Mud Pie
Page 23
Chapter Nineteen
Funeral
Becki’s funeral was packed. The address by her father, his voice breaking up, did not describe any Becki that I recognised. His Becki was innocent, studious, wholesome, untouched by drink, drugs or lust; pure sugar, not salt. In the crematorium, I had to turn away from her mother’s weeping face because it was unbearably Becki’s, grown old as Becki would not grow old. Two elder sisters were missed chances on display: Becki could have been this, or maybe that. I saw DI Cole and Grimshaw sitting respectfully at the back, no doubt making mental notes on all the mourners.
There were lots of them. Young girl-friends trying to cry, middle-aged colleagues deciding not to. Brendan, beside me, looked solemn and uncomfortable in his black suit. Rhoda had stayed at home. Frank arrived late and harassed, trailing in behind Sue in his creased dark jacket, tie askew, then spent the service gazing at Becki’s forlorn, moustachioed father. Sammie wept and hugged whoever was closest. KK prayed visibly, reflective and calm. Stevo stared at the ceiling. Hugh stared at the floor. Charlotte couldn’t make it.
Bob closed his eyes until Mrs Bob elbowed him repeatedly; then, when he opened them, wiped them with his thumb. AnneMarie was expressionless, and Niall grim, throughout.
Myself, I hated it. It was only my third funeral: the first had been a school-friend with leukaemia, the second a neighbour who accidentally ended up in the middle of a police chase. They’d been aged sixteen and ten respectively. This was worse than either, because I was the reason for it.
“She should have been an old lady,” sniffed one of Becki’s colleagues to me as we stood around outside afterwards. “It’s not fair.”
“No.”
“And I never said goodbye. She was away on a course at Manchester head office all that last week. I never even got to say goodbye.”
I didn’t have the heart to debate the logic of this.
“Oh God,” murmured Sammie on my other side. “Can’t we stop him?” I saw that Niall was arguing with Becki’s father.
“It’s an open invitation,” Niall declared, his face reddening, “made in good faith. Drinks at the club by way of a wake.”
“I couldn’t hear of it,” said Becki’s father with dignity. “I never approved of her job at the rugby club. I did not consider it a good influence upon a young girl. The culture is not one with which I wished her to be associated.”
“And what culture might that be?” said Niall. AnneMarie put a hand on his arm, then looked away as if she was really somewhere else.
“The drinking, the language.”
“There’s none of that.”
“Seeing that the club was only a small part of my daughter’s life,” said Becki’s father with stern outrage, “insignificant apart from the fact she died there, why on earth would we wish to revisit it now, today, of all days? I thank you, no.”
“Pompous eejit,” said Niall, too loudly, once the family had left.
“He’s got a point,” said AnneMarie. She lit a cigarette with relief. The rest of us stood not knowing what to do with our hands. The day was bright, cold and meaningless.
“Come back to the club anyway,” said Niall.
“I could do with a drink,” said Frank, his face tight.
“Frank didn’t want to come,” Sue told me in a stage whisper. “Because of a friend of his who died young. He’s never achieved closure.”
“I could do with a drink too,” said AnneMarie.
“You’ve got to collect the kids from school,” said Niall.
“You can do that. You’ve got the afternoon off. KK can open up the club for us.”
“I didn’t take the afternoon off to pick the kids up from school! It’s not my job, it’s their mother’s job.”
“Everything’s their mother’s bloody job,” muttered AnneMarie.
“What was that?”
“Take the truck,” she said more loudly. “They’ll love it. You know it gives them huge street cred with their friends to be picked up by their Dad in the truck. Cormac says all the other kids are dead jealous.”
Niall capitulated. The rest of us left, in various cars, for the club. I got a lift with Hugh. Big flash car, lots of leather, just like Daddy’s. Hugh looked the business too, handsome and expensive in his well-cut suit: but there were still those shadows under his eyes, and lines around his mouth that I could not recall seeing before. His thirtieth birthday had aged him in more ways than one.
“I’m glad that’s over,” I said.
“I wish it had never happened. I wish I could wipe out the last two weeks and start again.”
I wanted to put a hand on his arm, but he was driving. Then I wanted to ask him if he was sleeping better; but that seemed equally out of place.
“How’s Tamara?” I asked eventually.
“She’s okay. There didn’t seem much point in her coming, since she only met Becki the once.” He drove for a while in silence, then cleared his throat and said, “I won’t be going down the club in the future. I’m giving it up.”
“What! Why? Everyone says you’re the best wing the club’s got.”
“I’m not that good,” said Hugh forlornly. “I’m dispensable.”
“I thought you enjoyed it?”
“Not any more. Everything’s changed. I just don’t feel I can play any more.”
“How does Tamara feel about that?” I asked cautiously.
“She agrees with me. She’s very supportive.”
“Hah! I bet she is,” growled KK when I told him this in the clubhouse between helping him pull pints. “She’s talked Hugh out of it. Wants him to spend his Saturdays taking her shopping. Waste of a bloody good player.” He thumped a glass onto the bar.
“It’s because Becki died here on his birthday. Hugh blames himself.”
“Aye, but that’s bollocks. Life goes on.” KK clashed the drinks on to a tray. “Becki wouldn’t want him to give up. She loved bloody rugby.”
“She loved the social life.”
“Aye, she loved the crack.”
I looked at him sideways, wondering how much he knew. “The craic, or the illegal substance?”
“Both, knowing Becki,” said KK. “Up for anything, like the T-shirt said. Sex and drugs and rock’n’roll, whatever was going. Nothing by halves.”
“Yeah? Did she ever...”
“What?”
“She ever offer you drugs?” It wasn’t what I had been going to ask.
“Might have done. Why?” He looked wary.
“You ever take them?”
“No,” said KK with a growl. “Tried them once, years ago. Never again. Bloody mug’s game. I tried to have a word with Becki about it, but she wouldn’t listen. Told me I wasn’t her bloody father. I’m just glad her parents never found out.” He carried one full tray over to the table: I followed with the other.
“To Becki,” said AnneMarie, raising her vodka and tonic. “To Becki, bless her, wherever she is.”
There was an embarrassed mumble of agreement. But AnneMarie, in Niall’s absence, seemed to have taken on his mantle.
“She won’t be forgotten, not as long as rugby’s played here.”
“Aye, well,” said Bob, burying his face in his glass.
“Maybe we could name something after her,” continued AnneMarie. “The small room or something.” I assumed it was the effect of the funeral that was making her so sentimental.
“Not sure about that,” said Brendan. Hugh stared at the table.
“Why not?” demanded AnneMarie.
“Well, it’s down to the committee. And Becki wasn’t actually a member. She didn’t play.”
“Of course she didn’t! She was a girl!”
“I play,” said Sammie, her voice small. AnneMarie turned on her.
“And wouldn’t you like the small room named after you, if you got murdered?”
“No,” said Sammie. “A bench might be nice. For the spectators.”
“We don’t bloody sit down
to watch,” said Bob.
“You might if there was a bench.”
“Have to put it on castors,” said Frank.
“Becki was not a bench,” said AnneMarie vehemently. She had already finished her drink. “And she was more important than bloody rugby.”
“Of course she was,” said Sue, who had never known Becki.
“You’re not members either,” objected Bob.
“Did you know,” announced Frank to his beer, “that down in the south of France there’s a chapel dedicated to rugby?”
“Is there, by God?” said KK.
“Notre Dame de Rugby or summat. Saw it online, a picture of the church window, baby Jesus with a ball. Everyone prays to the God of rugby.”
“Quite right too.” Bob belched. “I’ll have to emigrate.”
“I think that’s disgusting!” cried AnneMarie. “Rugby’s not a religion.”
“Yes, it is,” said KK and Stevo together.
“No, it isn’t,” said Frank, shaking his head firmly. “It’s a battlefield. That what’s rugby is: a battle, but without the blood. The violence is just symbolic.”
“Has anyone told De La Salle?”
“Some battle!” AnneMarie was heated. “An excuse to drink too much beer and tell filthy jokes!”
“They’re not as bad as chef’s jokes,” I said. Kitchen humour is bloodcurdling and seldom funny. Nevertheless, Tzabo had been a battlefield too, with the chefs hurling out meals at the enemy lines. The end of every evening was a victory.
“All right,” said AnneMarie belligerently, “if rugby’s a battle, then who’s the bloody war against?” Her words slurred slightly, although there had hardly been time for her vodka to take effect.
“Empty glasses.” Bob plonked his down and looked around expectantly.
“Death,” said Frank. “Rugby is a war on death.”
“Well, thanks for that, Frank,” said Bob. “Your shout.”
“Make mine a double.” AnneMarie pushed her glass forward.
Frank stood up and went to the bar, and I followed to help ferry the drinks. “How many do you think AnneMarie’s going to have?” I asked him.
“As many as she can. She’s been shaken up by Becki’s murder.”
“You think so?” She hadn’t seemed much shaken up to my eyes. By a shortage of Diazepam, yes: by Becki’s killing, no. “I think she’s a tough cookie,” I said.
He was doubtful. “Always seemed a bit fragile to me.”
“She looks fragile,” I said, but he was heading back to the table and Sue, who was drinking tomato juice. Its colour looked indecent in the circumstances. I wondered why she had come.
While I was rinsing glasses, Hugh came over. “I’m going now,” he said sadly. “Got to get back to the office.”
I put my arms around him. He hugged me back, in a half-hearted, brotherly way.
“Remember what I said,” I told him. “Any time, you know where to come.”
“Thanks, Lannie. I appreciate it.” He smiled faintly. “You know what Charlotte said when I started going out with Tamara?”
“What?”
“She said she once used to hope I would get it together with you.”
“Oh.”
“She likes things nice and tidy, does my sister.” Hugh squeezed my shoulder. “You’re a brick, Lannie.”
“Hugh, did you ever go out with Becki?”
“Becki? Lord, no. She liked to flirt with me a bit, but we never actually dated.”
“She fancied you,” I said, then wished I hadn’t, because I could see it caused him pain.
“Did she? I didn’t know. I mean, she flirted with everybody, didn’t she? It was just her bit of fun. But maybe that explains...”
“What?”
“She asked me out once,” said Hugh wistfully. “I made my excuses. She wasn’t my type, and she was a bit young. I could see she was upset, though she tried to make a big joke of it. She told me she’d put a spell on me, hubble bubble and so on, meant to be a love potion I suppose, she even started cackling like a witch. All rather Harry Potter, really.”
“She could be quite predatory, Becki.”
“No, no, she was trying to cover her feelings. She was only young, wasn’t she? I must have hurt her more than I realised. She was already feeling rejected, because Frank had given her the brush off as well the week before. Only time I’ve ever seen him get shirty. I wish I’d been kinder to her. She was a smashing girl, really, just insecure.” He sighed, the shadows returning. “I’m going now. I’ll see you again, Lannie.”
“Any time, Hugh.” I refrained from hugging him again, for I knew now that he had never wanted me, not before Charlotte had suggested it, and not after, either. He was Tamara’s.
“You are being very offensive,” said AnneMarie, arriving at the bar in Hugh’s place. She staggered slightly as she helped herself to a vodka from the optic.
“Who’s being very offensive?” I held out my hand for the money. She flapped a fiver at me and said,
“KK. He doesn’t like me, din’t you know?”
“Oh, I’m sure he does really,” I said. “He’s just a bit brusque.”
“No no no. Doesn’t like me at all.” She shook her head at her glass. I didn’t like her too much either at the moment. I preferred her sober.
“And Frank is just total, totally.” She shook her head extravagantly. “Mental.”
Look who’s talking, I thought. “AnneMarie? Did you manage to get those, um, supplies you wanted?”
“No,” she said. “Making do with vodka.” She sluiced it down. “You’re not drinking,” she said accusingly.
“I’ll be cooking when we get back.”
“So will I. Day in, day out. Cooking, cleaning, shopping, ironing bloody ironing bloody ironing. No end.”
“Well, that’s life.” I have no patience with people who moan about a job they’ve taken on voluntarily. “You didn’t have to marry Niall.”
“Oh, I did. Taidhgh,” she said darkly. “I was expecting.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Pregnancy’s voluntary too.”
“Not if you’re a good good Catholic.”
I had to stop myself from snapping at her. If you make your choice, then you do your best to live with it. God knows, I was trying to live with mine. “There are worse things in life than cooking and cleaning for your family.”
“There are way better things. Becki. She knew. Having fun.”
“Becki knew how to have fun,” I supplied, putting the sentence together for her as if she was a toddler. “Well, I’m sure you can too, AnneMarie.”
She shook her head. “When I think. Could have been. Anyway, you’re very close and cuddly with Hugh.”
“We’re old friends,” I said. “He’s giving up rugby.”
“Well, good.” She leaned towards me conspiratorially. “KK does not like me at all. He disapproves of me.”
“AnneMarie, I think you’ve had enough to drink.”
“Search his room?”
“What are you on about?” I said.
“Niall said. What you find?” Her eyes were wide, hungry, tense.
“Shut up, AnneMarie.”
She put her face close to mine. “So what you find? Tell Niall?”
I backed away a step or two. “Not a dicky-bird,” I said, “in answer to both questions.”
I saw her relax. “Bloody stupid idea,” she said. “Don’t tell him, anyway.”
“Don’t tell who what?”
“You find anything.”
“I didn’t find anything.”
“Weren’t signed anyway. Good thing. None of his goddam business. Don’t. Prove a.” Her eyes closed and she swayed against the bar. I thought she must be putting it on. She’d only had two large vodkas.
Her eyes reopened. “Din’t like Becki either.”
“Who didn’t?”
“KK. He is a great, big, animal,” she said with emphasis.
“On the pitch.”
“He what?”
“He did. He poisoned Michelle. His poor little lovely – lovey – dovey – wife.” She had to slow right down to say it.
I didn’t believe her. She was play-acting. “AnneMarie, are you really drunk?”
“You bet.”
“You’ve got kids to look after.”
“So? Niall.” She shrugged theatrically and drained her already empty glass.
“AnneMarie, have you got a secret supply?”
“Betch have.” She tried to pat the handbag that swung on her hip, missed, lost her balance and slid down the edge of the bar. I stooped to help her up. Before anyone else could get there, I spoke quietly into her ear.
“You stupid, fucking, selfish, drunken bitch,” I said.
Then Bob and Stevo arrived to prop her up and dust her down. Her eyes kept closing. I handed her over to them and didn’t look her way again.