Heathen/Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘Go to sleep,’ she whispered. ‘You need to rest.’

  ‘Remember when you used to do this when we were kids?’ Donna murmured, her voice low, her words delivered slowly. ‘It always used to make me drop off then.’

  ‘I remember,’ Julie told her. ‘You did it for me, too.’

  ‘Little sister looking after big sister,’ Donna said, her eyes closed.

  She said one more thing before sleep finally overcame her, words spoken so softly Julie barely heard them.

  ‘I miss him, Julie,’ she said.

  Then all she heard was her sister’s low breathing.

  She slept.

  Julie stopped stroking her hair and rolled over onto her back again, glancing across at the photo on the bedside table of Chris and Donna, peering at it through the gloom.

  It was a long time before she fell asleep.

  Twenty-Five

  Martin Connelly took the suit from the wardrobe and hung it on one of the handles.

  He brushed fluff from a sleeve and inspected the garment carefully. He hadn’t worn it for over two years, not since the last funeral. The agent noticed a couple of creases in one arm of the jacket and wished now that he’d left it out for his housekeeper to press. He shook his head. The creases would drop out once he had it on. What the hell. He selected a white shirt and then rummaged through his wardrobe for his black tie, hanging it neatly over the shoulder of the jacket. Satisfied that everything was ready for the following day, he wandered back into the sitting-room of the flat and poured himself a drink.

  He sat down in front of the television and reached for the remote control, flicking through channels, unable to find anything suitable. He wondered about watching a video but decided against it.

  There were cassette cases underneath the television, both tapes leant to him by Christopher Ward. He made a note to return them. It would give him an excuse to return to the house.

  He wouldn’t phone first, he’d just turn up, surprise Donna one day. He doubted whether she’d be too happy to see him after their lunch that day. He regretted his suggestion to travel with her to Dublin.

  You should have waited.

  And yet what better time to speak to her than now? She was emotionally vulnerable, looking for kindness, wanting to be needed. As time went on and her emotional strength returned, his task would be more difficult.

  Connelly finished his drink and poured himself another, rolling the glass between his palms.

  It was one of a set Kathy had bought.

  The thought of her brought the memories flooding back into his mind.

  They had lived together for ten months and, whilst it had scarcely been idyllic, both had been happy. She was beginning to make a go of her career in modelling; she’d been signed up by an agency and the work had begun to flood in. At first he’d been overjoyed, proud of her and more than a little smug to think that his girlfriend was a fashion model.

  When the nude work started to take over he began to change his mind. Kathy had never been ashamed of her body and when she was approached by a top men’s magazine to do a spread she jumped at the chance. The pay was good and it opened up even more opportunities. Modelling assignments took her abroad. It got to the stage where they hardly saw each other and, all the time, Connelly was plagued by doubts. By thoughts of his girlfriend and a photographer he’d never met cavorting about on some sun-kissed beach in the Caribbean. He’d challenged her several times about it. Had she ever slept with a photographer while she was away? The usual thing. Blind to the fact that the only thing that interested her was furthering her career, Connelly had finally made life unbearable for both of them with his jealousy. As she reminded him, during rows over her assignments, he was always having lunch or dinner with female clients, editors or journalists. Connelly insisted it was different. Besides, the women he dealt with didn’t sit in restaurants naked.

  It took less than a year before she left him. He simply returned home one night to find that she was gone, all her clothes and belongings gone with her.

  That had been almost two years ago. He hadn’t heard from her since. He’d seen photos of her in some of the tabloids, looking decorative on the arms of rock stars or others of that ilk. Apart from that, he hadn’t seen her or heard from her since the split. He’d lived alone ever since.

  A housekeeper came in twice a week to clean the place and do his laundry, but apart from that he lived a more or less solitary existence outside working hours.

  Connelly finished his drink, set the glass down and headed for the bedroom, glancing at the black suit hanging on the wardrobe door.

  He wondered what Donna was doing now.

  It was 12.36 a.m. She was probably in bed.

  Bed.

  Connelly tried to picture her lying between the sheets. It was a pleasing image.

  He smiled crookedly.

  He had failed that lunchtime, a trifle impetuous perhaps.

  There would be other opportunities.

  He had time.

  Twenty-Six

  There was a bird singing in the tree close to the grave. It chirped happily throughout the service, bouncing from branch to branch, rejoicing in the blue skies and the warmth of the day.

  Donna heard its shrill song but the priest’s words were lost to her. The words of the service were meaningless; it was as if he’d been speaking a foreign language. All she was aware of was that solitary bird in the tree. And the sound of a woman crying.

  The crying woman was her.

  Supported by Julie, she stood at the graveside surrounded by crowds of other mourners. Dressed in black, those paying their final respects to Christopher Ward looked like a menacing horde against the green of the cemetery grass. Splashes of brilliant colour afforded by the flowers at the graveside made the dark mass of mourners look incongruous in the peaceful setting.

  A light breeze stirred the cellophane wrappers on some of the flowers, causing them to rattle.

  Donna, looking down into the grave and seeing the coffin, was aware even more now of the appalling finality of the occasion. When they shovelled six feet of earth on top of that casket her husband would be well and truly gone. Nothing remaining except a marble marker which bore his name and an inscription:

  CHRISTOPHER WARD, BELOVED HUSBAND

  SLEEP UNTIL WE ARE TOGETHER ONCE MORE

  Not much to signify the sum total of thirty-five years, Donna thought.

  All around the grave others were standing in orderly lines, some with heads bowed, others gazing around as the priest spoke.

  Beyond them stood the line of cars that had ferried the mourners from the church.

  Again, Donna found it difficult to remember what had happened in the church or, indeed, since she had got up that morning. She had seemed to be moving like an automaton, not really aware of anything she did or said, or of anything which was said to her.

  Julie had tried her best to coax her along but she too had found the solemnity of the occasion sometimes too much to bear. As she stood beside Donna now there were tears rolling down her cheeks. Inside the church she had stared at the coffin, raised up on a plinth and surrounded by flowers, her own mind struggling with the thought that inside that box lay her brother-in-law.

  She had ridden in the leading car with Donna, neither of them speaking as the driver guided the vehicle towards the cemetery, never more than a few yards behind the hearse.

  And then to the grave itself, yawning open to swallow the box that contained Christopher Ward.

  Connelly had acted as one of the pall-bearers. He now stood on the other side of the grave, his hands clasped across his groin, his head bowed. Beside him were people from Chris’s publishers, friends and relatives. There were even some fans there, readers of his books who had come to pay their last respects.

  More than once Donna felt her legs weaken; she was sure she was going to fall.

  Fall into the grave, perhaps?

  But she held onto what little strength she had left and
felt Julie’s arm around her waist, supporting her but also needing that closeness herself. And Donna had felt this terrible feeling before, the night they had first told her that her husband had been involved in a crash. As she looked down into the grave she felt the same crushing desolation she’d felt as the coroner had pulled back that green sheet in the hospital morgue. How long ago was it now? Four days? More? Time seemed to have lost its meaning since his death. She wondered if life would lose its meaning, too.

  As the priest came to the end of his service he stepped back a pace, beckoning Donna towards the graveside.

  It was a monumental effort for her to walk those few steps; again she felt as if her knees were going to give way. Sobbing gently she made that short journey, Julie close by her. They both looked into the grave then Donna stepped back, her head lowered.

  The breeze brought the smell of flowers to her, an aroma so strong, so thickly scented she felt sick. The cellophane rattled again and a petal from a red rose came free and fluttered across the grass towards the graveside, where it was blown in, floating gently downwards until it settled on the coffin lid.

  Julie, trying to control her own emotion, led Donna away. The other mourners filed past.

  From the tree close by the bird took flight, soaring high into the blue sky.

  Like a soul en route to heaven.

  Twenty-Seven

  Donna stood by the car, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. The priest spoke softly to her but she heard little of what he said. She smiled every now and then, grateful for his concern but anxious only to be away from this place.

  Julie stood beside her, reaching over once to pull a blonde hair from her sister’s jacket. She lovingly touched the back of her hair as she did so.

  The priest finished what he had to say and retreated, to be replaced by various mourners. Words of condolence were offered. Donna was confronted by a parade of people, many of whom she found it difficult to place. What she felt now was more akin to shock than grief; it was as if she was numb. Every part of her body and her soul, burned out. She looked at people with blank eyes, red-rimmed and glazed; she might have been on drugs.

  Cars were beginning to leave the cemetery, mourners driving away back towards her house for the wake. Donna was suddenly aware how archaic the word sounded. Wake. The thought of having her house filled with people seemed abhorrent. She wanted to tell each and every one of them to leave her alone with her grief and her pain. Let her enjoy it unhindered. Their presence would only seek to prevent her complete immersion in despair.

  Friends and relatives spoke words of comfort to her before climbing into their cars. She nodded gratefully at each word, unable and unwilling to answer.

  Julie finally urged her to get into the car, wiping tears from her own eyes as she pulled gently at Donna’s arm.

  Martin Connelly walked over, arms outstretched, and Donna found herself embracing him. Embracing him and holding him tightly. His touch was reassuring and he allowed her to bury her head in his chest as he held her.

  Only Julie saw the slight flicker of a smile on his lips as he spoke to her softly.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘Just let it out.’

  She sobbed uncontrollably in his arms.

  Aware of Julie’s probing gaze Connelly looked at the younger woman, their eyes meeting for uncomfortable seconds before he finally stroked Donna’s cheek with one hand and she stepped away from him slightly.

  ‘I’ll see you back at the house,’ he said and walked off to find his car.

  Julie watched him go, then held out her hand for Donna to join her in the car.

  ‘Come on, Donna,’ she said gently, but then noticed that her sister was gazing in the direction of the grave. Julie followed her gaze.

  ‘I don’t know who they are,’ Donna said quietly, wiping her nose with her handkerchief.

  There were three men standing by the graveside, the one in the centre tall and powerfully built. All three of them wore dark suits.

  At such a distance Donna couldn’t make out their features.

  ‘Friends of Chris’s, I suppose,’ Julie said. ’‘You didn’t know all his friends, did you?’

  ‘Most of them,’ Donna told her, eyes still fixed on the trio of mourners.

  She noticed one of them kneel beside the grave, squatting down on his haunches and leaning over the edge, as if he were looking for something in the deep hole.

  ‘Who are they?’ Donna murmured, finally allowing herself to be coaxed into the car by Julie.

  The driver asked them if they were ready, then pulled slowly away.

  Donna turned in her seat and looked out of the back window.

  The three men were still beside the grave, all of them standing again now, still looking down intently at the coffin.

  The car rounded a corner and they were lost from sight.

  Donna sank back in her seat, her eyes closed, the vision of the three men fading from her mind.

  Had she been able to, she would have seen the tallest of the three kick a clod of earth into the hole.

  It landed with a thud on the coffin lid.

  Twenty-Eight

  She didn’t count the cars parked outside the house but there seemed to be at least a dozen, parked on the driveway and in the road.

  As Donna moved through the sitting-room she glanced out of the window at the horde of vehicles. Inside, a low babble of chatter rose from the mourners who had returned to the house.

  The caterers Julie had hired to provide food and drinks had set up a large table in the sitting-room, where they served guests with sandwiches and other snacks. In the kitchen they were using a tea urn and countless coffee pots to keep thirsts quenched.

  The talk was subdued but interrupted by the odd laugh here and there. Laughs of relief, perhaps, now that the worst of the solemnity was over. A number of the men present loosened their ties.

  Donna sat down by the window with a cup of tea in her hand, her eyes sore from crying, her head aching. She received the kind words and the advice with humility, concealing her desire that they should all simply leave her house as quickly as possible. They had paid their respects; now they had no reason to remain. But she pushed that thought to one side, grateful also for the concern.

  Jackie Quinn glided across to her, kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her hand tightly, perching on the arm of the chair.

  ‘Today seems to be lasting forever,’ Donna said, smiling wanly. She squeezed Jackie’s hand more tightly. ‘Thanks for coming, Jackie.’

  ‘I wish there was more I could have done to help,’ she said, ‘but your caterers seem to be coping.’ She smiled.

  ‘Where’s Dave?’ Donna asked.

  ‘Getting himself a drink. I told him to get you one, too.’

  ‘Jackie, I couldn’t drink. Not now,’ Donna protested.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ Jackie said quietly. ‘A brandy will help you relax.’ She turned and saw Dave Turner entering the room, a glass in each hand. He smiled at Donna and made his way past a group of guests standing by the door talking.

  As he stepped clear of them another man almost walked into him.

  Donna frowned as she saw him.

  It was one of the men who had been standing at Chris’s grave when the car had brought her away, she was sure of it.

  The man apologized to Dave and made his way out of the room, followed by a companion.

  Another of the trio of mourners she’d seen as she’d left the cemetery. Donna was certain of it. She still didn’t recognize them.

  Turner handed her the brandy and watched as she sipped, wincing as it burned its way down to her stomach.

  ‘Thanks, Dave,’ she said. He smiled down at her. ‘That guy you just bumped into. Did you recognize him?’

  ‘Should I?’ Turner wanted to know.

  ‘I can’t place him. I saw him at the cemetery, him and two other men. I knew all of Chris’s friends, or so I thought, but I can’t seem to put a name to those three.’


  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Jackie told her, squeezing her hand again. ‘Drink your brandy.’ She smiled.

  Donna took another sip, wincing again, then she got to her feet, looking around the room.

  From one corner, hidden from her view, Martin Connelly watched intently.

  ‘Have you seen Julie anywhere?’ Donna wanted to know.

  Jackie shook her head.

  ‘I’ll be back in a while,’ Donna said, excusing herself.

  She made her way across the room, pausing to speak to Chris’s publisher, then to a couple of magazine editors he’d been friendly with. More condolences were offered.

  How many different ways were there to say, ‘I’m sorry?’

  She found more people in the hallway. They smiled politely at her as she passed, making her way upstairs, anxious to be away from everyone, wondering how long it would be before the guests started to leave. She paused on the landing for a moment and exhaled deeply. The top storey of the house seemed quieter, the atmosphere heavier. Donna crossed to her bedroom and entered.

  Julie looked up in surprise as her sister entered.

  Tears had stained her cheeks and her mascara had run, causing ugly black marks around her eyes. She wiped self-consciously at them as Donna entered, a worried expression on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Donna,’ Julie said, wiping her face. ‘I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want you to see me like this.’

  Donna crossed to her and the two women embraced.

  ‘I wanted to be strong for you, to help you,’ Julie said, angry with herself. ‘That’s why I came up here.’ She sniffed and smiled. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Stay here for a while if you want to,’ Donna said.

  ‘It’s me who should be saying that to you,’ Julie told her, waving away the suggestion. ‘I told you, I’m okay now.’

  ‘You don’t have to feel sorry for missing him, too, Julie. A lot of people will,’ Donna told her.

  The younger woman nodded slowly and stood up. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and shrugged.