He was playing dumb. They knew each other so well, all that shared experience and memory and history. He wasn’t dumb, had never been dumb.
‘You know why.’
He leaned forward. ‘I can’t imagine what you must think of me. It can never be enough, but I’m so sorry for what happened.’
Fucking sly, ‘for what happened’, taking himself out of it, as if he didn’t lie and cheat and hurt and kill.
‘You did it,’ she said through her teeth.
‘What?’
‘It didn’t just happen,’ Jenny said slowly. ‘You did it. You killed Mel, you stabbed me, you strangled my fucking mum and you would’ve killed us both.’
He ran a hand through his hair then touched his beard. Shook his head, a tiny movement, almost a shudder. ‘I wasn’t myself.’
She had to fight the acid rising in her stomach. ‘Don’t do this.’
He put his hands out to placate her, as if this was an argument about putting the bins out or emptying the dishwasher. ‘Don’t do what?’
She bit her tongue to distract herself. She leaned in so that their faces were close. Lines across his forehead that she hadn’t noticed earlier, but his eyes were still sharp.
‘You were absolutely yourself,’ she said. ‘When we stood in my kitchen and you stabbed me in the stomach.’
She lifted her T-shirt and showed him the scar. Ran her finger along the rubbery flesh, felt the knitted-together muscles underneath and the wire mesh they’d put inside to help her heal. She was unashamed of the extra few pounds she carried on her hips, fuck it, he’d seen it all anyway, and she wanted to shame him.
She tapped the scar. ‘When you did this, you were the truest version of yourself I’ve ever seen. The look in your eyes, you knew what you were doing. And you loved it. You relished it.’
She lowered her T-shirt.
‘I wasn’t in my right mind,’ he said.
‘All bullshit was stripped away, all pretence gone, you were yourself, the disgusting animal you really are.’
‘Not true.’
‘I know you,’ Jenny said. She waved around the room. ‘The guys in here don’t know you, the lawyers don’t know you, Fiona doesn’t know you, a jury won’t know you. But I know you, Craig. I fucking see you.’
He nodded. ‘You’re the only one who gets me.’
She breathed deep, in and out. ‘Then change your plea back.’
‘I can’t.’
‘For Hannah’s sake.’
Tears formed in his eyes and she felt fury rising. How fucking dare he?
‘Plead guilty,’ she said.
He put his hands on the table, offering them as if she might take them. Her skin buzzed at the idea.
‘I was out of my mind,’ he said. ‘Diminished responsibility.’
She barked out a laugh. ‘You’ve never taken responsibility for anything in your life. But I’m fucking begging you, please take responsibility for this.’
He went to take her hand and she balled her fingers into fists. She remembered holding his hand in The Pear Tree that night, kissing him against the wall of her mum’s house like a teenager even though they were middle-aged and divorced, feeling his body pressed against hers, the familiarity of it, the alcohol making her long for something she used to have.
He’d always been a charmer, always used his smile and twinkling eyes to get what he wanted. From her, Fiona, Mel, everyone. He was repeating the same pattern, excuses, deflecting attention, evading the truth.
‘You’re the one,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You said earlier that you see me and that’s true. You were always the one, Jenny, the love of my life.’
‘Don’t you fucking dare.’
‘We’ll always be linked, you and me, till death do us part.’
‘You’ve got some fucking balls,’ she said.
The worst thing was he was right, they would always be linked, by all the tiny gestures, in-jokes, common ground, shared breaths and touches and heartbeats. And always, always, they would be linked by Hannah.
‘That wasn’t me,’ he said.
He was crying now. A tear dropped onto the table and her chest tightened. She dipped her finger in the teardrop and sucked it, hint of salt. She imagined the drop sliding down her throat into her belly, mixing with the acid, a chemical reaction producing an explosion that raged up her throat and out of her mouth, all over him and the table and the room until the whole prison was drowning in her vomited vitriol.
She squeezed her eyes shut, deafened by the roar of blood pounding in her ears. She looked at him, her sight blurry as she lunged across the table, grabbed him by his sweatshirt and hauled him towards her. He didn’t resist, let himself be dragged like a cowering dog and she hated that even more, swung a fist into his face that connected with his cheek, then another punch caught his nose, blood spraying across the table, the colour shocking. He didn’t put his hands up to defend himself, instead stuck his chin out. She took the invitation and punched, felt the jawbone rattle under his stupid beard. Her vision narrowed and the sound dialled down on the world, there was only the two of them, the purity of their relationship, he was right, they were linked forever, her next punch landed and pain shot from her knuckle up her arm, then there were hands pulling her away, but they couldn’t break the connection, she would feel his pain combined with her own forever.
10
DOROTHY
Walter Veitch died with his trousers around his ankles. His wife Annabel got in from nine holes of golf at the Braids and shouted hello. No reply, so she presumed he was out. An hour later she went upstairs and realised the bathroom door was locked. Banged on it. Nothing. She got young Michael from next door to force the door open, and they found Walter face down on the floor in a puddle of his own urine, him and the piss both cold.
A long history of heart disease made it easy for the doctor to certify. He’d handed Annabel a card with the Skelfs’ number on it, so here were Dorothy and Archie in the bathroom doorway, the smell in their nostrils. Dorothy had told Annabel there was no need to come upstairs, they could deal with things, but she was here, fascinated by her husband’s undignified posture.
‘Please, Mrs Veitch,’ Dorothy said. ‘It’s best if you leave this to us.’
Rigor mortis would’ve begun, so there might be some corpse manipulation to get him into a body bag and downstairs. It wasn’t the sort of thing loved ones needed to see.
Annabel stood with her arms folded as if exchanging gossip in the golf clubhouse. ‘We knew this was coming. He wouldn’t give up the Lorne sausage.’
Salty processed meat aside, Walter looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. Rotund belly, the red face of a heavy drinker, varicose veins in his legs, rolls of flab under his arms. He would be hard to get in the van. Dorothy was too old for this.
‘I really think it’s better if you leave us to it,’ she said, guiding Annabel away from her husband. ‘Maybe pop the kettle on?’
Annabel looked disappointed and headed downstairs.
Archie breathed deep. ‘Christ, not a lot of dignity here.’
Dorothy remembered finding Jim in a similar situation, dragging his body to bed, putting new pyjama trousers on him, lying with him for hours before calling anyone, hoping to keep reality at bay. Annabel seemed to have no such qualms, but Dorothy was careful not to judge, everyone experienced grief in their own way.
She mopped up the piss with toilet roll, threw it into the bowl, clearing a space for the body bag which Archie unfolded and laid on the floor. They took Walter’s arms and rolled him onto the plastic, then zipped up. The handles at the ends of the bag strained as they lifted, Archie reversing down the stairs, taking the majority of the weight, Dorothy trying to keep Walter’s feet from clunking on the steps.
Annabel was there when they reached the bottom. ‘He’s a lump, eh?’
Archie threw Dorothy a look.
‘Could you open the door please?’ Dorothy said.
They shuffled out to the body van and wrestled Walter inside. It was unusual to collect bodies from people’s homes these days, most of their collections were from hospices, hospitals and the mortuary.
They declined tea, despite Dorothy’s decoy request earlier, then closed up the van and drove away. In the rearview mirror Dorothy saw Annabel standing at her front gate looking lost.
It didn’t take long from the Braids to Greenhill Gardens, ten minutes down Morningside Road. Dorothy looked at the knick-knack shops and gift boutiques, the rich old folk wandering from one to the other. Did any of them suspect there was a dead man in the van?
‘Are you OK?’ Archie said from the driver’s seat.
‘I’m fine. Why?’
Dorothy examined him. Archie was a kind man but he had plenty of worries. There was the Cotard’s syndrome, the psychological condition that meant he believed he was dead. That was under control, thanks to Dorothy’s patience and a clued-up doctor. But the business from six months ago had seen him regress, become less engaged. In the wake of Jim’s death, payments from the Skelf business account led Dorothy to discover that Archie had accidentally killed a colleague ten years before after finding him raping a dead woman in the embalming room. Jim covered it up, paying a fake pension to the dead guy’s wife. Archie helped Dorothy dig up the necrophiliac’s hidden body, to prove it was all true. She hadn’t reported Archie to the police, but kept an eye on him. He’d slumped, reliving the guilt, and he looked gaunt these days, going through the motions.
‘It’s just,’ he said now, ‘this is the first pick up we’ve done since Edinburgh Eastern the other day.’
Dorothy looked out of the window, a woman with a tartan trolley bag, a man in red trousers and a tweed jacket entering a fishmonger’s. Like a bygone age.
‘You saved me,’ Dorothy said.
‘What?’
‘I never thanked you. You pulled me out the way of that car.’
Archie laughed. ‘I pulled us both out the way.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘Yes, there is.’
They turned at Holy Corner, then a left into their street. Large trees in every garden, expensive family cars and sporty numbers, the families around here could afford both. The Skelfs were lucky they’d had number 0 Greenhill Gardens for a hundred years. People keep dying, there will always be business in helping the bereaved say goodbye.
There was a police car parked in the street outside their house. As they got closer, both of the back doors opened, Thomas climbing from one side, Jenny from the other. A uniformed cop stayed in the driver’s seat.
Archie turned into the drive, manoeuvring the van so that the back doors opened to the service entrance.
Jenny lowered her head as she walked towards them, Thomas a step behind.
Dorothy got out of the van and Jenny shook her head as she approached.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘For what?’ Dorothy said.
Thomas caught up and Jenny looked to him, giving permission.
‘Jenny was detained today at HMP Edinburgh,’ he said, hands out.
‘At the prison?’ Dorothy said.
Jenny rubbed at the palm of her hand with her other thumb, raised her chin. ‘I went to see Craig.’
‘Oh, Jen.’
‘I couldn’t help it.’
Thomas looked from one woman to the other. ‘She’s been charged with assault.’
Jenny started to cry. ‘He deserved it.’
Dorothy wrapped her arms around her daughter. Your child was never too old, you never stopped caring, the weight of it, the glorious, heart-swelling burden.
‘I’m sure he did,’ she said.
11
HANNAH
Hannah stared at the whiteboards. The funeral one was organised, a series of acronyms after each deceased’s name, order in the chaos of grief, reassurance in the way things were done. There was a system, a procedure that people found comforting. It was after the funeral that the bereaved often felt their grief most keenly, once that scaffolding was taken away, nothing to focus on except the absence.
Indy was downstairs now, leading a bereaved woman through that journey, taking her father’s details, his funeral preferences, any religion, how he lived his life.
Hannah touched the whiteboard and thought about the thousands of names that had been wiped from it. Schrödinger came in followed by Einstein. He’d been acting like the cat’s shadow, despite Schrödinger treating him with disdain. The cat jumped onto the kitchen table and arched his back at Einstein, who stood wagging his tail.
Hannah turned back to the PI whiteboard. At the top was written ‘Jimmy X’ in Dorothy’s handwriting. Below was some stuff about Edinburgh Eastern, the dog, the car number plate.
She heard voices then her mum came in followed by Dorothy. Jenny had been crying, puffy cheeks, wiping her fingers under her eyes.
‘What’s up?’ Hannah said.
Jenny got a drink of water from the sink, Dorothy pursed her lips. Einstein went to her, tail thumping, and she stroked him.
Jenny drank deeply, looked out of the window. ‘I went to see your dad.’
‘What?’
‘In Saughton.’
Hannah felt her cheeks flush. ‘Because he called me?’
Jenny clutched her glass. ‘He what?’
‘I thought Indy told you.’
‘She never said anything.’
Of course she hadn’t, Indy was loyal and discrete, always had Hannah’s back. It was Hannah’s turn to stare out of the window. Cherry-blossom trees budding, a man shuffling with his old dog by his side, two cyclists zipping past.
‘He called me the other day,’ she said.
‘From prison?’
‘Of course from prison.’
‘What did he want?’ Dorothy’s voice was calm.
‘I don’t know, I hung up.’
‘I can’t believe him,’ Jenny said. ‘What does he want from us?’
‘You have to stay calm,’ Dorothy said.
‘Fuck staying calm,’ Jenny said. ‘That bastard is playing with his own daughter’s emotions.’
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Hannah said. ‘I can handle it.’
‘You shouldn’t have to.’
‘You don’t have to protect me, I’m a grown-up.’
Silence for a moment as they all caught a breath.
Hannah looked at her mum. ‘So what happened at the prison?’
Schrödinger jumped from the table to the floor, making Hannah start.
‘I hit him,’ Jenny said.
‘Mum.’
‘Don’t,’ Jenny said. ‘Just don’t.’
Dorothy walked to the table, Einstein tagging along. ‘He’s pressing charges for assault.’
Hannah’s chest tightened. She imagined air bubbles trapped in her blood, giving her the bends, unable to decompress.
‘Are you OK?’ Jenny said.
She held the back of a chair and slid into it, legs wobbly, arms weak. Einstein came to her and she stroked him, felt his fur between her fingers. ‘I’m fine.’
‘How did the memorial go?’ Dorothy asked.
She thought about not mentioning it. But word would get back one way or the other. ‘It didn’t happen.’
‘Why not?’ Jenny said.
She felt like a schoolgirl again, grilled by her mum after coming in late from a party. Jenny always expected Hannah to be blind drunk, but she didn’t like to lose control, didn’t use alcohol or drugs that way, that was more her mum’s deal. And anyway, she’d learned the hard way they triggered her anxiety and depression, threw her into a hole.
‘I passed out,’ she said, head down.
‘What?’ Jenny was standing over her now.
‘Jenny, sit down,’ Dorothy said. ‘Let’s all just take a moment.’
Hannah sensed her mum hesitating, reaching out a hand, but then the hand dropped and Hannah heard chairs scraping
against floorboards.
‘I love sitting here with you girls,’ Dorothy said.
Hannah looked up. Dorothy was smiling, Jenny worried.
‘It reminds me of the day we buried Jim,’ Dorothy said. She turned to Jenny. ‘The day you moved back here. All three of us around the kitchen table, here for each other.’
‘You need to tell us what happened,’ Jenny said to Hannah.
‘She’ll tell us when she’s ready,’ Dorothy said.
Hannah shook her head. Einstein was still at her feet, the smell of him in her nostrils. ‘A panic attack, I think. All those people.’
‘You should never have agreed to it,’ Jenny said.
Dorothy put a hand out to her daughter. ‘Jenny, I know you’re worried but you need to stop being so angry.’
Jenny wiped at her face as if there was a mark on it. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Dorothy frowned. ‘About what?’
Jenny waved a hand uselessly. ‘Everything. Craig has changed his plea, he’s hassling Hannah on the phone, she’s passing out from anxiety, and Mum, you almost got killed the other day and you don’t seem bothered.’
‘I wasn’t almost killed,’ Dorothy said, voice level.
‘The universe is fucking with us.’
Hannah found her voice. ‘The universe couldn’t care less about us.’
Dorothy placed her hands on the table. ‘Look, I’ll speak to Thomas about Craig, see if there’s anything we can do.’
Jenny shook her head.
Hannah watched Schrödinger strut past Einstein with his tail in the air. Einstein padded after him, provoking Schrödinger to hiss and arch his back. A stupid game, get attention then turn on someone.
‘I think you need distance from it,’ Hannah said. She was surprised to hear it from her own mouth.
Jenny slumped in her seat like a teen in a sulk. ‘So what should we do?’
Dorothy went to the whiteboards. ‘Well, I need help with a case.’
Hannah watched her gran, graceful movements belying her age.
‘Jimmy X,’ Hannah said.
Dorothy nodded. ‘The driver in the cemetery the other day.’
The Big Chill Page 5