The chatter of voices and the clink of china, this was the sound of a wake to Reverend Peter McKay. The smell of tea and sweat.
Roberta had the coffin put in the back room where Mr Garrick had spent his last weeks. McKay didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to look at the face of the man he’d killed. But such was his duty. When he arrived at the house in the early afternoon he lingered in the hall as long as he could, shaking hands, patting shoulders, refusing cups of tea.
Soon there was no more avoiding it. He walked to the room at the rear of the hall, paused in the doorway. A small cluster of men greeted him, and he stepped inside. They moved out of his way, allowed him space. As fear pushed up from his belly and into his throat, threatening to choke him, McKay approached the coffin. Varnished oak, gold-plated handles, glistening in the light from the window. McKay swallowed and looked inside.
Silk covered the body to the waist, disguising the missing legs, the gnarled hands powdered to hide the scarring. And the face, waxen and hollow, like a doll.
I’m sorry, he wanted to say. I wish I could take it back. I shouldn’t have done this terrible thing, and I’d give anything to take the poison from your mouth.
And every unspoken word was true. As he fought the urge to weep, McKay startled at the sound of a voice at his shoulder.
‘Sure, you’d think he was sleeping, wouldn’t you?’
He turned to see Mr McHugh staring into the coffin.
‘They can do wonderful things, these days, the undertakers. I remember when we buried Cora’s mother it looked as if they’d made her up as a clown.’
McKay knew he should have replied, perhaps enquired after Cora’s health, was she getting out at all lately? Instead, he walked away, out of the room, and struggled through the kitchen full of trays and steam and gossip until he found the door to the utility room and the small bathroom off that.
Had he still believed in God, McKay would have thanked Him that the bathroom was unoccupied. He closed and locked the door, leaned against it. A small space, no more than six feet by four, the toilet at one end, a washbasin at the other, lit by a narrow frosted window.
For the first time in a decade, he felt the craving for a cigarette. That dry need at the back of his throat, in his lungs, waiting for tarry blue smoke. He had never smoked more than ten a day, even as a young man, but still the desire was great.
Later.
Later, he would go to a shop in some other town and buy a packet of cigarettes and smoke them until he hacked up grey phlegm, until he was dizzy and nauseous. But now he had to pull himself together. Get through the next forty-eight hours. That was all.
Last night she had given him hope.
Roberta still hadn’t wanted him to come over – discreet, she’d said – but her voice had been warm and kind. Loving, even. Enough to let him think there might be an after, a beyond. If he survived, there could be a future for him and Roberta, as tainted as it might be.
His thin surface of calm restored, McKay left the bathroom, back out through the kitchen, into the hall, avoiding every hand that reached out for him, every seeking face that wanted to snare him in banal conversation. He kept his focus on the door to the good sitting room, where he knew Roberta would be, the queen on her throne holding dominion over her subjects.
She did not look up as he entered the room. A cup of tea on a saucer held on her lap. Black skirt, white blouse, minimal make-up. A beautiful young widow mourning her husband. McKay crossed the room, swerving between the feet and knees of those seated here, towards the one narrow space on the couch, opposite her.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to Miss Trimble, the aged spinster who always insisted on giving him a critique of his sermons. She moved sideways, leaving him just enough cushion to squeeze onto.
Now the widow saw him.
‘Reverend Peter,’ she said.
‘Mrs Garrick,’ he said. ‘How are you holding up?’
A gentle smile. She tilted her head. ‘Not too bad.’ She shared the smile with the people all around. ‘Everyone’s been very kind.’
With that, she turned away from him. A clear instruction. Don’t talk to her.
And he wanted to slap the cup and saucer from her hand, grab her shoulders, shake her. And tell her what? He loved her? He hated her?
He said nothing. Sat with his hands on his knees, exchanged greetings with the good people as they came and went, while magnificent fury burned inside him.
‘We have come here today to remember our dear friend Henry Garrick,’ McKay said, his voice carrying over the congregation. The echo of the loudspeakers sent his words back to him, a booming muddle of vowels and dull consonants. ‘To give thanks for his life, to leave him in the keeping of God his creator, redeemer and judge, to commit his body to be buried, and to comfort one another in our grief, in the hope that is ours through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.’
Words upon words upon words. He worked through each stage of the ceremony, the prayers, the hymns, the psalm, the calls and responses, the standing and sitting. All the time he avoided the policewoman’s gaze, and Roberta avoided his.
He read from the First Epistle of John, asking the congregation to reflect on the fleeting nature of life on this earth, because one’s gaze should be beyond. He almost choked on his hypocrisy as he came to verse fifteen.
‘Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.’
He watched Roberta as he read the words lust and flesh, but she did not react.
Then he moved to the pulpit for the sermon, the usual recounting of the deceased’s life and loves, their hobbies, their foibles, their losses, their victories. Roberta smiled and nodded when appropriate. When McKay spoke of the drowned child, she bowed her head, pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her cheeks while Miss Trimble put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Now a final glance up at him, so quick, so sly. Barely enough for him to see the dryness of her eyes as he said her dead daughter’s name once more.
He stared down into the open grave, the fine wood of the coffin marred by the handfuls of earth that had broken on its surface. The Lord’s Prayer murmured around him, and for an insane moment he wondered who had prompted the gathered people to recite it before he realised he spoke it himself. He faltered over the final lines, but the voices around him carried him to the finish.
‘Lord,’ he said, ‘you will show us the path of life: in your presence is fullness of joy, and from your right hand flow delights for evermore.’
A moment of stillness, only the breeze rustling through the trees, then the crowd began to disperse. McKay shook hands with a few as they passed on their way to Roberta to give their final condolences.
He backed away, worked towards the periphery. The day was far from over; tea and sandwiches were to be served in the community centre, please join us, all welcome. At least two more hours of small talk and handshakes, two more hours of swallowing the scream that had been coiled in his throat since the coffin entered the church.
But a moment, please, a moment of quiet. He made for the church, imagining the silence of the vestry. He could take his time removing his cassock and surplice, hanging them up, putting on his jacket. The half-full packet of Marlboros was hidden in the safe, along with a packet of mints. No one would miss him for fifteen minutes, surely? He nodded and smiled to the stragglers on the path back to the church, ignored any attempt to slow him, to talk to him.
‘Reverend McKay.’
A woman’s voice, behind him.
‘Reverend McKay?’
He knew whose. He kept his head down, quickened his step. She was quicker.
DCI Flanagan touched his arm. ‘Reverend McKay.’
He turned, feigned surprise, hoped she wouldn’t see the fear on him. ‘Ah, sorry, Inspector, I was in a world of my own. And it’s Reverend Peter.’
‘Reverend Peter,’ she echoed. ‘Sorry to keep you back. I just wanted to thank you for the other day. For taking the time to talk with me. It helped, it really did.’
McKay felt the fear slip away almost entirely, replaced by something else. What was it? He couldn’t be sure; his emotions had become a confused jumble in recent days, and he struggled to tell one from another.
He wetted his lips and asked, ‘And did the prayer do any good?’
‘Yes,’ she said, a smile blooming on her mouth. ‘I’m still not sure who or what I was praying to, maybe I was just talking to myself, but it helped me see things more clearly. My husband and I had a good talk last night. Things are looking better.’
‘Good, I’m glad,’ he said, meaning it.
In that moment, he saw something in Flanagan that alarmed and calmed him all at once: her decency. In all the filth he had allowed himself to wallow in for the last few months he had lost sight of that most human of qualities. And here, confronted by this woman’s basic goodness, he felt awed by her. Once more he wanted to tell her everything, throw himself on her mercy.
It must have told on his features, because a crease appeared on her brow.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, putting her hand on his arm again.
‘Fine, fine,’ he said, backing away. ‘It’s been one long day after another, is all. Sorry, I need to get these robes off and get over to the hall. Will you be joining us? You’re very welcome.’
Even as he asked the question, he regretted it. A small burst of relief when she shook her head.
‘I have to get to work,’ she said, moving towards the gates. ‘Thanks again.’
She walked to the drift of people exiting the grounds. When he’d lost her among them, he went back to the church, into the cool and the quiet. He ignored Mr McHugh who was packing away his sheet music at the organ and headed straight for the vestry. The door closed and locked behind him, he pulled the surplice over his head, let it fall to the floor, unbuckled the belt at his waist, threw the cassock off. He got down on his knees, hit the four-digit combination on the safe, reached inside for the lighter and cigarettes, pinched one between his lips, sparked the thumbwheel, inhaled.
Oh, glorious heat, filling his chest, that crackling through his veins, into his skull.
He exhaled a long plume of smoke, felt a dizzy wave wash across his forehead, took another drag. Once the wave passed, he got to his feet and went to the small window protected by a wire grille. He opened the top pane, blew smoke through.
I’ve gotten away with it, he thought.
Such a certain and reasonable idea, he couldn’t question it. Flanagan had moved on, more concerned with her own life now than his or Roberta’s. The coroner had ruled it suicide. If he held his nerve just a little longer, if he could keep a wall around the crushing guilt that threatened to break him, if he could do that, he had gotten away with it.
A high whoop of a laugh escaped him, followed by a stream of tears.
He had gotten away with it.
They had gotten away with it.
25
Flanagan edged through the cluster of mourners at the gate, fighting against the flow towards the community centre. She wanted to turn right, head towards her car, but she was swept onto the road. She persevered through the dark suits and sharp-cornered handbags, excuse me, excuse me, thank you, excuse me, until she emerged into clear air. There, she joined the thin trickle of people who didn’t want to partake of tea and sandwiches.
Her Volkswagen in sight, she kept her head down, walking along the roadway, avoiding the bottlenecks of people on the footpath.
From behind, ‘Excuse me!’
Another person trying to escape the crowd. She kept going.
‘Excuse me! Hello?’
Footsteps jogging behind her. Flanagan turned, feeling suddenly defensive for no reason she could comprehend.
That man, from the church. The middle-aged man who knelt in prayer, the familiarity of whose features had nagged at her throughout the ceremony. He slowed his pace, fighting for breath.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, trying to ignore her growing wariness.
‘Are you the police officer who’s handling Harry’s case?’ he asked between gulps of air.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘DCI Flanagan. What can I do for you?’
‘My name’s George Garrick,’ he said. ‘Harry’s brother.’
It made sense, then, the familiarity. The scarring had blurred the dead man’s features, but enough remained for the likeness to his brother to be clear. For a moment, Flanagan felt she knew what Henry Garrick had looked like in life, tall and gently handsome. She wondered if he had spoken with the same country softness to the consonants as George Garrick. With the wondering came a sadness that he had gone and no one would hear his voice again.
She pushed the thought aside and said, ‘I see. I’m sorry for your loss.’
He fussed at his well-worn suit jacket. ‘Thank you. I recognised you from the news. I wanted to have a word, if you’ve time.’
She looked towards her car, thought of the paperwork at the station that needed doing, then turned back to him. ‘Of course.’
‘It’s about Harry,’ he said. He looked to the crowd filtering into the old school hall before speaking again. ‘And Roberta. I need to tell you something about her.’
‘Go ahead,’ Flanagan said.
She noticed the redness of his eyes, realised he had been weeping for his brother. The grief lingered beneath the surface, its vague form visible to her through his skin.
‘That woman,’ George Garrick said. ‘She’s evil.’
* * *
‘I stayed near the back,’ he said. ‘Out of the way. I daren’t have let her see me there.’
George Garrick sat in the passenger seat of her car, his knees pressed against the glovebox, his head nearly touching the roof lining. Some of the other cars had started to move away. He looked over his shoulder, put his elbow on the door, his forearm shielding his face from outside.
‘Why not?’ Flanagan asked.
‘She would’ve made sure I got driven out. She wouldn’t stand to have me about the place. I haven’t been welcome around here for four years now.’
‘Why?’ Flanagan asked.
‘Roberta made sure of it. The lies she told about me. The things she accused me of.’
The last words caught in his throat, and he brought his hand to his mouth, his eyes brimming. Flanagan did not prompt him, allowed him to find his own way.
‘I never touched her,’ he said eventually, wiping at his veined cheeks. ‘I swear to my Lord God above, I never touched her. I swore to Harry, I swore to the rest of them, and I swear to you, I never laid one hand on that woman.’
He wept now, tears running free to drip onto his shirt.
‘And I have to tell you this. I’ve never said it to anyone, not once. But I have to say it now.’
Flanagan reached across, put her hand on his forearm. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Oh God,’ he said. He hissed through his teeth as if the pressure of his secrets might burst him at the seams. He looked skyward, then closed his eyes. ‘Oh God. Dear God forgive me, I think she killed her child.’
Fat raindrops slapped against the car’s windscreen. Flanagan’s nerves jangled, electricity coursed across her skin.
‘From the start,’ she said. ‘Tell me what happened.’
He sat there for a while, his head gently shaking, a tiny movement, almost nothing at all. His breathing settled, the tears dried. He took a breath and began.
‘I was so happy for Harry when he met her,’ he said. ‘He’d been struggling since his first wife cleared out. He put a brave face on it, he was always a proud man. Not in a sinful way, I mean, but he was the sort of fella wouldn’t tell anyone his problems. B
ut I knew he was struggling. He was lonely. He had all this money, and no one to share it with. All he had was his business, that and the church. If he’d been a drinker like me, he probably would’ve let that eat him up.
‘Anyway, when Roberta came along I was delighted for him, the same as everyone else. You could see how happy he was. I knew he was going to marry her before he did. I was best man at his wedding. Second time I did that for him. I started to see less of him after the wedding, but I thought, sure, that’s only natural. He’s got a lovely wife now, why would he be bothered with his useless auld lump of a brother.
‘She threw herself into the church, joined in all the activities, all the clubs. Really made herself a part of the community. Everyone loved her. So did I. She just pulled people to her. Then she got pregnant and everyone was over the moon. You’d think the whole town and country was an uncle or an aunt to that child.’
A smile broke on his face, wide and toothy. Flanagan couldn’t help but reflect it. He blushed, dropped his gaze.
‘Wee Erin. She was a beautiful wee girl. An awful good baby. They never had any trouble with her. She fed well, she slept well. She was talking away by the time they went to Barcelona. She couldn’t make a whole pile of sense, but you could see the personality coming through, who she was going to grow into. Who she might have been.
‘It was Reverend Peter phoned me to let me know. I remember it like it was five minutes ago. It was evening time, I was having a wee whiskey, watching the snooker on TV. The wife was washing up. I answered the phone and he told me, and I hung up and I went and put that bottle to my mouth and I never took another breath till it was gone.
‘Oh God, the funeral. It was the worst I’d ever seen. The crying. People cry at funerals, course they do, but not like this. And me and Harry carried that wee white coffin and, oh God, I wanted to take Harry and pull all the pain out of him and take it for myself.
‘And I remember, I stood by the graveside, that same grave she stood by today, and I looked across and I saw Roberta. And I knew it was an act. Everyone else was too worked up to see it, but I saw it, like she was wearing a mask.
So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) Page 11