by Shaun Hutson
Just for a few hours. Go home. Get some sleep.
She’d called a taxi and told the driver to take her home. As the vehicle pulled away, she promised Faulkner she’d be back by six that evening, despite his insistence he could manage without her help.
The driver had babbled on about something and nothing.
Ronni had barely heard a word.
Only as the cab turned into her street had she become animated.
She had leant forward between the two front seats and told the driver to keep going.
She didn’t want to be dropped off here.
Could he take her on to the hospital?
She’d arrived fifteen minutes later.
Ronni rode the lift to the intensive care unit and approached the nurses’ station. She recognized the uniformed woman who sat there scribbling notes on pieces of paper: it was the nurse who’d been on duty that night her father had been brought in.
Three days ago? Four? Time seemed to have lost its meaning.
Nurse Patricia Gallagher smiled efficiently at her.
“I came to see my father,” Ronni told her.
“Would that be possible?”
“It’s Mrs. Porter, isn’t it?” said the nurse.
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“It goes with the job.”
“Has there been any change in his condition?”
Nurse Gallagher shook her head.
“The doctor’s due to see him any time now,” she said.
“But you can sit with your father until he comes.”
Ronni smiled gratefully and entered the room where James Connor was.
For long moments, she stood with her back to the door, listening to the mechanical raspings and wheezings that filled the room. The insistent blip of the oscilloscope. The rhythmic thud of the ventilator.
The only things keeping him alive.
She crossed to the chair beside his bed and sat down, reaching out to touch his hand.
Was this how Harry Holland had felt the previous night? Watching the life of the one he loved slowly draining away?
Ronni reached out and plucked a stray eyelash from her father’s cheek, feeling how cool his skin was.
“Dad,” she whispered.
The ventilator wheezed.
Some of the bruises had darkened, yellowed at the extremities. A few of the cuts had turned from red to purple as they scabbed over. Perhaps it was a sign that he was getting better. If his injuries were healing, then it must mean he was going to recover.
All he had to do was wake from the coma.
As ever, she was shaken by the savagery of the injuries he’d sustained.
Angered by the ferocity of the attack.
Infuriated by the knowledge that whoever had perpetrated it was still walking free.
Why did you come?
She wondered but could find no reasonable answer.
Was it because you saw Janice Holland die and you wanted to see that there was still a spark of life within your own flesh and blood?
She squeezed his hand more tightly, careful not to touch the tube that ran into a vein there.
That’s why, isn’t it?
Ronni got to her feet and leant over to kiss his cheek.
You’ve seen him now. You know he’s still alive. There’s nothing more you can do.
“See you soon, Dad,” she murmured.
She was gone before the doctor arrived.
“I WAS BEGINNING to wonder if you were ever coming home again.”
Ronni closed the front door behind her and looked up to see Andy heading down the stairs.
“How many nights is it you’ve stayed at that place?” he continued.
“Don’t start, Andy, please,” she murmured. She hung up her coat and wandered through into the living room.
“Are you going back tonight?” he wanted to know.
She nodded.
“Jesus Christ, do you have to do every fucking thing there?” he snapped.
“Why can’t the other staff pull their weight?”
“Gordon can’t manage on his own and Alison’s left.”
“I don’t blame her. Perhaps you should leave too.”
“There are things happening.. .” She allowed the sentence to trail off.
“Like what? What’s so bloody important you have to be there every single night? Some blokes wouldn’t stand for it, you know. Some would put their foot down.”
“And say what, Andy? That I can’t work there anymore? That I can’t go in because you don’t want me to? I have to be there. I’m the supervisor.”
He grabbed her arm.
“And I’m your fucking husband,” he rasped.
“Sometimes I think you forget that.”
She shook loose angrily.
“I couldn’t ever forget that,” she replied.
“Even though I might want to.”
He followed her through into the kitchen.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just leave it.” She began filling the kettle.
“No,” he told her.
“What do you mean? I think I’ve been pretty good about this. In the last week or so you’ve spent all your time either at work or at the hospital.”
“My father’s in a coma, what do you expect me to do? Just leave him there?”
“The hospital said they’d ring you if there was any news. You don’t have to keep going back.”
“You bastard,” she breathed.
“Well, what can you do? Sitting staring at him isn’t going to help, is it?”
“It helps me,” she snarled.
“If it was your parents you’d be there every day, wouldn’t you? That’s always been the way hasn’t it, Andy?”
“I was never that close to my parents. You know that.”
“And you’ve never been able to understand why I was so close to mine.”
They regarded each other silently for a moment.
Go on. Tell him now. You’ve got the opportunity. Tell him it’s over between you. You’ve been looking for an excuse.
“All right, your dad I can understand,” Andy said finally.
“But why are you always at Shelby House? That is where you are, isn’t it?”
Ronni sighed wearily.
“And where do you think I’ve been, Andy? With another man?”
“No, but ‘ “But what? Do you think I’m having an affair?”
“You couldn’t blame me for thinking about it, could you?” he told her.
“I wish it was as simple as that,” she murmured.
“Does that put your mind at rest?”
He regarded her warily.
“So what’s been happening?” he asked, finally.
The kettle boiled and she poured water into the two mugs on the draining board.
“Hate mail. Vandalism. The pet dog of one of the residents was killed. Cut up. Last night another resident died of a heart attack. The funeral’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Who’s doing it?”
She could only shrug.
“What do the police say?”
“They say they’re helpless. No leads. No suspects.”
“And you’re going back there tonight?”
“What do you expect me to do? Ignore it? I work there, Andy. I care about the people.”
“You could get hurt yourself.”
She sipped her tea.
“Is that why Alison left?” he demanded.
Ronni nodded.
“Then perhaps you should leave too,” Andy told her.
“It sounds like someone’s trying to get at the residents, not you.”
“And I told you, I’m not turning my back on them.”
“If someone’s having a go at them, not you, then keep out of it.”
“You haven’t got a clue, have you?” Ronni sneered. She picked up her tea and headed back through the living room.
“I know why you’re staying with t
hem,” Andy said flatly.
“You think helping them will make it easier to cope with what happened to your dad.”
“Don’t try your bloody cod psychology on me, Andy.”
“It’s true, isn’t it? You blamed yourself for what happened to your dad. You think that if you can help the old sods at Shelby House then that’ll clear your conscience.”
She glared at him for a moment and he was surprised at the fury in her eyes.
“I’m going to have a bath before I go back,” she told him.
“Keep out of it, Ronni,” he said, following her to the bottom of the stairs.
“It’s not your concern.”
She reached the landing.
“It’s nothing to do with you,” he shouted.
She slammed the bathroom door behind her.
OF THE TWO cemeteries Kempston possessed, Fairview was the largest.
As Ronni gazed discreetly around her, she thought it already looked half full. Rows of headstones stood in perfectly straight lines, stretching away almost as far as the eye could see.
Behind, there was a large expanse of neatly mown, undisturbed ground. Over a slight rise, there was land that was still overgrown and in the process of being made suitable for the deceased of the ever-growing town to lie in. A small bulldozer stood unattended amidst the knee-high grass and weeds.
For bleak seconds, Ronni wondered which part of the cemetery her father would end up in. And, ultimately, herself.
The eight remaining residents of Shelby House stood silently around the grave of Janice Holland as the vicar spoke.
Ronni hardly seemed to hear his words. But she knew what he was saying. Speaking the litany that was the burial service. Saying phrases he must know by heart. Lines he’d repeated before a thousand grieving families. And would repeat before a thousand more.
The breeze that had been blowing when they had first arrived had grown in ferocity. The cellophane-wrapped bouquets lying beside the grave crackled like dried leaves beneath heavy feet.
There was one from each of the residents. A special one from Harry Holland, who now stood beside her, head bowed.
His hands were clasped in front of him.
Barbara Eustace had a blanket wrapped around her legs to shield her from the cold.
Helen Kennedy stood behind the wheelchair, occasionally dabbing at her eye corners with a tissue.
Eva Cole pulled up the collar of her coat, protecting herself against the chill breeze.
Colin Glazer, George Errington, Donald Tanner and Jack Fuller, all resplendent in freshly pressed suits, stood on the far side of the grave.
Jack Fuller was shivering slightly.
The vicar finally finished speaking and turned towards Harry Holland. He nodded and took a couple of faltering paces forward, bending to pick up some of the earth at the side of the grave.
For interminable seconds he stood, gazing down into the yawning hole.
Ronni was about to move to his aid when he threw the dirt in. It landed with a thud on the lid of the coffin. He turned and moved back to her side, wiping a tear from one cheek.
One by one, the other residents followed his example.
Helen Kennedy crossed herself as she stood at the graveside.
Ronni watched each of them perform the ritual; then she and Gordon Faulkner also added their tribute.
Harry waited until they had all finished, then returned to the grave again and dropped in one single red rose.
“Goodbye, my darling,” he whispered.
“Sleep tight. I’ll see you soon.”
Ronni thanked the vicar, then took Holland’s arm as he turned away, guiding him towards the gravel path nearby.
They say it gets easier as time passes, don’t they?” murmured Gordon Faulkner.
Jack Fuller continued to gaze at the grave.
“They lied,” he said bitterly.
The little group turned and made its way back towards the waiting minibus, Faulkner pushing Barbara Eustace in her wheel-chair, ensuring that she was safely lifted into the back.
The other residents took their places inside the bus and waited for Faulkner to start the engine.
The drive back to Shelby House took less than forty minutes and most of it was completed in silence. Apart from a few coughs and sniffs, those seated within made little sound.
Harry Holland stared blankly out of the side window, occasionally wiping his eyes with his fingers.
Colin Glazer reached out and squeezed his arm comfortingly. He wished that he could tell Holland everything would be all right. He wished he had words to soothe the pain the other man must be feeling, but he knew he hadn’t.
Faulkner swung the minibus into the driveway of Shelby House, muttering to himself when he saw the first spots of rain spatter the windscreen.
Ronni was thankful the imminent downpour had not come during the funeral itself.
Small mercies, eh?
As the minibus drew nearer the building, she was the first to see.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, a knot forming inside her stomach.
And now Faulkner was aware of what she was gaping at.
The letters, two or three feet high, were sprayed on the main doors and across the porch.
Harry Holland also saw them.
Soon, everyone inside the bus had.
“WHAT DID THEY SAY?”
Ronni dropped the receiver back onto the cradle and sat back in her chair.
“That someone will come and have a look when they can find the time.”
She exhaled angrily.
Gordon Faulkner shook his head.
“Why won’t the police do anything?” he wanted to know.
“According to them, they prioritize emergency calls. Graffiti sprayed on walls obviously isn’t very high on their list.”
“Even when it’s a direct threat?”
She could only shrug.
“Is it a direct threat?” Ronni murmured.
“They know one of the residents is dead. That’s it.”
“They’re implying there’ll be more.”
They must have been watching for them to know about Janice. Watching last night. Watching the funeral today.” She got to her feet and crossed to the window.
“They’re probably watching us right now.”
“Jack Fuller reckons they broke in.”
“How else would Molly’s body have got inside the wardrobe?”
“But the Hollands’ room is on the first floor. Someone would have heard them.”
Ronni didn’t answer.
“The police say it’s some kind of game,” she said finally.
“But surely there must be more to it than that? There’s something here they want. There must be.”
“Money? Jewellery? Other valuables?”
“I don’t know, Gordon,” she said wearily.
“That’s what we’ve got to find out.”
There was a long silence, finally broken by Faulkner.
“What are you going to do about Alison?”
“Replace her. She won’t come back. I’m not sure I want her back.”
“Who the hell’s going to come and work here with all this shit going on?”
“That’s my problem, not yours.”
“No, Ronni, you’re wrong. It’s my problem too. Because as long as there are just two of us working here then that’s more responsibility.”
“Are you going to ask me for a pay rise, Gordon?” She smiled.
“Until we get someone else, it’s just you and me.”
“Just the two of us in the firing line.”
“Listen, if you’re not happy with the situation, you can leave too. I’m not holding a gun to your head to get you to stay.”
“I can understand why Alison left.”
“So when are you going?”
“I’m not.”
“Can I have that in writing,” she mused.
“So, if the police won’t help us, we’re on our
own,” he said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question.
Ronni nodded.
“The detective in charge said this could all end as suddenly as it began.” She sighed.
“I wish I could believe that. If they broke in once, chances are they’ll try again. If they are looking for something specific inside Shelby House, they’ll keep trying until they get it.”
Faulkner nodded.
“First, we have to find out what’s in here that they could want,” Ronni continued.
“We’ll have to ask the residents if any of them have got anything of particular value. If they’ve got any money stashed here. That kind of thing.”
“But how the hell would those bastards outside know who’s got what in
her eT
She could only shake her head.
“Perhaps they don’t. Perhaps they’re just taking a chance. But it looks like they’ll keep coming back until they find something else to entertain them.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Stop them getting in.”
“That might be easier said than done.”
“You’re right. But what else can we do?”
A NAIL GUN.
A selection of hammers.
A blowtorch.
Chisels and screwdrivers.
Several power drills.
Every one was immaculatley clean and in perfect working order.
Jack Fuller took them from the toolbox and laid them before him.
In the compartments within the box there were screws and nails of every length, suitable for any job Fuller chose to undertake.
“This lot should do it, Jack,” Gordon Faulkner mused, staring at the array of tools.
Fuller regarded each of them in turn.
“Where shall we start?” the older man wanted to know.
The timber had arrived less than twenty minutes earlier.
Stacked on a lorry bearing the legend PHILLIPS AND SONS, it had been unloaded by two youths in their late teens, who had gazed at the watching residents in bewilderment. Every thickness and type of wood they stocked seemed to have been ordered.
Ronni wrote the older man a cheque and pushed it into his hand. She assumed he was the PHILLIPS noted on the paintwork of the lorry.
The youths, more than likely, the SONS.
Colin Glazer, Harry Holland and Donald Tanner began moving the wood from the front of the building.
“My lads can help you with that,” Phillips said.
“We can manage,” Tanner told him flatly.
Phillips shrugged and climbed back into the cab of the truck. As he drove away he could already hear the sound of saws coming from behind him.