Last Rites (16 page)

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 her 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 uneasily, 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.

Andrew Latham sat on one of the metal benches and watched impassively as a woman in her eighties trundled past pulling her shopping trolley. He gave appraising glance to the woman who caught his eye momentarily and tried to increase her pace. She didn’t like the look of Latham and his companions. She knew they were from Langley Hill, she’d seen them in the town before, dressed in their distinctive uniforms. With it being the weekend, they were attired in casual clothes. Jeans, trainers, T-shirts, tracksuits. All designer wear. All expensive. It was always that little group together, the woman mused. Always led by Latham, the oldest of them. He was tall and his skin was swarthy. His curly hair was jet black and hung as far as his shoulders. His eyes were heavy lidded but blazing when he turned the full measure of his stare on anyone.

The woman didn’t care that the group attended an expensive private school, she wasn’t interested that their parents were millionaires and celebrities. She had a mistrust and a disdain for all teenagers and it didn’t matter whether or not they were the offspring of the rich or the guttersnipes who attended the local comprehensives. They were trouble as far as she was concerned, all of them.

Latham tired of gazing at the woman and, instead, turned to face the girl who sat to his right.

Sammi Bell ran a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair and noticed that Latham was looking at her or, more particularly, her slim legs, encased as they were in skin-tight grey denim. She was unworried by his stare and met it with a coquettish smile.

‘Something on your mind?’ she asked.

‘This fucking place,’ Latham muttered. ‘The people who live here are peasants.’

Sammi laughed and reached down to fasten the laces of one trainer.

‘You’re such a snob, Andrew,’ she told him.

‘I’m not a snob,’ Latham continued. ‘I’m just stating a fact. Look at them.’ He gestured around him with one hand, a movement designed to encompass everyone within the shopping centre. ‘They have no idea how to dress.’

‘That’s because they haven’t got any money,’ Precious Moore offered. She was a tall, ungainly girl with a lisp and front teeth that looked too big for her mouth. ‘They’ve got no class.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk about class,’ Latham reminded her. ‘Your father’s a pop star. What would you know about class?’

‘And your mother was a slut,’ Jude Hennessey added, his American accent cutting through the hubbub of conversation.

Latham laughed and slapped palms with the American.

‘My mum was a TV presenter,’ Precious said, irritably.

‘Who slept with everyone she interviewed,’ Latham reminded her.

‘A slut,’ Hennessey chided.

‘At least I’ve still got a mum,’ Precious countered, glaring at Hennessey. ‘At least my mum didn’t run off with someone else.’

‘She didn’t have to. She just fucked them,’ the American snapped. ‘And my mother didn’t run off. She died.’ Hennessey scratched at his prominent jaw line with one index finger.

‘Death or divorce, it amounts to the same thing,’ Latham interjected. ‘I should know, my dad’s on his third marriage and the other two still have to be paid every month.’

‘My dad says that all men should have a turnstile at the bedroom door because one way or the other, you always pay to get in.’

Latham and Hennessey laughed and looked at the speaker of the words. He was a short, heavily built youth with thin features and a pair of silver-framed glasses perched on his hooked nose. Felix Mackenzie pushed the spectacles back with one index finger and nodded to himself, happy with his contribution.

‘Where is your dad now, Felix?’ another member of the group asked. Jo Campbell was the youngest of the gathering. Willowy and with features so delicate it seemed that her face might crack like expensive china were it touched too hard. She crossed her slender legs and brushed some fluff from the right knee of her jeans.

‘He works in New York,’ Mackenzie replied.

‘New York’s a great place,’ Hennessey offered. ‘Better than this shit hole.’

‘If you don’t like our country then fuck off home,’ Latham snapped. ‘Fucking Yank.’