Now
I’m afraid to speak, afraid to ask questions. I watch the door as if someone will walk in with answers. I watch my phone. I do my best to stay out of Ciara’s way, but I hear the rumblings of a heated conversation between her and Stella behind the closed door of the kitchen. I look out into the street, to where the light is already fading, and I wonder if people are peeking out from behind their own curtains to see what is going on here. Surely they must be wondering why his remains haven’t been returned yet, why the official period of mourning has yet to start. Did they notice the unmarked police car earlier?
I try not to think about the ‘unexplained marks’ that DI Bradley spoke about. Try not to think about how police are looking at all lines of inquiry or however he worded it. I definitely try, unsuccessfully, not to thi
nk about ‘foul play’ that may or may not be suspected or what that might mean. Except that someone else may have been so angry with Joe that they may have done the one thing I have spent my whole life wanting to be brave enough to do.
I push those as far to the back of my mind as I can. That way madness lies.
I go back to hovering. Waiting. Ignoring any phone call that isn’t from the police or the undertaker. Ignoring text messages asking what the arrangements are.
People are talking.
Gossip spreading.
There’s nothing we can do to control it.
I think about the postmortem. Try to imagine at what stage in the macabre proceedings things may be at now. Marie has gone to Belfast. None of us could face it. A friend has driven her because she is much too distraught to have driven herself. I have long suspected she still harboured some feelings for her ex-husband. God knows why.
When she’d heard none of us were planning to go to Belfast, she’d insisted on going, determined that Joe should not make the journey alone – as if he hasn’t gone way past being able to care. ‘He deserves to have his family with him,’ she had said. There was no hint of judgement in her voice – just sadness.
They’ll definitely be in Belfast now. This could be the moment that first incision is made. A straight line, diagonal, under his collarbone. Like you see on TV. Is it like it is in the movies? Solemn and respectful. Or is it all in a day’s work? Another body on a slab to be carved and dissected. Another set of lungs to examine. Mottled skin to be sliced, blood and tissue removed and tested.
Thinking about it is making me sick. My stomach gurgles. I don’t know if I need to eat something or throw up. Perhaps a lungful of air will help.
I make a cup of milky tea, which I’m not sure I can stomach, and walk around the frost-covered back garden. In the dusk the frost sparkles, a reflection of the glow of the lights on in the kitchen. I try to focus on that while I wish I hadn’t given up smoking when I was pregnant with Lily. A cigarette would be perfect just now.
I hear footsteps and turn. Alex is at the door, his own cup in his hand. It will be a black coffee. Extra strong. He drinks too much caffeine, I think in passing. Wondering how fast it makes his heart beat. Would they be able to see his addiction if they carved out his heart in a postmortem and examined it?
‘How’re you holding up?’ he asks, putting two cushions on the patio chairs so that we can sit down more comfortably.
I pull a face. One I hope conveys that I don’t have the first notion in the world how I’m holding up.
‘It’s scary,’ he says. ‘That they think someone might’ve hurt him.’
I nod.
‘He wasn’t a very good man, was he?’ Alex asks.
I look at him and he is staring at the grass. He needs a shave and a decent sleep. Probably something to eat.
‘No, he wasn’t,’ I say. ‘He wasn’t what people think he was.’
I feel shaky. This is a conversation I suppose I need to have, but don’t want to.
‘What was he like, Heidi? I mean, what was he really like?’
Alex’s eyes are on me now, looking into my eyes. And there’s this place inside of me that is so filled with pain and so in need of healing that I almost tell him. I almost explain how Joe hurt me. Abused me. Raped me. Yes, raped me. That word – that experience. How he messed up every sense in my head of what love and family meant. How he broke me and then couldn’t understand why I was broken. It’s the same place that wants me to stand up and applaud that he is dead.
But I see sadness in my husband’s eyes, and fear. It strikes me that maybe, just maybe, he thinks I was the person who left the unexplained marks. That he should have seen it coming. And once he thinks that, and once people start looking – because they will start looking, and they will find out just what happened on that Christmas ten years ago – they will conclude, without question, that I killed Joe McKee.
I’m the most likely suspect. And it terrifies me to consider that my husband may realise this.
I keep Alex’s gaze. ‘He didn’t know how to be a father. Not to Ciara and not to me. He was cruel and selfish. I’d have been better off in care than in this house. It breaks me to think things would’ve been so different if only my grandparents had been well enough to take care of me. Or if my mother had known what he was really like before she died.
‘They were together two years and he never dropped his perfect persona with her. It was only after she died that he showed himself for what he was. It destroys me that she trusted him to take care of me. It even made me really angry with her for a long time. I wondered how could she have been so blind and so irresponsible? And then I was angry with my grandparents for not taking me in anyway. Even with their problems. I’m not saying I was perfect, Alex. I was an angry teenager. Mixed up. But he? He was evil.’
Alex nods. I can see his eyes fill with unshed tears. I’ve said more to him than I ever have before. Before I’d just say we were never close. That we never really bonded. That Joe was strict and, at times, controlling. All of which had been true. And it had been enough for him not to question me when I told him I preferred a wedding away on a beach in Italy, just the two of us and some friends. That I had no need to have a father figure walk me down the aisle. That I made my duty visits to Joe, but no more. Until he became sick and it all changed.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says.
‘What for?’ I ask him.
He opens his mouth to speak, but we hear the back door open and Ciara steps out – a mug of tea or coffee in one hand and her e-cig in the other.
‘I’m not disturbing anything?’ she asks.
Alex shakes his head. ‘No. No, of course not. Actually, I was just going to go and check on Lily.’
‘Might be a good idea. I think I heard her crying a few minutes ago.’
I bristle. ‘Could you not have told us?’
‘I am now,’ she says matter-of-factly as she draws on her e-cig and releases billows of steam into the cool air. ‘It doesn’t do babies any harm to cry it out now and again. They have to learn to self-soothe,’ she says.
‘I think that’s for us, as her parents, to decide,’ I say as we rush back to the house.
‘Well, I didn’t know where you were. For all I knew you were upstairs with her.’
She steps out of the way to allow us to walk back into the house, but not far enough that my throat doesn’t catch with the rancid smell of whatever it is she has been vaping.
‘Heidi,’ she calls my name and I shoo Alex on, even though I can’t hear Lily crying now.
I turn to look at her. She looks like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders and she’s about to unload some of it in my direction.
‘What do you think they’ll find?’ she asks.
‘I have no idea,’ I reply.
‘Don’t you? I mean trouble in this house seems to follow you around.’
I don’t like her tone. I don’t like where this conversation could go. I certainly wasn’t prepared to help her go there.
‘As I said,’ I repeated, walking past her, ‘I have no idea what they might or could find and I’m not really in the mood to discuss it with you further. We’re not children any more, Ciara. I’m not some wee girl desperate for you to like me, or treat me with an ounce of decency. I can walk away from you at any time I choose and I’m choosing to do that right now. My child needs me.’
I don’t wait to see if she has anything else to say, but as I climb the stairs to find Alex and Lily, I feel my nerve go a little and some old demons swoop in.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Heidi
Then
I’d always wanted a sister. I’d tried to build a relationship with Ciara in the haphazard way a nine-year-old tries to build friendships with anyone. I shared my sweets. (She didn’t like toffees.) I let her play with my dead mother’s make-up, even though I really wanted to keep it in a box to use myself when I was older. I gave her a bottle of
perfume, one that Mum only used occasionally so it didn’t hurt too much to part with it. I offered her a loan of my dolls, even Scarlett.
She’d pulled a disgusted face. Said the dolls were babyish. Creepy. Like they were watching her. She told me no one played with dolls like that any more. I was a freak, she said, who no one loved.
But I still wanted Ciara to like me, and I wanted to be happy. I knew what happy looked like and felt like. I had been happy when my mother was still alive. I also knew sadness. I lived with it every day then. Knew it inside and out; so I knew Ciara had sad written all over her. If we could just get along, wouldn’t it be easier on us both?
I saw how wounded she looked when Joe turned his attention to me and not her. When she saw the latest book or jigsaw puzzle he’d bought me when she came to see us. He was forever promising her he would get her something ‘the next time’. Of course the next time never came and Ciara’s hatred for me grew. She never knew the presents were bought out of guilt, or to try to buy my silence about what he was doing. She never knew I hated those presents.
I wanted to tell her so many times that it wasn’t my fault he’d left her family. And that I never asked him for anything. No books, or jigsaws. Certainly not to stay in this house with me and look after me. I didn’t want him.
I’d act up more in front of Joe when she was around. Try to make him cross so he would favour her over me. It didn’t seem to work.
I can still remember the dejected look on her face. Her grey-blue eyes cast downwards, her mousy brown hair falling over her face. The sleeves of her sweater pulled down over her hands.
But when she looked up, it wasn’t him she glared at, but me. Because it was my fault. I existed and worse than that I seemed to have become the apple of her daddy’s eye. If only she knew what that meant and what he did.
It didn’t seem to matter, though. Nothing did. Nothing I tried or did or said made a difference. The lines were well and truly drawn.
The only thing I could do to protect myself from being hurt further was to start hating her as well.