Sewing the Shadows Together (17 page)

Lying in the darkness. Stale damp air. A weight on my chest, bearing down, crushing me. I struggle to get up, I must escape. In the distance there’s a thin sliver of light. I want to run but my feet won’t move. They are being sucked down. I know I must run, must escape. Behind me there’s something unthinkable, so terrible I can’t put a form to it. I just know I must escape. My limbs won’t move, the walls are closing in on me. Suffocation. Claustrophobia.

Tom felt Sarah moving beside him, her arms and body thrashing wildly. He put his arm round her, trying to calm her. He stroked her cheek as she threw her head from side to side, her face contorted with fear. ‘Sarah, it’s all right. Don’t worry. Everything’s all right.’

He thought back to the evening before. As he’d walked down from the Grassmarket, dodging the taxis on the Mound, across the silent emptiness of Princes Street still in the throes of the great tram-line fiasco, he’d wondered how Sarah would react to seeing him.

He was sorry that Rory was dead on an intellectual level, he was his oldest mate, but Sarah was his main concern. How would it affect them, their relationship? Would she be so caught up in the death that she pushed him away? Or – he hardly dared to express the hope – would it make it easier for them to get closer?

He’d planned what he was going to say. Condolences, of course, and then he’d tell her about the job and HJ Kidd. He hadn’t had the chance. As he came in the door, passing a short forceful woman just leaving, Sarah threw herself into his arms. She clung to him as she told him what had happened since they were last together. Tom was confused by her story – death and transplants, unfaithfulness and children, the funeral and journalists. She’d been drinking, he could tell, as the words tumbled out, but he managed to calm her, holding her close.

There was a pain in his chest where he imagined his heart must be. Was this what love felt like? It had never been difficult for him to find sex – there were always lots of fun girls in Plett. He had the reputation of being a loner, which attracted some women, especially the bored housewives and the ever-younger girls who tried to convert him. The relationships never lasted long; after the thrill of the chase he’d felt claustrophobic as soon as they were bedded. He’d thought he was incapable of love.

With Sarah it was different. Their lovemaking was wonderful but the difference was afterwards. He wanted to stay with her; he wanted to walk with her, cook with her, sit in silence with her.

Sarah stirred. Tom stroked her hair, feeling emotion swelling inside.

‘Tom…’ Sarah opened her eyes. ‘Oh, my head, I feel so bad.’

‘It’s all right, Sarah, it’s all right.’

‘Oh Tom. I’m sorry.’

Tom held her close. ‘Sarah, you don’t have to apologise. There’s nothing to worry about. You’ve just gone through the most traumatic few days – you’re entitled to a few drinks.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll always be here to help you.’

Sarah looked up at him. ‘Everything seems better when you’re here.’

‘What about the funeral? Do you want me there?’

Sarah lowered her eyes. ‘You know there’s nothing I’d love more, but it’s going to be as private as possible – strictly family only.’ She held him closer. ‘But I’ll need you afterwards. I think it’s going to be hell.’ She straightened up and shook her head. ‘Sorry, this has all been about me. How are things going with you? Have you been to the police?’

Tom hesitated. He was going – and he’d tell the police everything. But first of all he had to tell Sarah about his suspicions, about the chest and his father’s pictures. He hated keeping things from her.

He told the whole story, ending up by saying, ‘So I’m really afraid that my father might have been the killer.’ He hoped that Sarah wouldn’t hate him.

She put her arms round him. ‘You’ve been carrying this suspicion round with you ever since you were in Lewis?’

Tom nodded.

‘I’m glad you’ve told me now, but I wish you’d told me sooner. Because I think you’re worrying needlessly; your suspicions are based on very little really. I think those kind of drawings are not unusual in adolescent boys.’

Tom shook his head. ‘But he impregnated a fourteen-year-old girl and ran away, leaving her to face the consequences alone. He had a child he never saw. He was a monster.’

‘He was a frightened teenager.’ Sarah spoke calmly.

‘But the way he was with Shona, and the way he turned to drink after she died. This is the only explanation.’

Sarah stroked his hair. ‘He loved Shona, and isn’t it understandable that he would be upset after her death? He was her father. I’m sure he must have felt guilty afterwards, feeling he should have been able to look after her, save her from what happened.’

Tom stared at Sarah. Everything he found out about her made him love her more. She was so empathetic, so positive, always seeing the best in everybody. But, he wasn’t comforted by what she said. In fact, having put his suspicions into words he became more convinced that he was right. He didn’t want to think about it.

Changing the subject, he told Sarah about the Canongate job. When he’d finished telling her, she held him tight, her eyes sparkling. ‘Are you really going to stay in Scotland?’ Her face lit up. ‘I was afraid you’d go back to South Africa. I wanted you to stay but I didn’t dare to hope too much. I couldn’t bear the thought of you going away again.’ She seemed to be about to say more but she just took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly.

*

Seafield Crematorium stood on the coast road between Leith and Portobello. The day of Rory Dunbar’s private family funeral was one of those crisp autumn mornings, when the sky glowed uniform blue and the leaves on the trees shone red, orange and gold. Sarah arrived by taxi with Nick, Lottie and Liam, and Flora. As they were dropped outside the grey-harled chapel, Sarah looked around and breathed a sigh of relief; the courtyard was deserted.

After Babs Barrowfield’s visit she’d dreaded the thought of the funeral, but Nick had calmed her down. He hadn’t been surprised when Sarah had told him about Babs’ revelations because the lawyer had told him that the will contained bequests to other children too. He said Abigail had contacted him and they’d had a good chat. Sarah couldn’t get over his coolness and maturity. He’d been unfazed by everything that had happened, dealing with the police, hospital, lawyers and funeral directors.

As soon as the body was released for burial they began to organise this private family event. Sarah had told Archie about Babs’ visit and the other children, but he too seemed totally unsurprised. Sarah wondered if everyone had known apart from her; it still hurt her to think that Babs had known about everything and Rory had always kept her in the dark.

Archie had recommended Seafield for the cremation, quieter and less fashionable than Warriston or Mortonhall, and fortunately the earliest morning slot was available just a few days later. The funeral directors were sworn to secrecy and any enquiries were directed to the memorial service that was being organised in St Giles Cathedral at the beginning of December.

She hoped that this occasion would satisfy Babs and Abigail and the ‘family’ and that they would not insist on too much prominence at the memorial service, which was being organised by BBC Scotland, and which would concentrate on Rory’s professional achievements.

Sarah was just reflecting on the bizarre quality of the day when her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘You really should have worn a hat, you know. And your hair… it looks far too informal hanging down like that. I made a special appointment with Ricki yesterday.’

Sarah looked at her mother. She’d tried to tactfully broach the subject of the other children, but she knew her mother hadn’t really been listening, just fretting about what she should wear. She usually favoured pastels, but for this occasion was wearing a voluminous black coat with an astrakhan collar and a matching hat, which totally dwarfed her tiny frame and rendered any visit to the hairdresser’s totally superfluous.

‘The twins look appropriate, but that boy…’ Mrs Campbell glared at the young ones who were standing on the other side of the courtyard. Nick and Lottie were smart in dark suits and white shirts, but Liam had obviously incurred Flora’s disapproval with his black shirt.

There had been some discussion about whether Liam should come, as it was strictly family only, but Lottie had put her foot down, claiming that he was more family to her than the rest of them. Sarah had quietly asked Nick if he wanted to bring Olly, but was relieved when Nick said he didn’t really think this was the occasion for a public outing.

A shiny grey saloon slid into the courtyard and stopped in front of the door. Babs Barrowfield stepped out of the front seat wearing a fitted black costume carefully emphasising her most famous asset and a black pill-box hat with a veil over her face.

From the back seat a squat younger version of Babs stepped out. This must be Abigail. Sarah looked to see any sign of Rory in her, but she was almost a clone of her mother. She had short cropped hair and was wearing a shapeless black tunic but, despite her lack of height, she exuded confident determination. She was followed by a very tall, dark-haired youth with a long narrow face and close-set eyes. This must be Daniel, looking like an elongated version of a young Rory.

Babs strode towards Sarah, her high-heeled boots clacking on the cobbles. ‘Good morning, Sarah. What an ungodly hour to organise a funeral.’ She turned towards Abigail and Daniel and introduced them. Abigail looked up at Sarah through fierce eyes and greeted her briefly in a deep voice. Daniel stood in the background, looking self-conscious and mumbling a few unintelligeable words.

Sarah introduced her mother and indicated the group of young ones, who were on the other side of the courtyard under a weather-beaten statue of an angel with wide-spread mossy wings. Abigail led Daniel across the courtyard, while Babs stayed with Sarah and her mother.

Moments later, a black Daimler swept in through the gates and purred to a halt. Like something out of an old Hollywood film, a striking figure in a long black fur coat, a broad-brimmed black hat and dark glasses swept out of the car, followed by two very handsome boys in dark suits, who oozed self-confidence.

‘Oh God, Mental Miranda,’ whispered Babs. ‘I told her not to come. Family only.’

Miranda approached Sarah, holding out her slim black-leather gloved hand. ‘My condolences, Sarah. We have suffered a very sad loss. Rory was a very special man.’

Sarah took her hand and murmured agreement. The twins nodded briefly in her direction and then strolled over towards the rest of the young ones, pulling cigarettes and lighters from their pockets in mirror movements. Abigail, who was at least nine inches shorter than any of the others, stood in the centre of the group and appeared to be dominating the conversation.

Babs looked at her watch. ‘Jamie should be here by now. I told Rosie he had to come. I even offered to bring him with me.’

A few moments later a taxi drove up and Rosie stepped out holding the hand of an attractive-looking boy with shaggy dark hair hanging into huge brown eyes. Rosie was dressed in a striped sweater and jeans, with large gypsy earrings, her long dark hair in soft curls. Jamie was wearing black jeans and a black polo-necked sweater and was impatiently trying to wrest his hand from his mother’s grip.

Rosie hurried over to Sarah. ‘Look, I’m really sorry. I’m not staying – I didn’t want to bring Jamie along, but Babs insisted. Poor Jamie doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, and neither do I, to be honest.’

She stopped the breathless rush of words and stood in front Sarah, her head hanging, unable to look her in the eye. ‘Sarah, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe Rory is dead. He was so alive, the most vibrant person I know.’ She raised her head; her eyes glistened with tears.

Sarah reached out and gave her a hug. Rosie was the first person who seemed genuinely upset about Rory. ‘Do stay. I think it’s better for Jamie if you’re here with him.’

Rosie looked down at her clothes. ‘But I’m not suitably dressed.’

‘Don’t worry about that. This is a very small private occasion and nobody worries about what we’re wearing.’ Sarah looked round as she said this and saw her mother standing on the edge of the group, her mouth hanging open with astonishment as she watched the scene unfold before her. Sarah found herself stifling a giggle; the day was taking on the quality of farce.

Miranda lowered her glasses and looked round the crematorium courtyard. ‘Where is everybody? I was sure there would be crowds of people here, the press.’

Babs broke in. ‘I told you that today is strictly private, family only.’ She put great emphasis on the word family. ‘You can save the outfit for the memorial service. The press will be there, all right. But you know the deal. Your money was always dependent on this story staying out of the papers, and that still applies. So just keep your head down and your mouth shut, if that’s possible.’

‘But it’s my boys’ rightful inheritance,’ Miranda said in a sulky tone.

‘Don’t give me that. You never even admitted Rory was the father until that stupid pillock you married did the DNA test.’

‘But Rory always knew. He told me to keep it quiet but he always supported me.’

Sarah stared in amazement as they carried on as if she, the widow, was totally irrelevant to the entire proceedings. She could see outrage building up in her mother’s face and the giggle threatened to break free again.

There was a gentle cough behind them. While they’d been talking, a hearse had glided up and the coffin was being lifted out of the back. The dark-suited funeral director greeted them solemnly and ushered them into the side chapel. It had been agreed that the service would be brief and non-religious, conducted by Melanie, a humanist celebrant recommended by Babs. She had provided Melanie with details of Rory’s life and Melanie delivered the address in a heartfelt tone, full of emotion, even though she had never met Rory.

The service passed in a blur for Sarah. After about ten minutes the coffin slid behind the curtains to the accompaniment of Elgar’s Nimrod. Sarah idly wondered who’d chosen the music, or if it was the crematorium’s default setting.

She heard loud sobs behind her, but she felt stony, numb, totally detached from what was going on. Lottie took her hand and gave it a squeeze and Nick put his arm round her as the coffin slid behind the curtains. Sitting between Nick and Lottie she was overcome with love for them. Rory had done something right.