Last Rites Page 13

  He opened the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. The box he handed to his passenger.

  ‘I got it,’ he said, quietly, starting the engine.

  His passenger didn’t speak. Her only retort was a sound like the wind puffing from ruptured lungs. A sibilant hiss that seemed to fill the car as surely as the stench coming from the box that she now held on her lap.

  Grant guided the car out onto the road, driving slowly for about a hundred yards, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the brightness of the headlights after the pitch black of the fields where he’d been for the past thirty or more minutes.

  His passenger hissed some more sounds and Grant nodded, his face set in hard lines.

  ‘It’s what they asked for,’ he replied, his eyes fixed on the road.

  The passenger gurgled something else and reached out to touch Grant’s hand. He felt cold fingertips on the back of his hand. It was like being touched by a corpse. The fingernails were long and brittle and they scraped uncomfortably against his flesh but he glanced at his passenger briefly and smiled with as much warmth as he could muster.

  ‘You hold it until we get home,’ he said, softly, then returned his concentration to the road ahead. A car was approaching on the other side of the road and he winced as the blazing white headlights dazzled him momentarily.

  Beside him, his wife held on to the box as best she could with only one working arm. The paralysed one hung uselessly at her left side. When she tried to speak the words came out as little more than breaths of rancid air but Grant could understand her. He looked at her once more and smiled, reaching out with one hand to wipe away some saliva that was dripping down her chin.

  She clung more urgently to the box, ignoring the stench that rose from it.

  37

  North London

  Mason looked at the sealed boxes of clothes and belongings piled in his sitting room and nodded in satisfaction.

  There it is.Your life in boxes. Ready to go. Ready to start again.

  What didn’t fit in the removal van he’d take with him in the car along with the more personal items that he didn’t want some hulking great Pickfords employee smashing as they shoved them into the van. He lit up a cigarette and wandered across to the window, gazing down into the street below.There were a few people moving about down there, cars still motoring up and down the thoroughfare. He stood there listening to the noise, thinking how much he was looking forward to the peace and quiet of the countryside.

  He wouldn’t miss the city at all, he told himself. What was there to miss? The hustle and bustle. The noise. The aggravation.

  Fuck that. Who needed it?

  He drew gently on his cigarette then blew out a stream of smoke.

  You’ll miss Natalie, won’t you?

  Mason ran a hand through his hair and finished his cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray on the windowsill. He glanced at his watch and retreated to his bedroom, tired by his evening of packing. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts on the following morning. On his life from then on. A new life. A fresh start. His back and arms were aching from the packing.

  He fell asleep more quickly than he could have imagined.

  When Mason woke with a start in the small hours, he was panting loudly as he sat up.

  If he’d been woken by a bad dream then he couldn’t remember the details of it. Any residual thoughts and images had faded as soon as he’d sat upright. The only thing he knew for sure was that Chloe had featured somewhere in his nocturnal imaginings. As he thought of his daughter, her image pushed its way, almost unwanted, into his mind. He could see her in her school uniform but that image was replaced all too rapidly by one of her lying in her hospital bed. Mason exhaled almost painfully, trying to force the image from his mind but it clung on defiantly.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered to himself as if this mental rebuke would somehow precipitate the departure of the image. It worked to a certain degree and he tried to think about the following day. The move. The new school. The new position.

  He swung his legs off the bed, irritated when he realised that he was still dressed. He pulled his clothes off quickly and slid beneath the duvet, hoping that sleep would come to him as fast this time as it had when he’d first lain down.

  An hour later he was still hoping.

  38

  Walston, Buckinghamshire

  Kate Wheeler stood outside the door of the room for what seemed like an eternity before knocking. She listened for sounds of movement from inside but heard nothing. Finally, unable to stand there motionless any longer she tapped lightly and walked straight in.

  Her father was sitting on the bed on the far side of the room, rocking gently backwards and forwards.

  Kate sucked in a deep breath and forced a smile on her face as she closed the door behind her.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said, softly, crossing to where he sat. She put out a hand towards him, touched his cheek gently then kissed him on the top of the head.

  Leonard Wheeler didn’t look up but he did raise one hand as if to ward off her attention.

  Kate sighed under her breath and reached for the chair close to the bed. She sat down opposite him, aware that his gaze was directed not at her but at something behind her. Something beyond her, that she couldn’t see, that only her father was aware of.

  ‘The nurses said you’ve had quite a good day,’ she told him, warily.

  ‘Where’s Jessie?’ he asked, suddenly turning to look directly at her.

  Kate reached out and touched his hand gently.

  ‘Mum’s not coming,’ she told him, wearily. ‘She’s been dead for five years.’

  ‘You bloody fool.’ His words came sharply and suddenly and he spoke them with such venom that Kate moved back an inch or two.

  ‘Dad, please.’

  He moved across the mattress until his back was wedged against the wall of the room. Again he was looking past her when he spoke, his words seemingly addressed to someone who only he could see.

  ‘I want to know where Jessie is.Why hasn’t she brought that cardigan I asked her for?’

  ‘You asked me for a cardigan, Dad. I brought it for you last week when I came,’ Kate told him, exasperatedly.

  ‘Get Jessie,’ he snapped. ‘She knows what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Kate said, her patience snapping. ‘No one knows what you’re talking about any more, Dad.’

  The expression of anger on his face changed immediately to one of bewilderment and he gazed at her with something in his eyes that looked like fear. He pressed himself closer to the wall, cowering away from her as if he thought she might strike him.

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ Kate breathed. She could feel the tears welling up but fought them back. She didn’t want him to see her cry. She knew he didn’t know who the hell she was and certainly wouldn’t know why she was weeping but, all the same, she didn’t want him to see her lose control. She coughed and cleared her throat, again reaching out with one hand to touch his arm.

  This time he didn’t withdraw but he watched her probing fingers as they gently brushed against his forearm.

  ‘Kate,’ he whispered.

  A huge smile spread across her face and, this time, she did allow the tears to flow. They rolled down both her cheeks as she sat on the bed beside him, gripping his hand.

  ‘Dad,’ she said, urgently. ‘Yes, it’s me. It’s Kate.’

  He looked at her and returned the smile and she saw the pain in his eyes too. Pain but something else too. There was the all too fleeting flicker of recognition.

  He opened his mouth to speak again but then that flicker was gone, as were the seconds of blissful serenity. Like some demonically possessed being, his face contorted into a visage of anger once more.

  ‘Get away from me,’ he snapped, dragging his hand and his arm away from her. ‘Whoever you are.’

  She stood up, more tears flowing. She looked helplessly at him as he pulled away from he
r again. God, how she hated the disease and what it had done to him. It had taken from him his thought processes and his personality. Everything she had always loved so much about him and, in their place, it had left a shell. The empty husk of the man she had called father for all of her thirty-four years. Perhaps he was still in there somewhere, locked away like priceless treasure, encased in a recognisable but alien frame. If he was still in there somewhere then Kate had no idea how to reach him and these weekly visits were becoming more and more difficult for her. Sometimes he was quiet but, most of the time, he was like this. She felt hatred inside herself and she knew it was for the disease. Not for this man she had loved so unreservedly for so many years. He had been deteriorating gradually for the past six or seven months. Withering like an unwatered plant. A little more of him lost to her each time she saw him.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Dad,’ she said, apologetically, moving towards the door of the room. ‘I’ll see you next time.’

  She wanted to hold him and to have him hold her in his strong arms. She wanted the man back who she had lost but she knew that could never be. The medication he was given did something for him but she knew that it would never make him the man he was before the disease struck. The realisation made her weep a little more.

  Leonard Wheeler sat still on his bed and watched her impassively.

  ‘I love you, Dad,’ she told him.

  He didn’t reply, he merely turned away from her and stared at a crack in the wall beside him.

  Outside the room, Kate turned and walked hastily out of the building, wiping her tears away with a tissue she pulled from her jacket pocket. She walked to her car and slid behind the steering wheel, wiping her cheeks. For what seemed like an eternity she remained immobile, waiting, it seemed, for the tears to stop.When they finally did she reached, not for her car keys, but for her mobile phone. Sniffing wearily, she hit the digits she wanted and waited.

  Chloe

  The early evening sky was the colour of bruised flesh as Mason approached the grave of his daughter.

  A chill wind that had built up gradually during the afternoon whipped across the necropolis and caused Mason to shiver slightly as he stepped off the gravel path onto the wet grass. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and walked on, the small bunch of purple irises clutched in his gloved hand.

  The cemetery was deserted and Mason felt as if he was the last person on earth as he stepped briskly between marble and stone tombstones and crosses, heading for his destination. Birds perched in the branches of nearby trees seemed to look down upon the cemetery and its occupants with predatory rather than protective eyes. Mason heard some large crows calling noisily before two took to the wing and rose into the chilly air, silhouetted against the ever-darkening sky.

  He slowed his pace as he approached the black marble tombstone he sought.

  He tried to swallow but found that his throat was dry. Mason exhaled deeply and stepped closer to the stone.

  Wiping one hand over the cold marble he read the inscription.

  CHLOE MARIE MASON

  LOVED SO VERY MUCH

  AN ANGEL LOANED BY GOD NOW RETURNED

  Mason knelt by the headstone using his hands to wipe away some bird droppings that had splashed the top of the monument. He muttered irritably to himself and pulled a tissue from his pocket, continuing his task.

  There was a fresh bouquet of flowers on the small plinth at the front of the stone, placed there by Natalie he assumed. He gently put the irises beside the other bouquet then stood up, his hands clasped before him.

  He wanted to say something. Wanted to tell her what he felt.Wanted to say how much he missed her and how much he loved her but, no matter how hard he tried to force the words out, nothing would come.

  Mason felt the tears welling up within him and he made no attempt to stifle them.

  Warm rivulets began to run down his cheeks and he sniffed as he continued to stand there, still hoping that the words he wanted to say would pour forth as easily as his tears.

  He even opened his mouth but he could say nothing.

  What would you say to her if she was standing in front of you now?

  Mason closed his eyes for a second, trying to force the image of his daughter into his mind, attempting to visualise her standing before him but the apparition was brief and faint.

  He opened his eyes again.

  Again he tried to speak but, once more, only silence escaped his barely parted lips.

  Say what you’d say to her if she was with you now.

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, his voice cracking.

  And that was it. That was all of it.

  Fresh tears ran down his cheeks but he made no attempt to wipe them away. One dripped onto the black marble itself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed again, his body racked by sobs.

  He was shaking uncontrollably. He reached out and gently touched the top of the headstone, feeling the coldness even through his glove. It was like touching black ice.

  Mason turned and walked hurriedly away.

  In the trees, one of the remaining crows uttered an almost derisory squawk then flew away into the darkening sky.

  39

  Walston, Buckinghamshire

  Mason watched as the last of the packing boxes was set down in the sitting room of the cottage. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a five-pound note, shoving it into the large and slightly sweaty hand of the largest of the three removal men who had accompanied him from London.

  ‘Get yourselves a drink,’ Mason instructed.

  The man looked at the note with an expression of bemusement but still thanked him before stuffing it into his pocket. He then walked to the front door, closing it loudly behind him.

  Silence descended once again and Mason exhaled gratefully, wandering back into the sitting room where he sat down on the nearest of the boxes and gazed around at the interior of the room. It was larger than he’d remembered, even with the furniture in it that his predecessor had left behind.

  Why leave a slightly battered three-piece leather suite and bookshelves full of books behind, Mason wondered?

  Perhaps he was in a hurry to get out.Why not leave things behind? You did.

  Mason got to his feet and crossed to the bookshelves, running an appraising eye over the titles there. Mostly well-read paperbacks. A few textbooks and reference works. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary.

  What are you looking for? Some clue to what your predecessor was like? Do you think he might give something of his character away with the books he read?

  Mason reached for a battered paperback copy of The Godfather and pulled it from its position between Campaigns of Napoleon and In Cold Blood. He flicked through the tome briefly then pushed the paperback back onto the shelf.

  Something large and dusty touched the back of his hand.

  ‘Shit,’ Mason hissed, pulling back in shock.

  He glanced down at the floor and at what had fallen onto his flesh.

  The spider was about the size of his thumbnail but its legs made it seem much larger.

  It had been dead so long it was practically mummified, surrounded by a cocoon of dust as thick as any web it had woven in its own life. Mason shook his head, annoyed with himself for being so jumpy and for having been so startled by the appearance of the deceased arachnid. God alone knew how many more were dotted around the house, he thought. Before everything was unpacked it might be an idea to give the cottage a good clean.

  He wandered through into the kitchen and glanced around.

  The worktops and the sink, despite having a few small cracks, were clean enough.

  Mason reached across to the windowsill over the sink and ran his finger along it.

  More cleaning to do.

  40

  Like most small towns Walston boasted a covered shopping centre. A central area that attracted businesses both small and large. A place where independent concerns sat, however u
neasily, next to the instantly recognisable names of chain stores and supermarkets that already dominated shopping centres everywhere.

  Coffee shops, clothing outlets and electrical retailers vied for attention and custom, drawing the citizens of Walston into this central hub as surely as honey draws wasps. There was a market, almost a last throwback to the days when the town’s economy existed solely on its local produce, but that was also covered. The stalls were operated and manned exactly as they had been for hundreds of years but now they traded beneath a canopy of concrete and glass. Older residents of the town could still remember the outdoor market, just as some could still recall the days when the town had a thriving cattle market and herds of pigs, sheep and cows were driven through Walston’s streets by farmers. To the younger residents of the town, those memories smacked more of misty-eyed nostalgia. They were happy with their Starbucks, River Island and Currys. Content with their Costa coffee,Top Shop and Tesco.They didn’t long for the old days or the old ways. They liked what they had now.