‘Simon?’ I tentatively say after another excruciatingly long-drawn-out silence, worthy of a Pinter play.
‘Mmm?’ he says, absently. Totally focused on the road ahead.
‘You do know what you’re thinking about is pointless, don’t you?’
‘Why? What am I thinking?’
‘About trying to kick start the whole search for Kitty again,’ I suddenly blurt out, in spite of myself. ‘To tell her about Mrs K., I mean. I know it’s on your mind, so let’s just bring it out into the open.’
Jeez, it’s actually a relief to finally talk about the elephant sitting in the back of car with us.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ I ask him gently.
‘Yeah, yeah, you’re right,’ he sighs. Eventually.
‘It’s just … well, I don’t think I could handle seeing you go through all of that again. And I can tell you, I certainly wouldn’t be up to it. Simon, you and I did absolutely everything, for God’s sake; we even hired a private detective, just to see if we could somehow find out what corner of the world she was holed up in …’
‘I know,’ he nods tersely, eyes trained on the road ahead. ‘I already know all of this.’
‘… And still, we got absolutely nowhere.’
‘Please, Angie. You don’t need to remind me.’
‘Look, all I’m saying is, don’t do this to yourself. We’ve agreed that what’s done is done, it’s all in the past and it’s time to move on. So can’t we just get to the funeral, mourn the woman and look on today as the final bit of closure that we both need? That’s all I’m asking.’
He doesn’t answer me, though. Just stares straight ahead like an angry taxi driver whose last fare never tipped. Then kicks the car up a gear and starts driving even faster.
Almost as if he can’t wait to get there.
Rocky Island Crematorium, Ringaskiddy, Co. Cork, 11.50 a.m.
We arrive a bit early. Rocky Island Crematorium turns out to be impressively new and a pretty good size too. It’s absolutely nothing like I’d expected. Problem is, though, there’s just a v., v. tiny turnout. I can tell it’ll be small, because ours is one of only six cars in the car park. A warm, friendly priest at the steps of church politely asks if we’re family of the deceased? Friends, Simon tells him. So few people are here, though, we’re all invited to sit up the very front.
I cast a quick look around: ten people here, tops. A few nurses, looking like they’ve come over from the hospice to pay their last respects. Right behind me, there’s an elderly, distinguished-looking guy who nods and smiles at them and who the nurses all sit up straight for. A senior consultant at the hospice, I guess again.
12.07 p.m.
Funeral’s in full swing. And suddenly I’m hit with a huge pang of sadness. Kitty always spoke of Mrs K. as being such a warm-hearted, generous human being. It’s heart-wrenching to think that, at the woman’s funeral, there’s next to no one here. Just a handful of hospice staff who, chances are, barely even knew the poor woman, myself and Simon. A pathetic send-off for someone who was once so loved. I’ve a big, salty lump in my throat just thinking about it.
I cast a quick glance up at Simon, but he’s firmly focused ahead. Utterly unreachable.
12.10 p.m.
There’s a gentle thudding at the very back of the crematorium. So soft, you’d barely even notice it. Wind probably. It’s only September, but it’s still v. blustery today in Cork. I glance round, half wondering if it could be another mourner come to pay their respects who’s just a latecomer. Another medic from the hospice, maybe?
It’s not, though. Turn around to see a woman standing in very back row, but the crematorium is so big and she’s so far away from me, I can’t make out her face.
I can tell she’s tall, though, whoever this one is. Has her head down. Dressed head to toe in an elegant black suit. Strange, weird haircut, almost like it’s growing sideways out of her head.
Huge Jackie O sunglasses that cover her whole face.
Next thing, my whole body tenses up as, out of nowhere, a wild thought hits me square in the face.
Jesus, it couldn’t be! Could it?
Kitty? Come to pay her last respects, after all this time? And just the idea alone instantly makes my throat constrict and the sweat start pumping out of me. Another quick, sneaky look behind, though, and on second thoughts, I’m convinced I got it arseways.
Not her. Definitely not. Sure, how could it be?
Breathing a bit easier now, I cop myself on and force myself to look ahead and focus on the service, instead of imagining ridiculously far-fetched scenarios.
Utterly mental, ludicrous thought anyway. As if.
12.17 p.m.
Can’t stop myself taking surreptitious glances back though.
Because it’s intriguing. I’m certain Mrs K. didn’t know anyone in Cork, how could she? By the time she was sent here, she was way too ill to make any new friends. Maybe the woman in black is some kind of off-duty medic, just not in uniform? I turn round again. But now, as well as the dinner-plate sized sunglasses, the woman in black now has a Mass missalette stuck right in front of her face. So it’s impossible to get a good, clean look at her, whoever she is.
Bit like movie star that doesn’t want to be recognised.
12.18 p.m.
That doesn’t want to be recognised …
And those words keep playing like a loop in my head. Because … why would anyone come to a funeral and not want to be recognised? Bar they’d just had plastic surgery and were anxious to cover up the bruising?
12.19 p.m.
No. It couldn’t possibly be. Could it? No. One hundred per cent definitely not.
12.20 p.m.
That is, I’m pretty certain it’s not.
12.23 p.m.
Still can’t stop myself from sneakily glancing back every chance I can. The woman in black could be anyone, but there’s just something about her posture that’s vaguely familiar … She can cover her face all she wants, but she can’t disguise that long, lean figure.
And only one girl I ever knew was that tall and that much of a skinnymalink … All of a sudden, I find myself getting a bit weak and have to slump back against the pew while forcing myself to breathe.
In and out and out and in… .
12.30 p.m.
OK, so after much fanning of my face with the missalette, I’m feeling a bit more like myself again. Besides, I’m wrong, course I’m wrong, how could it be otherwise? Trouble is, though, by now I’m pretty certain the woman in black, whoever she is, has clocked me glancing back at her the whole time. I just know by the way she won’t look ahead towards the altar, like everyone else.
In fact, she keeps looking back to the door and now I’m half wondering if she’s about to make a run for it.
12.33 p.m.
I nudge Simon, who glances over at me. It’s a noisy bit in the service, the priest has his back to us and is v. busy sprinkling the coffin with holy water while Panis Angelicus plays in the background. Everyone else has their heads bowed around us.
I hiss urgently across to Simon, ‘Check out the very back row. The woman in black.’
He does as I ask. Then looks back at me blankly.
‘Well?’ I ask him, nearly wanting to shake him by the shoulders at this stage.
‘Well, what?’
‘Did you get a look at her?’
‘A look at who?’
Head almost spinning, I turn back one last time. Except now there’s no one there.
Nothing to see except church door swinging slightly in breeze, as though someone’s just left.
And left in a hurry.
Chapter Fifteen
Rocky Island Crematorium, Ringaskiddy, Co. Cork
With her heart practically walloping off her ribcage and her breath coming in short, jagged, painful bursts, Jean tried her best to breathe in some of the fresh, blustery air outside the crematorium. Anything to try to calm down a bit.
Angie had seen her
. She was certain of it. To say she nearly had an anxiety stroke when she walked into that vast, cavernous church and saw Angie and Simon sitting together, companionably side by side up in the very front row, was an understatement.
From what she could see, given that she was wearing ridiculous shades that must have made her look like some kind of mafia crime boss on witness protection, Angie, her beloved Angie, hadn’t changed a single day. Still the same open, trusting face, still as pretty and plump and bosomy as she always was. Her heart physically twisted in her ribcage when she saw the girl looking back in her direction every two minutes.
What must she think of her now? After everything she’d been put through?
And then there was Simon. Tall, handsome, completely unchanged. Jesus, even standing at the top of a church and with his back to her, the very sight of him almost reduced her to a jelly-legged wreck. How could she possibly begin to explain to him, of all people? She knew what she’d done was unforgivable and knew him too well to hope that even given time, he’d stop sticking pins into a voodoo dummy of her and maybe even forgive her.
And yet somehow, she’d have to try to find the words. Because this time, there was no getting out of it.
Enough with the running. Enough with all the lies and deceit.
Here was her one and only chance to try to make amends. She’d run out on them once, she couldn’t do it a second time.
It was time to lay the past to rest once and for all.
Sure enough, approximately two minutes later, Angie and Simon were first out of the crematorium and back in the fresh, blustery breeze gushing in from the Atlantic. No doubt attracting more than a few raised eyebrows from the rest of the tiny congregation for their hasty exit.
They’d barely even come through the heavy, swinging church door when Simon suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
But this time, she hadn’t bolted at all.
Instead, here she was, leaning against a car, looking right at them. The woman he’d once wanted to marry, all that time ago.
Just waiting for them, for both of them.
And finally ready.
PART THREE
They’d decided – or rather, he’d decided – to get married just a few weeks after she’d discovered she was pregnant, in Las Vegas, of all places. So both wedding and honeymoon could be an all-in-one deal, so to speak. A quickie in-and-out job in The Little White Wedding Chapel. Just think how romantic it’ll be, he kept telling her. We’ll be able to tell our grandchildren that we were married by an Elvis lookalike. It’ll be hilarious, it’ll be fun. And you’re the one who’s always saying we never do anything fun, aren’t you?
Now that he’d reacted so amazingly well to the pregnancy and now that she’d had time to process it all herself, she was actually thrilled. Happy. Looking forward to being a mother, even if it was unplanned and she was a bit on the young side. But aside from being an excited mum-to-be, the early stages of pregnancy were taking their toll and the truth was she’d never felt more physically drained in her life. He was so looking forward to the wedding trip whereas she was actively dreading having to travel so far. She was far too tired these days, too nauseous even to think about flying anywhere, let alone on such a long journey. And to Vegas? Sin City, of all places? Whereas all she wanted was to sleep, nibble on dry toast, occasionally stick her head down the loo and cry.
Her doctor told her she was about seven weeks gone at that stage and she felt … and looked … like total and utter shite. Everything was making her sick. Food? Forget about it. Even the sight of a dry cream cracker was just about the only thing that wasn’t physically turning her stomach. Then there was the tiredness, so acute these days that she was almost getting to be like a narcoleptic. Back in the day, she’d been a girl who could go out partying all night, then put in a full day’s work the next day, scarcely batting an eyelid. Whereas now she was falling asleep practically anywhere and everywhere she could. On buses, in the car, even walking down a busy, packed street; sometimes she’d suddenly start yawning and know she’d have to be lying flat on her back in bed within the next five minutes.
She begged him to change his mind, to postpone the whole wedding/honeymoon thing till well after the baby.
‘After all, what’s the big rush?’ she kept asking him over and over, but he was having absolutely none of it.
‘Come on, this is Vegas, baby!’ he kept telling her. ‘It’s going to be the trip of a lifetime! We’re getting married in style and that’s all there is to it.’
Utterly useless, she knew of old, even trying to argue with him when he’d dug his feet in like this.
There was something else too. Over time, she slowly started to wonder – and worry – whether the whole pregnancy thing was all starting to get in on him a bit. Already he was beginning to gripe on about how inattentive she was being when he got home in the evenings.
‘You’re not seriously going to bed at half-eight at night?’ he’d say.
‘Hardly much I can do about it, now is there?’ she’d snap back at him, hopping hormones making her even more feisty than she was normally.
‘Sorry, Jean,’ he’d say, instantly backing down and hugging her. ‘Just … I feel I never really get to see you these days. I miss my best girl, that’s all.’
But we’ll have a ball in Vegas, he told her.
And sure enough, practically from the minute they arrived, he was in seventh heaven. Wanted to grab some food immediately, then hit the casino, in that order. To humour him, she managed to make it as far as the restaurant, but when he ordered clam chowder and prawns with his whiskey, and when the smell wafted its way up to her, she could take no more. Hand clamped over her mouth, she bolted to the nearest bathroom and threw up all round her. Then, of course, was barely able to crawl back up to their hotel room to lie low for the rest of the night.
She first sensed a mood change when he eventually followed her back up. It was hours later, well after two in the morning, and she figured he’d been at the casino the whole time, but she was wrong. Instead he’d fallen in with a gang of lads over from Luton on a stag night and when they’d found out he was about to get married too, the heavy boozing really got under way.
He conked out on the bed beside her, the smell of stale whiskey on his breath turning her stomach. She pretended to be asleep, but then felt him urgently tugging at her nightie underneath the covers.
Christ, no, she’d thought, don’t let this be happening. He couldn’t possibly want a drunken quickie now, not when she was so ill and half asleep anyway? But he did. Forced himself on top of her, breathing heavily, crushing her under the sheer leaden weight of him.
‘Stop it, Joe!’ she’d pleaded. ‘I can’t … I’m not well enough … I think I’m going to be sick … Get off me!’
He’d pulled back and looked at her in surprise.
‘For God’s sake,’ he’d growled darkly, ‘lighten up a bit, will you?’
‘I mean it, get off me right now!’
‘You expect us not to sleep together on holidays? When we’re meant to be getting hitched in a few days’ time? We’re in Vegas and we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves!’
Seeing all the warning signs, she knew well enough to back down and not escalate things. Managed to sooth him down a bit, even.
And when she turned her head away and blocked out the overwhelming nausea every time he thrust against her, it was all over in a flash anyway.
The following night was different, though. She’d stayed in their room, too tired and ill even to think about hitting the casino with him. But then of course, having slept most of the day and with her body clock out of synch and all over the place, she was sitting up and wide awake when he eventually got back to the room, at well past four in the morning this time.
‘How’d you get on?’ she’d asked, but it was a superfluous question. That familiar black-eyed look on his face told her everything she needed to know. He’d had a thunderous night at the roulette table, as it tur
ned out. Good, she’d thought defiantly. Maybe that’ll get all this casino crapology out of his system once and for all.
‘Trust me, you don’t want to know about my night,’ he’d grunted, heading for the mini-bar and helping himself to a large Scotch. ‘So just take my advice and back off.’
‘You know something? Maybe it’s no harm,’ she’d bravely suggested from where she lay stretched out on their gigantic, honeymoon-sized bed.
‘What did you just say?’
She should have recognised that key change in his voice, but unusually for her, she didn’t.
‘Joe, come on,’ she’d said reasonably, mistakenly thinking she was somehow making things better. ‘We’ve a new baby coming and I only make a pittance in the restaurant. We both work too bloody hard for you to just fling it all away at some bloody roulette table!’
It all happened so fast, the next few minutes were all a blur. She was aware of a woman’s voice screaming out, then shocked to realise the sound was coming from her. She remembered being dragged to the ground and systematically kicked all over, ribs, legs, stomach … Oh dear God, not her stomach …
‘Did I just hear you right, you stupid bitch?’ he was screaming, incandescent with white-hot rage now. ‘You have the cheek to tell me how to spend my money? When you contribute absolutely nothing bar your pathetic salary?’
‘Stop it, the baby …’
‘You were nothing when I met you, just a tuppenny halfpenny waitress working in a dive bar for tips and I gave you everything! You only live in a decent flat because of me; you’re only in this five-star hotel because of me. And now you’ve got the nerve to tell me what I can and can’t do with my own money? You jumped up, presumptuous little …’
Last thing she remembered was the warm, sticky feeling of blood trickling from between her legs onto the expensive deep white carpet, before blacking out.
Me and You Page 23