She looked around groggily and then squinted at him. “Why are you here?” she muttered, her mouth sticky and dry.
“Do you remember anything?”
Deanna shrugged, looking down at Nigel’s pillow, her eyes suddenly wide with horror. “It wasn’t a nightmare!” she gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth. A muffled moan escaped between her trembling fingers, sounding loud and harsh in the deathly quiet bedroom.
Gathering her limp body to him, Neville held her as she began to cry. He didn’t try to comfort her with meaningless words, instead he rocked her as she cried; a sound so pitiful it clenched and twisted his insides until he thought he might scream.
“Dad?” his teenaged daughter Clarisse said from the doorway. “Gram and Papa are here.” She pointed to the window and frowned at him before shutting the door rather loudly. He knew she disapproved of him consoling Deanna but he was all the comfort she had right now.
He wondered briefly why Thom hadn’t stopped by after his phone call yesterday and realized he might not be comfortable seeing his grieving wife in Nigel’s flat. Could he really blame the unfortunate bloke for feeling that way? Coaxing her to lay back down, he went to the window and cursed when he saw a tow truck backing up to the garage. “Bloody hell, they didn’t waste any time,” he thought angrily.
“What’s that noise?” Deanna said.
“It’s a tow truck,” Neville said guiltily. “My parents are having Nigel’s motorbike towed back to Bilston.”
She was immediately at his side, her hands pressed against the window as one of the tow truck operators wheeled the heavy bike onto the driveway.
“No. Please...” she whimpered.
Neville stroked her hair, and kissed her tear-stained cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, leaving her alone to stare out of the window as they loaded Nigel’s motorbike onto the truck, securing it to the bed with heavy chains and ropes. When the truck disappeared around the corner of Aldgate High Street, Deanna slid to the floor, knees pressed tightly to her chest as she sobbed, “Oh God, he’s gone and he’s never coming back.” She curled up into a ball on the floor and wept until she was too exhausted to cry anymore.
Neville argued with his parents until they finally gave in and agreed to let him collect Nigel’s things from the bedroom. When he entered the darkened room, he noticed that Deanna had closed the curtains and gotten back into bed. She was clinging to Nigel’s pillow as though it were her only remaining link to the man that had been so cruelly taken from her. Turning away from the bed, he pulled out the envelope recovered by the police and gently tore off two blood-stained corners and shoved them in his pocket with a shudder. His brother’s blood. The thought caused his stomach to lurch and his eyes to blur and sting. What if he hadn’t noticed those blood stains before giving the envelope to Deanna? He shivered as he imagined her horrified reaction. Trying to steady his shaking hands, he carefully checked the exposed edges of the card to make sure they weren’t damaged or stained before sitting down on the bed and laying the envelope next to her. She glanced at her name written neatly in Nigel’s large, precise script. Lacking the emotional fortitude to open it she left it where it lay, untouched.
He hated to bring up the subject, but he had no choice. “Is there anything of…of Nigel’s you want to keep?”
“Just this,” she said softly, squeezing the pillow tightly against her chest.
“Alright love, if you're sure,” he said and pushed himself up from the bed, the effort making him feel as though he was a feeble, old man. “I’m really sorry, but I must start sorting through his belongings,” Neville said, opening a drawer in a small wooden bureau and taking out a pile of T-shirts.
“Wait!” Deanna cried, sitting up suddenly. She reached out to him, her eyes pleading, and he looked down at the shirt in his hands. It was a concert T-shirt from the American tour with a backstage pass from the show in Hoboken pinned to it.
“He was so proud of the New Jersey show,” she said, her voice thick with sorrow. “It was their first American concert, and it signified their dream of success finally coming true. He told me that’s why he kept that backstage pass.”
Handing the T-shirt to her, Neville tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his aching throat as he watched her press the tee to her face and breathe deeply.
“Nigel,” she whispered against the soft fabric.
Wanting nothing more than to be done with his awful task, Neville quickly boxed up his brother’s meager belongings and carried them out of the bedroom. He had no intention of letting his parents force Deanna out of the flat. The rent was paid through the month of January, giving her a few days to decide what to do. After everyone went outside to load the boxes into his parent’s car, Neville returned to the bedroom. He felt guilty about removing all traces of Nigel, leaving her no small comforts besides a faded T-shirt and a lumpy pillow.
“Deanna?” He turned the door knob, but it was locked.
He called to her a few more times but got no answer. A tingle of fear turned his blood cold, and he considered breaking down the door before jiggling the door knob again. Feeling almost panicked, he stepped back and prepared to heave himself against the flimsy wooden door. “One, two, three,” he said under his breath just before hearing Deanna’s faint apology followed by an appeal to leave her alone, she would be okay.
Relief flooded him, and he sagged against the door trying to shake off his panic. After a few minutes, he reluctantly left the flat wondering how anyone, especially that heartbroken child, could face such deep and utter grief alone. He knew he couldn't manage it; he would go stark, raving mad.
Chapter 47
After hanging her last item of clothing in the hotel room’s miniscule wardrobe, Deanna lay back on the creaky bed. She closed her eyes tightly against the excruciating nightmare her life had become. Her brief respite after escaping the soul wrenching loneliness of Nigel and Nick’s eerily vacant flat following a harsh and unapologetic tongue-lashing from Mrs. Guilford by telephone was over. Guilt and indignation ate away at her insides leaving her drained and enraged over the woman’s hateful allegations. Davina Guilford could have cared less that her son's “filthy, cheating tart” was poised on the very brink of madness after losing Nigel: her heart, her soul, and the love of her life. Instead of reaching out to help each other through their grief, the woman only wanted to rant and rave, pointing the finger of guilt at the whore she firmly believed had killed her son. If the self-righteous, old shrew only knew her precious secret; the only thing that kept her from following Nigel into the Grim Reaper’s cold, skeletal embrace.
Deanna stared at the phone on the nightstand feeling almost desperate enough to ring Thom’s number. She needed him…needed his strength. It was wrong and terribly selfish, but she remembered how staunchly he stood by her and Nigel throughout that unbearable hospital ordeal. She had considered going to his flat in Chelsea, but threw herself on the mercy of her employers instead. No one could truly share her bottomless grief at losing Nigel, not even the kind and caring Thom McCordy. Thom insisted more than once that he had forgiven her and Nigel, but when she looked into his haunted blue eyes, all she could see were the deep, agonizing wounds of betrayal they had inflicted on his heart and soul. She had no right to ask for his continued understanding and support. How could she be so shamelessly self-centered and cruel? Pulling the thick bedding around her shivering body, Deanna’s thoughts turned to Christmas Eve. Holding the memories close to her heart, she willed her body to feel Nigel’s hands and mouth on her trembling flesh as she recalled the hours of tender love-making on Christmas Eve. Overcome by grief at the bittersweet recollections, she buried her face in his pillow and sobbed disconsolately. Tears soaked the cotton pillow case as she remembered in heart wrenching detail the sweet softness of his lips against hers before he left for Bilston Christmas morning.
“I love you, Nigel,” she cried into his pillow. “I miss you so much.” Rolling onto her side, she cradled her belly, stro
king it gently. “Please let this be just a terrible dream. Bring him back to me, please. I need him more than ever.”
****
Wind moaned through the trees, lashing their bare and fragile branches pitilessly. The large group of mourners huddled around the barren gravesite, trying not to let the harsh weather distract them from the vicar’s somber message. The sound of ragged weeping could be heard over the howling wind which seemed to moan in sympathy with those mourning the passing of such a gifted young man in the prime of his life and his career. As the vicar’s words came to an end, the shivering mourners watched sadly as Nigel’s parents laid roses on top of his rain-spotted rosewood casket.
Deanna wobbled unsteadily, grateful for a steadying hand on her elbow. She turned and smiled weakly at Alistair Staley, whose expression reflected a perplexed and painful grief. He squeezed her arm gently, and moved away to lay a studded wristband on the casket’s lid.
Nigel’s mother gasped, and cried out “Oh!” as the remaining members of Metal Urge reverently placed various items signifying his heavy metal reign as their lead singer on the sodden lid. Nodding his understanding to the solemn band members, Nigel’s father tried to lead his sobbing wife away from the grave.
Feeling dizzy and dreamlike, Deanna seemed to float and hover over the casket which sparkled with raindrops like hundreds of brilliant diamonds. She bent over to place a red rose on the topmost part of the lid, her body shaking so badly she unintentionally leaned on the coffin to keep from falling over. She felt a shifting against her hands as the casket moved under her sagging weight. For a moment it felt as though Nigel was struggling to be free of his wooden prison. “Nigel,” she moaned as her arms gave way. Sobbing loudly, she laid her head against the water drenched casket, running her hands over the lid, crying out his name, begging him to come back to her.
People were staring at the distraught blonde girl draped across the casket plaintively calling to her dead lover as though her pitiful cries could awaken him.
“Get that whore away from my son!” Mrs. Guilford shrieked, pushing away from her husband, her high heels burrowing into the wet earth. “Get away from him you disgusting little tart! It‘s your fault my son is dead!” She screamed in indignant rage as her husband tried to grab her before she lurched away and fell.
Thom was fighting to go to Deanna, but his father held onto his arm with a vise-like grip.
“Leave her!” Ian McCordy hissed in his son’s ear. “Hasn’t she humiliated you enough?” He pointed to the awful scene at Nigel’s graveside and shouted, “Good God, what the hell is she trying to do?”
Thom tried to jerk his arm away, his blue eyes blazing like gas jet flames. “She’s still my wife,” he pointed at his father, his hand shaking with rage, “So why don’t you just piss off back to Bilston if you‘re gonna act an unfeeling prick!” With one last violent jerk, Thom tore his arm from his father’s grasp and ran to Deanna, pulling her up and gathering her into his arms. She clung to him, crying with shame and horror over what had just happened; she never meant to cause a scene, she just wanted to place the flower near her beloved Nigel’s head. Holding her tightly, Thom looked around defiantly at all of the shocked faces daring them to say one word to him or Deanna. Satisfied that no one had the bollocks to speak, he led her away to the warm, dry safety of his car. After helping her into the front seat, he pulled a blanket from the back seat, wiping off some of the wetness from her arms and dress before draping the warm wool over her shivering limbs. She dropped her head back against the seat and cried out despondently, her little hands clenched into fists, pounding the car seat in despair at the memory of Davina Guilford’s hate-filled words.
Thom grasped one of her hands and held it tightly until Deanna looked at him with swollen, tear-filled eyes. Breaking into anguished sobs, she fell against him, crying over the loss of Nigel, and his parent’s feelings of hatred and blame towards her. Cradling her tenderly, he listened to her weep, the sound of rain beating against the car in tandem with her hoarse sobs. “Let’s go home,” he said, but she didn’t hear him over her shuddering cries.
****
Turning away to ensure Deanna’s privacy as she hesitantly opened the shower curtain, Thom handed her an oversized towel. When he was certain she had dried off and covered herself completely in a thick terry robe, he led her out of the bathroom and down the hall to her old bedroom. She shuffled along beside him, pale and silent. Dark stains circled her bloodshot eyes, making her look like a zombie from an old black and white horror movie. Leaving her to put on a nightgown, he headed for Deanna's loo at the end of the hall to fetch a glass of water and the sedatives prescribed for her after Nigel’s death. She wouldn't need bloody sleeping pills if it weren't for him and the vicious acts he had committed out of desperation to save their marriage.
In a fit of jealous rage, he had broken the first commandment. Now four people were dead.
“Thou shalt not kill,” echoed in his mind over and over until he had to clamp his hands over his mouth to stifle a scream.
Thou shalt not kill, yet Nigel was dead. Murdered by his best mate over the woman they both loved.
Nick and Maggi were dead. Innocent bystanders slaughtered by his need for revenge.
And, Trevor; Oh God, Trevor; the poor, grieving soul who foolishly believed he was his trusted mate.
“Oh, my love, my sweet Deanna,” he whispered brokenly, “So much blood on my hands.”
He looked at the bottle of sedatives and grimaced. It would be so easy to bring the bottle to his lips, tilt his head back, and swallow every single sodding pill. No more pain, no more guilt, no more waking each day without his beloved wife beside him.
He was damned for all eternity so what difference did it make if he offed himself?
He'd been tempted to swallow Trevor's bottle of sedatives after falsely accusing him of tampering with the Jaguar. Why had he done such a bloody heinous thing? It did nothing to assuage his own guilt for mucking up the Jag's brakes nor did it throw the coppers off his trail. The fuzz didn't give a shit. One more useless, drunken, long-haired yob was dead. So what? They weren’t going to pay the least bit of attention to a dead druggie’s letter of confession. There would never be an investigation into Nigel's death. He died from massive injuries sustained in a car crash: nothing more, nothing less. Thom clutched the sides of the porcelain sink and swallowed hard. The sight of Trevor's eyes rolling back in his head as he gasped and gurgled his last breath; Nigel's hand grasping his arm, tears of disbelief and terror on his battered face. Those memories would haunt him forever, and he'd bloody well deserve it; every day of his fucked up life.
Monster.
Choking back a sob, he shoved the bottle of pills into his pocket and steadied himself against the sink. Catching a glimpse of his face in the medicine cabinet mirror, he turned away quickly and left the bathroom, unwilling to look too closely at the disturbing darkness in his eyes.
****
“Penny?” Deanna said groggily, struggling to sit up and rubbing her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Penny said, turning from the window. She rushed over to hug Deanna’s slight form. “How are you feeling this morning lovey?”
“Alright I guess.” Deanna licked her dry lips and tried to swallow. “Could you get me a glass of water? Those pills make my mouth so dry.”
Penny squeezed her once more before hurrying out of the room. Deanna looked around at the familiar surroundings realizing it wasn’t a dream---she was back in Thom’s Chelsea flat. Pushing herself off of the bed she tried to stand but a wave of dizziness forced her to sit down again. Penny came in with a large glass of ice water, and Deanna was grateful her friend remembered how much she liked ice in her drinks. She sipped the cold water, anxious for the sour dryness to be washed away. Noticing the look in Penny’s huge blue eyes, Deanna wanted to crawl under the safety of the heavy bedclothes to hide from her probing gaze. Her friend would want to know how she was holding up and how she felt abo
ut being in this flat with Thom again. There were no clear cut answers---she was numb and had no idea how she felt or how she would feel as the days endlessly dragged by. Her mind was fuzzy and unfocused, and she wished she could fall into a deep, dreamless sleep for the rest of eternity, safe from prying eyes and sympathetic lips.
Thankfully Penny must have sensed her anxiety because she remained by the bed, silently holding her friend's cold, trembling hand.
Nigel was kissing her awake as she turned over and stretched her arms out as far as they would go. Grinning widely, she opened her eyes and saw Penny sitting next to the bed with an open book in her lap.
“You were dreaming,” Penny smiled. “Good dreams, yeah?”
Tears quickly filled Deanna’s eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. “I want Nigel,” she murmured. “Oh Penny, tell me he’s coming back. Please.”
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