The Wake: an absolutely gripping psychological suspense

by Vikki Patis

  ‘Ker-no,’ I correct her. ‘It’s Cornish for Cornwall.’

  ‘They have their own language?’

  ‘Somewhat. Not many people use it, but I think they’re trying to bring it back, like Welsh I suppose.’

  ‘What other Cornish words do you know?’ Fleur asks.

  I frown. ‘Barely any. Emmet? That means tourist. Well, it means ant actually, but they use it to describe tourists, because they descend in the summer like ants on a picnic.’

  Fleur laughs. ‘That’s a good one. Emmet. I like it.’

  We travel through the county, onto the winding A38 before picking up the A30 at Bodmin. A lot has changed since I’ve been away; the roads have been developed, and new mini service stations have popped up along the side of the dual carriageway. There’s no motorway in Cornwall, only A roads and lots of slightly terrifying B roads, but the drive is easy enough, despite the road signs bringing back memories with a sharpness that almost takes my breath away.

  Fleur reads out some of the signs as we pass. ‘Indian Queens.’ She turns to me with a bemused expression on her face.

  ‘Legend has it that Pocahontas once visited here,’ I explain, remembering the tales from my childhood. Mum always loved the folklore of Cornwall, perhaps because it was so similar to her own Scottish history. ‘But I think I read somewhere that that wasn’t true.’

  ‘What does it mean then?’

  ‘No idea. There’s a lot in Cornwall that doesn’t make any sense.’

  We stop at a Starbucks a few miles out of St Agnes, where our Airbnb awaits. Dad’s house is in Cubert, just outside Newquay, and I couldn’t face staying near Perranporth. St Agnes felt like a good choice, but as I get out of the car, I feel my heart start to race.

  ‘We’ll get a coffee,’ Fleur says over the top of the car, holding my gaze. ‘And use les toilettes.’

  I nod, taking a deep breath and following her into Starbucks, joining the queue while she uses the loo. I pick up two reusable cups and ask for them to be rinsed – Fleur would be horrified if I gave her a disposable coffee cup – and wait at the end for our drinks.

  ‘One toffee nut latte for Skye,’ the barista shouts, and I step forward at the same time as another woman. I stare at her blankly for a second before she laughs.

  ‘Sorry, I misheard the name. Mine’s a caramel latte.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask, picking up my coffee and sliding a cardboard sleeve around it, wondering what name could be mixed up with mine. The woman looks about my age, with shoulder-length dark hair and black-rimmed glasses. I feel the breath catch in my throat as she shoves her hands into the pockets of her stylish coat, her head cocked slightly to one side, and I know what she is going to say.

  ‘It’s Saff,’ she says, but I’ve already turned away, taking Fleur’s drink and stumbling towards the sugar station, trying to calm my racing heart. Saffy is not an uncommon name in the UK. It’s not her, I know it can’t be her, but still my stomach lurches and my pulse beats in my ears like waves crashing against the sand. Calm down, I tell myself, stirring sugar into my coffee and lifting the wooden stick to my lips. Saffy used to squirt cream straight into her mouth, grinning, looking like a rabid dog, and the memory soothes me somehow.

  Fleur joins me as I’m putting the lids back onto our drinks. ‘All set?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ll just use the loo. Meet you in the car?’

  ‘The loo. So English.’ She laughs, shaking her head, and I stick my tongue out at her as I push open the bathroom door.

  I grip the sides of the basin, my fingers turning white as I stare at my reflection. My hair is short now, barely touching my shoulders, and my face is bare of make-up. I used to see Saffy in the mirror more often, and in the faces of the girls and women I passed in the streets, but it’s been a long time since it last happened, not since I moved to France and tried to put the past behind me. Not since I tried to forget all about my missing, presumed dead, sister.

  7

  The Celebrant

  James takes a deep breath, cherishing the silence while it lasts. The order of service is laid out on the benches and he has tested the speakers, hastily turning down the volume when Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels’ came blaring out. I could probably create a playlist for the most commonly played songs at funerals, he thinks as he paces the room. ‘You Raise Me Up’ is a popular one, along with ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ and, strangely, ‘My Immortal’ by Evanescence.

  Fiona has chosen three songs for today’s service. They will walk in to ‘Angels’, the two sons, Richard’s brother, Peter, and a colleague carrying the coffin. James feels his heart give a little lurch at the thought of Peter and tries to force his mind to carry on down the checklist. He cannot afford to be sidetracked today. He has written the words of welcome, a short introduction thanking everyone for being there. He glances up at the webcam mounted on the wall opposite him and frowns. It is a relatively new feature, this option to ‘live-stream’ the funeral to people who could not otherwise make it, and he is not entirely sure how he feels about it. But, he reminds himself, it doesn’t matter how he feels about it. This is his last funeral, and he won’t have to think about it again.

  He moves on to the tribute which he has put together with words from various family members. He reads them back, shaking his head as he tries to correlate the Richard Asquith described here with the Richard Asquith he knew. Fiona has provided the facts: Richard’s business, his children and family life, and all of his achievements. Anecdotes from his university days and heart-warming stories from his childhood. On paper, Richard appears to be a successful, well-loved husband, father, brother, colleague, and friend. But James knows the real man behind this façade, the man who had done his level best to make James’s life hell since he discovered his secret.

  He takes a deep breath, forcing his mind to return to the schedule. A couple of readings, and then they will spend a few moments in reflection while they listen to the dulcet tones of Celine Dion before the committal. And then it will be over, ‘Ashes to Ashes’ by David Bowie accompanying the final farewell to Richard Asquith, loved one, businessman, and absolute wanker.

  ‘I won’t be reading a eulogy,’ Fiona told him during their one and only meeting about the funeral. ‘I can’t abide public shows of emotion.’

  ‘Lexi wants to read something,’ Felix said, and James caught the look on Fiona’s face as she turned to her son.

  ‘Lexi?’ she repeated, as if he had spoken a foreign language. ‘But she–’

  ‘I’d like to, Fiona,’ Lexi said, her soft voice smoothing over the tension that had entered the room. ‘For Leo, if nothing else.’

  Fiona’s face had softened at the mention of her grandson, and she nodded once.

  ‘What would you like to read, Lexi?’ James asked the young woman, who looked up and met his eyes. She was beautiful, he thought, a rare kind of beauty that seemed to shine from within.

  ‘A poem,’ she said after a moment, smiling sadly. ‘Richard was a fan of poetry. He told me he used to write, in his younger years.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fiona scoffed, ‘and they were bloody awful. Don’t read one of those.’

  Lexi’s smile dimmed slightly before returning, her eyes sparkling. ‘Don’t worry. I know just the thing.’

  James rubs his hands together now, his breath misting in the air in front of him as he crosses the room to turn up the thermostat. He keeps his jacket on as he reads through his notes again, mouthing the words in a last attempt to commit them to memory. He always has to refer to his notes at least once during a service, anxiety turning his mind blank as he stares out at the friends and family gathered before him. Over twenty years he’s been in this job, and the nerves still get to him.

  Does he feel nervous today? His hands are steady now, despite the cold, and the familiar bubble of nerves is strangely absent. Perhaps it is because it’s his last funeral; perhaps it is because it’s for Richard. But regardless of his feelings for the dead man, he owes it
to Fiona to give him a proper send-off. Despite how Richard treated her, despite the arguments and the humiliation he subjected her to, Fiona is a woman of class. She knows how to behave in every scenario, jumps without hesitation into all situations, always doing what is expected of her. James half-wishes she would turn up today in a luminous pink tracksuit with her hair spiked up and a fag hanging out of her mouth just to liven things up.

  His mind turns to Eleanor, the other woman. Will she show her face today? Strangely, despite his connection to Fiona, he likes Eleanor, thinks her a kind and thoughtful woman. He remembers the way she bought drinks for everyone at Richard’s birthday last year, how clear was her desperate need to fit in, to be liked. She’d even made sure the lactose intolerant girlfriend of Richard’s colleague was catered for, carefully separating the food on the buffet into different categories: vegetarian, vegan, gluten-free. She is nice, James thinks, and although the word is simplistic, it suits her. Eleanor is nice. So what on earth was she doing with Richard? How is it that Richard Asquith has managed to ensnare two – no, three, he corrects himself, remembering Fearne – lovely women? Fearne was one of those wild, carefree types, with long flowing hair and a sultry Scottish burr. He only met her briefly, at an uncomfortable birthday party for Skye, her and Richard’s remaining daughter, after they had separated. She had travelled down from Scotland to pick her daughter up, waiting in the driveway with her new husband. It was then that James realised how close in age Skye and Felix are – barely five years – and it dawned on him that Richard had been seeing Fiona on the sly before he split up with Fearne after their younger daughter went missing. An entire second family, kept hidden away from the first.

  And now there is Eleanor. No children involved this time, he thinks, thanking the god he doesn’t believe in. Fiona’s heart would have been broken if she’d discovered their affair. In fact, James suspects she might have killed him if she had.

  8

  The Daughter-in-Law

  ‘Leo, will you stop running about and put your socks on please?’

  I breathe a sigh as Leo crashes into the end of his bed and tumbles to the floor, expecting tears, but he picks himself up and runs back out of the room. I hear Felix cry ‘Oi!’ as Leo no doubt gets under his feet. He comes out of our bedroom, his tie half done.

  ‘Can you control your bloody child?’ he says, his face pinched, and my mouth opens to protest that Leo isn’t just my child, but I stop myself in time. It’s the day of his father’s funeral, and his temper is even shorter than usual. Best not to get into it.

  I get up from my place on the floor, shaking out the trousers I was turning up for my child, and go to find him. He’s in the bathroom, calmly brushing his teeth as if he hadn’t just been zipping around the house like a wild thing. I place a hand on his head, relishing the feel of his soft curls beneath my fingertips, and smile. He’s so young, too young to go to a funeral, but Felix has insisted. I can only hope he’s tired himself out enough this morning so he behaves later.

  Back in his bedroom, I get Leo dressed and leave him playing with some cars. Felix is still struggling with his tie as I step up behind him.

  ‘Here,’ I say, holding out my hands, and he turns to let me do it. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘How do you think?’ he snaps, before blowing out a breath. ‘I hate funerals.’

  ‘It’ll be over before you know it,’ I murmur, gently tightening his tie. ‘And then we can move on.’

  I take a step back and smile, glancing up at his face. He’s looking at me strangely, as if I’ve grown another head.

  ‘You really didn’t like him, did you?’ he says, his voice full of something I can’t quite identify. But I suppose he wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t know what went on between his father and me. Nobody does.

  I get dressed quickly, wriggling into a pair of black leggings and pulling a plain black dress over the top. I don’t have many dark clothes, preferring to dress in bright but smart office attire, but I’ve had this dress for years. It’s a bit tight, but it’ll do. I try not to remember the last time I wore it as I slip into black flats and turn to the mirror to brush out my hair and run the straightener over it again before I catch myself. I should leave it curly, stop trying to tame my hair. Stop trying to tame myself.

  Leo comes in as I’m applying mascara and knocks into my elbow, so it smudges against the side of my nose.

  ‘Whoops!’ I say, reaching for a tissue, and Leo giggles. He throws himself onto my bed and pretends to be a starfish.

  ‘Mummy,’ he says as I pick up a light pink lipstick, the only splash of colour I’m allowed today. Of course Richard would insist on black tie for his funeral. Even in death, he’s still a pretentious, controlling git.

  ‘Yes, sweetie?’ I murmur, blotting my lips with tissue.

  ‘Where will Grandad go?’

  I look at my son in the mirror, taking in his screwed-up face as he stares up at the ceiling, his arms and legs still flung out.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘After.’

  Oh. We haven’t had the death conversation yet. He’s not even four, and the only dead things he’s seen are on the beach. I apply another coat of lipstick to my bottom lip and press them together, trying to gather my thoughts. Fiona would want me to tell him about God, some nonsense about how his grandfather is in heaven with the angels. But I won’t lie to him. That’s one thing I promised myself when I found out I was pregnant; I will never lie to my child, about anything. Except his other grandfather, the shadow side of his family that he will never know. For that I am making an exception, for now anyway.

  ‘Well,’ I say, twisting round to face him. ‘I don’t know, sweetie. No one does, not really. Some people believe that you go to another place when you die, called heaven.’ I consider bringing in hell, then decide against it. Too complicated. ‘And others believe that you don’t go anywhere.’

  ‘What do you believe?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say carefully. ‘I think I believe that part of a person stays when they die, that they’re always with us, in one way or another.’ I mentally grimace at my words, hoping that no part of Richard is with us any longer.

  Leo’s little face is so earnest as he considers my answer that it makes my heart ache. ‘But Mummy,’ he says after a moment, ‘I don’t want Grandad to still be here.’

  My heartbeat pulses in my ears as his words echo my own thoughts. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Nanny said bad people go to hell,’ he says, sitting up and fixing me with his gaze. ‘And Grandad was bad, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Lexi!’ Fiona’s voice calling up the stairs makes me jump. ‘Time to go!’

  Leo leaps off the bed and takes off down the hall while I try to calm my thudding heart. Grandad was bad. Was he? Had Richard mistreated my son in some way? Anger pulses through me and I try to push it down, taking a deep breath in through my nose. This isn’t the time, and Leo is just a child. Children say all kinds of things. But of all people, I knew what Richard was capable of, and I feel something smouldering inside me as I finish getting ready.

  Gravel crunches outside and I turn to see the funeral cars pulling into the drive. Wreaths that spell out DAD and RICHARD sit in the windows of the hearse, his body laid between them in his overpriced coffin. Picking up my jacket, I leave the bedroom and make my way down the stairs, where Felix is wrestling Leo into his smart shoes.

  ‘They pinch!’ he protests, but his father ignores him.

  ‘It’s only for a little while,’ I say, running one of his curls through my fingers. ‘I’ll bring your trainers for later, all right?’

  He nods, his face relaxing, and he lets Felix finish putting his shoes on for him, the laces too tight on his little feet.

  Felix steps back and looks at me, nodding once in a way that says you’ll do, before turning to grab his coat. Fiona glides out of the kitchen on three-inch heels, a fascinator with a black veil half-covering her eyes. Her lips are red, as are her nails, and
she clutches a small black bag that I know cost more than a month’s wage for many. She looks every inch the grieving widow. It suits her. This was the role she was always supposed to play.

  ‘Ready?’ Felix asks her, holding out an arm. His mother wordlessly slips a hand through the crook of his elbow, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulders, as I reach out to take Leo’s hand. ‘Let’s go then.’ Felix squares his shoulders and opens the front door, and we step out into the wintry sunshine.

  9

  The Daughter

  I wake to weak sunlight filtering through the crooked blinds, and the smell of coffee coming from the living area. Fleur pads into the bedroom, her toes flashing pink against the pale floorboards, two steaming mugs in her hands.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask, pulling myself up and sitting against the headboard. I slept poorly last night; the tiny cottage was too cold, a thermostat nowhere in sight, and the pizza we ate for dinner sat heavily in my stomach as I tossed and turned. I gave up eventually, sitting up in an armchair for a while, trying and failing to read my book, my mind constantly returning to my father, to the memories I have tried to run from.

  ‘Almost eight o’clock,’ she says, handing me a mug and sitting down at the dressing table. I notice that her hair is wet. ‘It is at ten, oui?’

  I nod, sipping my coffee. I suddenly feel exhausted. I can’t shake the feeling of claustrophobia, as if this cottage and this county is closing in on me, forcing me to remember things I’ve spent years trying to forget.

  ‘Did you bring your peach lipstick?’ Fleur asks, rummaging around in our shared make-up bag. Neither of us wear much; Fleur is blessed with golden skin that rarely needs covering up, and I often struggle to find a foundation pale enough, but we both have a fondness for bright nail polish and lipstick.