by Shaun Hutson
For long moments she hesitated, standing rigid in the hallway.
The chain was off.
Donna swallowed hard and took a step towards the door as the two-tone chime sounded again. She gently eased the chain into position and finally peered through the spy-hole.
She saw her younger sister immediately.
Donna hurried to open the door, throwing it wide and holding out her arms.
When Julie Craig embraced her the two women clutched each other tightly, unwilling to be parted. Finally Donna pulled back slightly, with tears in her eyes.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she whispered.
‘Nothing would have stopped me,’ Julie told her. They embraced again. ‘Donna, I’m so sorry.’
Both of them were crying now, weeping softly against each other’s shoulders. At last Donna guided her sister inside the house and pushed the front door closed:
‘I’ll get my stuff out of the car in a minute,’ Julie told her, wiping a tear away. She touched her cheek and shook her head gently. ‘You look so tired.’
‘I haven’t been sleeping too well,’ Donna said, smiling humourlessly. ‘You can guess why.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Julie.’
When she’d finished telling her story Donna didn’t even raise her head. She merely shifted slightly in her seat, running the tip of her index finger around the rim of her teacup.
Julie watched her sister seated at the other end of the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her. She reached out a hand and touched Donna’s arm, gripping it.
‘Why didn’t you call me as soon as it happened?’ she wanted to know.
‘There was no point. Besides, I could hardly remember my own name, let alone call anyone,’ Donna explained, running a hand through her blonde hair. She looked at Julie and smiled. ‘Little sister helping big sister out this time.’
‘You’ve helped me enough times in the past,’ Julie said.
There was only two years’ age difference between the women. Julie, at twenty-six, was also a little taller, her hair darker, chestnut brown compared to her sister’s lighter, natural colour. They were dressed similarly too, both in black leggings and baggy tops, Julie wearing white socks, Donna barefoot. They had always dressed similarly. They had similar views on life, men and the world in general, too. Best friends as well as sisters, they had shared a closeness throughout their lives most siblings only discover with advancing years. There had been no teenage rivalry between them, only a bond of love that had grown deeper as they’d developed. It had intensified when Julie left home first to attend photographic college and Donna had moved into her own flat after securing a job with a record company. The very fact that the women saw less of each other made their closeness more palpable when they met.
Julie had married when she was twenty-two. It was a doomed relationship with a man ten years older, whose affections seemed divided between her and the contents of whisky bottles. Their short marriage had ended acrimoniously less than a year after they’d promised each other, ‘Til Death us do Part’. Alcohol, it seemed, was as effective a destroyer of marriages as death.
Julie had set up her own photographic business with her share of the settlement money, a business she now owned and operated with the aid of a partner, employing three people. It was thriving.
Donna had married two years later. Both had known love; both had known grief. The latter tended to predominate where men were concerned.
‘How far have you got with the arrangements?’ Julie asked. ‘Sorting out the undertaker, things like that?’
‘I haven’t even picked up Chris’s things from the hospital yet,’ Donna said guiltily. She looked at her sister, opened her mouth to say something, then paused a moment longer before finally breaking the silence.
‘Julie, I think Chris was having an affair.’
Julie shot her an anxious glance.
‘What makes you think that?’ she demanded.
‘There was another woman in the car with him when he died,’ Donna began, then went on to explain what had come to light.
‘She could have been a friend,’ Julie offered.
Donna raised an eyebrow quizzically.
‘A friend? Yes, I suppose she could have been.’ She shook her head.
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying you’ve got more important things to think about right now.’
‘More important things?’ Donna snapped. ‘My husband was having an affair, Julie. He died with the woman he was fucking behind my back. I think that’s important.’
‘You loved him, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I loved him. I loved him more than I thought it was possible to love anyone. That’s why it hurts so much.’ Tears were beginning to form in her eyes. ‘I miss him so much but I’ll never know the truth.’ The tears were flowing freely now. ‘And I have to know.’ Julie embraced her, stroking her hair. ‘I have to know.’
Thirteen
Donna was crossing the hall when she heard the car pull up outside.
She paused as she heard the car door shut and footsteps approach. She moved towards the front door, peering through the spy-hole. She smiled as she recognised her visitor and opened the door before he could ring the bell.
Martin Connelly looked surprised to find himself gazing into her face.
‘I heard your car,’ she said, beckoning him inside.
Connelly accepted the invitation and stepped in, turning to hug Donna briefly.
‘When you didn’t call me back I thought I’d come round and see how you were. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said.
‘It’s very thoughtful of you,’ she told him as they walked into the sitting-room.
Julie was glancing at a magazine when Connelly entered. She looked up and saw him, smiled tightly and nodded a greeting.
‘Martin, this is my sister Julie,’ Donna announced. ‘Martin Connelly. He was Chris’s agent.’ The two of them shook hands a little stiffly and Connelly looked at Donna.
‘If I’m interrupting,’ he apologised. ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay. I won’t stay.’ He smiled at Julie again.
‘Stay and have a drink.’
‘If I do it had better be coffee. I’m driving,’ Connelly explained.
‘I’ll make it,’ said Julie. ‘You two talk.’ And she was gone, closing the sitting-room door behind her, leaving them alone.
Connelly wandered over to the fireplace and glanced at the framed book covers that hung there. Donna studied him.
He was in his mid-thirties, smartly dressed (he was always smartly dressed, she remembered), his light brown hair impeccably groomed. He had been Ward’s agent for the last five years. The relationship between them had never been business-orientated, though; it was something stronger than that. Although it was not powerful enough to be true friendship, there was nevertheless a mutual respect of each other’s abilities coupled by a ruthless streak they also both possessed. It had been a formidable combination.
‘You’re okay for money, aren’t you?’ Connelly asked her.
‘I won’t starve, Martin.’
‘I always made sure Chris had enough insurance policies and stuff like that.’ He turned and looked at her. ‘But if you need anything, anything at all, you call me. Right?’
She smiled.
‘I mean it, Donna,’ he insisted. ‘Promise me you will.’
‘I promise.’
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a packet of cigarettes, lighting one with his silver lighter. He regarded her coolly through the haze of bluish smoke. Despite the dark rings beneath her eyes and the fact that her hair needed brushing she still looked extremely attractive. Prior to Ward’s death he’d seen her dressed up, her make-up done to perfection. On some of those occasions the only word he could find to describe her was breathtaking. Now he ran appraising eyes slowly over her, a little embarrassed when she looked up and caught him in the middle of his furtive inspection.
‘How long�
��s your sister here for?’ he asked, feeling the need to break the silence.
‘For as long as she wants to be. Certainly until after the funeral.’
‘Do you know when it is yet?’
She shook her head.
‘I’ve got to sort all that out tomorrow,’ Donna told him.
‘Do you need any help?’
‘I’ll be all right. Thanks, anyway. It’s probably better in some ways. The more I’ve got to do, the less time I’ve got to sit around and think about what’s happened.’
‘I know what you mean. No good brooding about it, is it?’ He realized the clumsiness of his statement and apologised.
‘It’s okay, Martin. Say what you think. People can’t tip-toe around the subject for the rest of their lives. Chris is dead, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Ignoring it isn’t going to make it any more bearable.’
‘You know that he had it written into all his contracts that, if anything happened to him, you were to become beneficiary of all his money from royalties and advances?’ Connelly said.
She nodded.
‘I remember when we first met, before Chris was earning decent money from his books. People used to tell me I was crazy to stay with him, that he’d never earn a good living. Then, when he did start earning good money, those same people told me that was the only reason I’d stayed with him.’ She shook her head.
‘Jealousy. You’ll always get it. The wives of successful men always get that thrown at them, that they’re only with the bloke because of his money. It happens the other way round, too. Behind every successful woman is a spongeing bastard; behind every successful man is a gold-digger.’ He smiled and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Of course sometimes it’s true.’
Now it was Donna’s turn to smile. The atmosphere seemed to lighten a little.
Connelly moved away from the fireplace and sat down opposite her, chancing another swift glance at her as she ran a hand over her face.
‘How much did you know about Chris?’ she asked.
Connelly frowned.
‘What do you mean?’ the agent asked, looking a little puzzled.
‘I mean about his work, his character. What he did in his spare time. How much did you know about what he thought?’
Connelly looked bemused.
‘Would you say you knew him, Martin? Knew him as a person, not just as a client?’
‘That’s a strange question, Donna. I don’t see what you’re driving at.’
Their conversation was momentarily interrupted as Julie arrived with a tray of coffee cups, milk and sugar. She set it down and poured cups for Donna and Connelly, saying she had some things to unpack. ‘I’ll leave you to talk.’ She smiled at Connelly. ‘It was good to meet you.’ Again she disappeared and Donna heard her footsteps on the stairs.
Connelly dropped sugar cubes into his cup and stirred gently.
‘What do you mean, did I know Chris?’ he asked.
‘You were pretty close, weren’t you? I mean, he must have told you things. About himself, about his work, about me.’
‘Donna, I was his agent, not his bloody confessor. If my clients want to tell me their problems, that’s up to them. I care about them, and I like to think it’s not just on a professional level.’
‘Did Chris tell you his problems?’
‘What kind of problems?’ Connelly said, taken aback by her questions. ‘What made you think he had any? If he had, you’d know more about them than me. You were his wife.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten, Martin,’ she said acidly. ‘But there might have been things he told you that he couldn’t tell me.’
Connelly shook his head.
‘Did he tell you he was having an affair?’ she demanded.
The agent looked at her evenly.
‘What makes you think he was?’ he wanted to know. ‘And even if he was, which I doubt, what makes you so sure he’d tell me?’
‘You said you were close to your clients. He couldn’t very well tell me, could he?’
‘What gives you the idea he was having an affair, for Christ’s sake? He loved you. Why would he want to screw around with other women?’
‘Does your professionalism run to protecting him when he’s dead, Martin?’
‘Donna, I know you’re going through a bad time, I understand that. But this is shit.’ There was a hint of anger in Connelly’s voice. ‘Chris wasn’t having an affair and if he was, he didn’t say anything to me about it. You’re on about that crap in the paper about him being found in the car with a woman, aren’t you?’
‘He was found in the car with a woman.’
‘That doesn’t mean she was his mistress. Jesus Christ, Donna. Think about it logically.’
‘I don’t know what to think any more, Martin,’ she hissed. ‘But I’ll tell you this, if you’re keeping quiet just because you think it’s saving me hurt then you may as well tell me what you know. I couldn’t suffer any more than I’m suffering now.’
‘Just listen to what you’re saying, Donna,’ Connelly told her, trying to keep his voice even. ‘Your husband is dead and all you can think about is whether or not he was having a fucking affair.’
An uneasy silence descended.
Donna rested her head on her hand, her eyes averted. Connelly kept his gaze on her. When he sipped at his coffee again it was cold. He put the cup back on the tray and got to his feet, taking a step towards her.
‘He never said anything to me, Donna, believe me. I know as much as you.’ He wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder but resisted the temptation. ‘If I knew anything I’d tell you.’
‘Would you, Martin?’ she said, eyeing him challengingly.
‘I’d better go,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll let you get on.’
She got to her feet and they walked to the front door where she paused on the step and pecked him on the cheek.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said. ‘If you need anything, just let me know.’
She nodded and watched as he walked to the waiting Porsche and slid behind the steering wheel. He started the engine and waved, watching her disappear back inside the house. Connelly pulled away, the house falling away behind him.
On the landing, hidden by the curtains, Julie Craig also watched the agent leave.
Fourteen
They had done all they could that day. The two women had risen early and begun the tasks which needed completion. Now, as night began to creep across the sky, they sat in the dining-room eating, occasionally glancing at each other and smiling.
Donna, wearing make-up for the first time in two days, looked pale and tired still but she also looked a little stronger.
There had been tears when they’d called at the hospital that morning to pick up Chris’s belongings but Julie had expected that.
His clothes were now upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms, the blood-spattered garments laid out on one of the beds until they could be washed. It was as if Donna needed to keep looking at them; despite Julie’s entreaties, she had returned regularly to the room that day to view the torn clothing.
Next to his clothes lay his wallet and his cheque book, similarly splashed with blood.
After the hospital they had travelled to the undertaker. He’d been helpful and sympathetic in his practised way, a fat, middle-aged man with too much hair that looked as if it had been dropped onto his head from a great height. He asked the relevant questions:
‘Open coffin?’
‘Cremation or burial?’
‘How much did she want to spend?’
The enquiries had begun to blur into one another; Donna had left feeling that she was no longer in control of events. The undertaker would arrange everything, he assured her. She need have no worries. As she and Julie had left another group of people had entered, doubtless to be asked the same questions. Death had become like a conveyor belt, it seemed.
From the undertaker’s they travelled to a florist’s and ordered the flowers.
There were catalogues full of suitable wreaths and arrangements. Wreaths for all occasions. Donna noticed, with acute poignancy, that one page was devoted to ‘The Death of a Child’. How terrible, she thought, for parents to be confronted by that particular ordeal.
Everything appeared ready now; there was just the funeral to come. The time Donna dreaded most. The awful finality of it all. At the moment, she knew the body of her dead husband lay in the Chapel of Rest. Once it was laid in the earth then it was as if he was to be wiped from her consciousness, not just her mind. All she had to look forward to now were memories.
Memories and pain.
And anger.
Donna pushed her plate away from her and sat back in her chair, exhaling deeply.
‘You okay?’ Julie asked.
‘I feel so tired,’ Donna told her. She smiled wanly at her sister. ‘I’m sorry, Julie.’
‘Go and have a nap, I’ll take care of this,’ Julie said, waving a hand over the dirty plates and glasses. ‘Go on. I’ll bring you a cup of tea up in a while.’
Donna thanked her and walked away from the table, touching Julie’s shoulder as she went.
The younger woman smiled and kept on smiling as she heard her sister’s footfalls on the stairs. The steps groaned protestingly as she made her way to the bedroom. Julie continued eating, looking first at her watch then at her plate. Eventually she, too, pushed it away, got to her feet and began gathering the utensils, ready to take them through to the kitchen.
As she reached the dining-room door she glanced across at a darkwood cabinet inside the room. There were a number of photos on it, each of them in a silver frame.
Photos of Donna and Ward together.
Julie stood close to them, gazing at the pictures for long moments. Then she reached out one slender finger and gently drew it around the outline of Ward’s face, a slight smile creasing her lips.
Then she did the same around the image of Donna’s face.
By then, though, the smile had faded.
Fifteen
He used to call it The Cell.
The room where he imprisoned himself for six hours a day, five days a week. The room where Christopher Ward sat, with only his thoughts for company, pounding away at a typewriter until a new book was completed.