The Beauty of the End (16 page)

30

T
he possibility that April was set up haunts me but leaves me none the wiser as the day of Norton's funeral arrives, dull and overcast. I park in the crematorium car park, knowing I have no place here, but curious to see who shows up.

As I walk up the path, seeing the police officer standing slightly apart from the people gathered outside one of the chapels, I realize this must be Norton's service. When I draw closer, I notice his name displayed beside the door. As I scan the tight faces and hooded eyes that show nothing, the creased suits and dark coats brought out for the occasion, I notice the small crowd contains no young people, nor is there anyone I know.

There's something odd about the mood, a lack of emotion of any kind, which means I'm somehow surprised that when the hearse pulls up, when life and death are briefly roommates in the small square outside the crematorium, the woman who steps forward to follow the coffin looks so normal.

I'm last through the door into the chapel, sliding into the row of seats at the back, next to a thin woman in a skirt flecked with dust who smells of cheap scent. The police officer remains outside. The service that follows is a one size fits all, unremarkable, impersonal, yet somehow evoking emotions in me that don't belong here, that come from when my father died. Not just a sense of loss, but the reminder that for none of us can life be certain.

Anywhere else, for anyone else, the lack of a eulogy, the smallest personal touch would have saddened me, but the man inside that wooden box raped his stepdaughter. There can be no rejoicing in his life.

It's a service in which no thought has been invested, just the briefest of brief words, the cheapest of gaudy funeral flowers, the only music a few piped bars as the curtain closes on Norton for the last time.

* * *

After, there is no invitation to a wake, which makes me think that perhaps there isn't one. I hang back, but everyone drifts away quite quickly, and as I walk to my car, suddenly I'm irritated, with the time I've wasted, that I've learned nothing. Away from the crematorium, I drive too fast, heading out of Musgrove until I miss the turnoff to the motorway and find myself caught in a one-way system. As I narrowly miss hitting the car that pulls out of nowhere just in front of me, my irritation peaks.

The driver sticks his finger up at me as my hand uncharacteristically connects with the horn, and I'm unable to contain my frustration at everything that suddenly seems set against me. Then, recognizing the road to the North Star, on impulse I turn down it.

Leaving my jacket in the car, I pull off my tie before wandering into the bar. There's no sign of John today and I wonder if he's taken a day off. I order a pint, out of the corner of my eye noticing the funeral party come in.

I watch them emerge butterfly-like from their dark coats, shedding their silence, splashing noise and brashness across the room. Lively talk and shrill laughter has replaced earlier indifference, as they order drinks and make jokes, before tucking into the platters of sandwiches that are brought out from the kitchen.

I feel myself frown, because this is definitely a wake of sorts, with the venue planned and food ordered, but not open to just anyone. The ranks of Norton's followers-on are clearly closed.

But it's a strange send-off. My own sense of decorum would find gravity more appropriate, no matter what Norton has done—or perhaps nothing at all, rather than this fairground-ride jollity. I continue to watch, their demeanor making me increasingly uncomfortable. And why come back to where Norton was killed? I flit between whether it's right or wrong, settling in the end on a need for closure. Until suddenly, it comes to me, from their raised glasses and flushed faces, it isn't Norton's life they're celebrating.

It's his death. My uncomfortable feeling stays with me, such that I don't notice my neighbor from the funeral service weaving her way toward me, clearly the worse for wear, until she lurches into me.

“What are you doing over here?” Waving her empty glass around, clearly recognizing me. Under thick pancake makeup, her cheeks are reddened and eyes too bright for just the one glass.

“I just got here.” I hold out my hand. “Noah. Forgive me—you are . . . ?

“Lena.” She winks a heavily shadowed eyelid. “How did you know the old bastard, then?”

“We go back,” I say briefly. “I happened to be in the area. But I didn't know him well.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice slightly. “If you knew him at all, you'll know we're better off without him. Especially Fiona, the poor love.”

I frown. “They weren't happy?”

Lena tips her head back and laughs, a horrible guttural sound. “Happy? I should say not.”

“Why did she stay with him?”

Lena's face takes on a look of suspicion. “Didn't really know him at all, didja? Here, come over to talk to the others.” She's still talking to me as she turns and waves across the room. “Someone will remember you—like Don.
Don?
Donny?”

Her shrill voice cutting through the hum of voices. Forgetting her empty glass, she starts weaving her way back toward them. By the time she turns to check whether I'm following, I'm already out of there.

* * *

There's a sense of my world shifting, of the slashing of moral codes and social conventions; of solid ground under my feet turning to quicksand. Of too many people who live by their own rules, and I wonder if I'm one of them. I contemplate calling Will. Trading my principles for his familiar smooth arrogance across a table, for an hour or two of inflammatory conversation and a few beers. I even pull over to call him, but before I've switched off the engine, my mobile buzzes and the screen lights up with an unknown number. “Hello? Is that Noah Calaway?” It's a husky, slightly hesitant voice—a woman's.

“Hello. Yes, hold on a moment. . . .” Turning off the engine, I close the window against the traffic noise.

“Hello. How can I help you?”

“We haven't spoken before. Daisy gave me your number. Daisy Rubinstein?”

“Of course, I remember Daisy. Are you another of April's clients?”

“You could call me that. . . .” She hesitates. “My name is Lara, Mr. Calaway. Lara Collins. Daisy said you were looking for information about April. Anyway, if you still are, I think I can help.”

“Actually, if there's anything at all you can tell me, it would be great. It really would.” After the grotesque charade of Norton's funeral, Lara Collins is salve on my anger. I feel myself breathe out my tension, suddenly hopeful. “I can talk now, if you like.”

She hesitates. “Or maybe we can meet? Would that be better?”

I understand, she wants to take my measure, decide whether or not she trusts me.

“Where do you live?”

Her voice is light. “Oh. Of course, you wouldn't know, would you? I'm April's neighbor.”

I try to think where the nearest house to April's is, failing. “I'm sorry. I'm not sure where you mean.”

“You can't see it from the road. But if you pass April's on your left, there's a drive a quarter of a mile farther on. You're probably busy. . . .” She breaks off. “But if you'd like to, you could come over now.”

“I could be with you in about an hour.” Adding hastily, “And it's Noah.”

“Hi, Noah. See you in an hour.”

* * *

Lara Collins looks as delicate as she sounded when she called. Slight, with long, light brown hair in a ponytail, she's wearing faded, ripped, loose-fitting jeans. She shows me into a small, cozy kitchen that's dwarfed by an ancient stove.

“Please sit down. Would you like coffee?”

I nod gratefully. “Please, if it's no trouble.” As I sit down, my head starts to clear.

“Daisy told me what you said—about April,” she tells me as she fills the kettle. The softness of her voice belies what's only faintly visible underneath. Steel. “I know it's impossible to truly know someone's heart, but I don't believe she did it.”

“Nor do I. Thank you.” I take the mug she hands me, staring at the familiar blue and white design of Spode's Willow Pattern, the only design I can put a name to, because April loved it.

“April gave them to me.”

I look up, startled.

“The mugs. I saw you looking.” Lara slips into the chair opposite, pushing an escaped lock of hair behind an ear, stirring her mug thoughtfully.

“Since I saw Daisy, I have been trying to decide whether to tell you this. What I'm about to tell you, even Mark—he's my husband—doesn't know.” She hesitates. “The question is, can I trust you?”

I'm not sure how you measure trust, whether in the honesty of a face, the directness of eye contact. Or deeper, on an instinctual level.

Lara takes a deep breath. “I think I'm telling you because April's a good person. She helped me, but also, we were friends. And I imagine there are things only a few people know about her.”

My mouth opens to tell her that she's wrong. That you can truly know a person's heart. That I know April, probably better than anyone, because there are relationships where time is immaterial, because no matter how long since you've seen each other, whether two weeks or twenty years, it makes no difference.

“Something had happened to April.” Lara speaks quietly. “In the past. She never said what. But I know it was big.”

I frown. “What makes you say that?”

“You can see it in her.” Lara's eyes are wide. “You know, how there are people who have no time for small things? Pettiness, I mean. In the way they let things go—because whatever huge, life-changing thing happened to them gave them a perspective most of us can't ever have.”

She pauses for a moment, looking directly at me.

“April had no agenda.” Lara is resolute. “No ego. No awards she was chasing. No.”

She sits back in her chair; she frowns.

“What April did have was a gift.”

31

A
s Lara talks about April's gift, my head is reeling again as I remember my dream.

“Noah? Are you all right?”

Around me, the room starts to spin as Lara's disembodied voice comes to me. I lean forward, resting my head in my hands, because it's a day of crumbling bricks and steel girders that melt like butter. I'm remembering the dream I had, the night before I left home, of the burning woman, holding something out to me; her words,
This is my gift.

For a brief moment, I stare into the glittering eyes of madness, before somehow pulling back. Telling myself firmly that wherever it is they come from, dreams are just that. Dreams. Flimsy creations of the imagination—not real.

“Noah?” Dimly I register Lara's concern.

“I remembered something, that's all.” I rest my head in my hands, silent. Eventually I look up at her.

“I'm reading too much into things. It's been one of those days.” I try to remember what she was saying. “You were about to tell me about April having a gift.”

“Yes.” Lara gets up and walks over to the window. “She's an incredible counselor. But also, she's a healer.”

A wave of disappointment washes over me, because I was hoping for proof of April's innocence rather than the revelation that she's some kind of crackpot.

Sensing my response, Lara closes up. “Maybe I shouldn't have told you.” She turns her back on me and gazes outside. “Not everyone understands.”

Suddenly I'm light-headed again, to my embarrassment overcome by nausea.

“Sorry, need to use your bathroom,” I mumble, getting up.

“Through there, on the right.” Turning to point the way, Lara watches me sharply.

* * *

When I come back in a while later, Lara throws the kitchen window open, then lets me drink the sweet tea she's made, while she watches me.

“Have you thought maybe you should see a doctor?”

It's a statement rather than a suggestion, one that takes me aback.

I look at her, startled. “There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine.”

“Can I be honest?” Her eyes are unblinking. “You really don't look well.”

“I'm all right, really,” I say feebly, aware of my clammy skin and the nausea, more distant but still there. “It's been a long day.”

Knowing as well as Lara does, that's not why I'm ill.

“My father was an alcoholic.” She says it quietly, without looking at me.

My hands are shaking and my throat is parched. But she's got this wrong. “I like a drink as much as anyone, but I'm not an alcoholic.”

She doesn't reply, but her silence, the slump of her shoulders, send a ripple of alarm through me.

“Can I ask you something?” Deflecting the conversation away from myself; both of us aware of my classic denial.

“Of course.”

“Have you been feeding April's cat?”

“Yes.” She looks cautious.

“Great. I was there and I was quite sure that when I left, there was more food in the cat's bowl than when I'd arrived.”

“That was you? I'm so sorry. I wasn't sure who it was. I thought I'd forgotten to lock the door when I came in the last time. Then I heard footsteps, so I just left some food and ran. If I'd known . . .” A frown flickers across her face. “Why were you there?”

“I haven't explained. April and I were friends a long time ago. More than friends. Actually . . .” Then, because the entire day has felt off track, and because it can't become any stranger, I decide to tell her. “April and I were going to be married.”

I know from Lara's silence, April hasn't told her. “Anyway, like I said, it was a long time ago. I was—am—a lawyer. Like you, I think she's innocent. But I also think she may have been framed.”

Lara's face is grave. “And you're trying to find proof.”

I nod. “At the moment, I'm just trying to talk to people who know her. So far, I've drawn a blank, but I'm working on the assumption that someone, somewhere must know something.”

Which is why I'm here. “I suppose I'm wondering why you called.”

By the window, Lara hesitates, as if undecided, then comes back over and sits down again.

“Before I tell you,” she says, “I'm not someone who thinks that they can talk flowers into blooming early or that vegetables scream when you pick them. Okay?” She says it fiercely, needing me to understand.

“About a year ago, we'd been trying to start a family, but nothing had happened. It had got to the point where we were considering IVF. Anyway, then I became pregnant. At last we were going to be the family we wanted. We were making plans. Imagining holidays, birthdays, Christmases—all those times that have so much more meaning when there are children.... We were over the moon.” She sounds anything but, as she pauses, remembering.

“I went for a twelve-week scan. I'll never forget. . . .” She pauses again. “Do you have children, Noah?”

I shake my head.

“Well, the scan is a big deal. You see your baby for the first time. I'll never forget it—only for all the wrong reasons.” There's pain in her eyes. “Instead of telling us to listen to the heart or to look at our baby kicking, the nurse said nothing. Then she asked us to wait while she went to fetch someone. That was when we knew.”

Lara clasps her hands on the table. “I won't bore you with all the details, but what followed was every parent's worst nightmare. There were more scans, while they established there was a problem with the baby's heart. Then we were sent to a consultant. He told us there was nothing he could do. He offered us a choice, he called it. Shall I tell you what our choice was?” She pauses, then continues more slowly. “We could terminate, or go to term with the knowledge that our baby, if it wasn't stillborn, would die within days.”

She takes a breath. “We saw a different consultant, who said the same. That was in May last year. My baby was due in October. We'd wanted this baby so much, we couldn't terminate. Then I met April.

“I would go into her study and she would let me talk or cry, whatever I needed. You see, I was already grieving. For the baby I was carrying; the future Mark and I had planned for us all. Then one evening, she called me out of the blue. If I wasn't doing anything, would I like to come over. Mark wasn't back from work. I went.”

She pauses. “That time, we sat outside. There's a corner of her garden where if you sit for long enough you can see the movement of the moon behind the trees. I didn't know you could do that—watch the moon move. The air was incredibly still. And so peaceful. In between, we talked a little, and then I realized I was crying. I couldn't work out why, but I felt her touch my arm. Then she told me none of this was my fault. She told me life can be cruel, but extraordinary things can happen. That I shouldn't give up.”

The expression in Lara's eyes changes. “It was all she said. But something changed, and suddenly, inside, I felt calm. So calm—and warm. Hours had passed without me noticing. It was dark and I knew Mark would be wondering where I was. As I walked home, I remember looking up and thinking I'd never seen so many stars. You'll probably think it's silly”—she glances at me—“but it was as though April had taken my memories, and my pain for safekeeping. I've always wondered what it cost her to do that.”

I wait for her to continue.

“We became close. I'd bared my soul, I suppose you could say, but I felt safe with her.” Lara frowned slightly. “Once I asked her how she was able to listen to so many clients, day in, day out, in so much pain. I remember exactly what she said.” Lara looks at me. “She said she thought of them as being in freefall, only somehow, through no fault of their own, their parachutes had got tangled. She was their safety net.” She looks puzzled. “After that, I sensed she was about to tell me something else, only she stopped herself.”

Lara swallows. Then her eyes glitter with tears. “Our baby was stillborn. It was—is—so very hard. I would see other mothers and I couldn't help thinking, why me? Why us? But extraordinary things do happen. I'm pregnant again.”

As she holds her hands protectively over her belly, I see a barely perceptible roundness.

“We tried for years before,” she says softly. “I'm not a religious person, but sometimes I wonder if our baby has found his way back.”

As she talks, her honesty, her portrayal of naked emotion, cracks a layer of ice on my frozen heart. Reminds me that after heartbreak and pain, it is still possible to be generous. To love.

Then she looks straight at me. “Remind me, why am I opening my heart to you?”

I manage a glimmer of a smile, just as she says, “April. What can I say? She's extraordinary.”

Then she frowns. “You know, something might not have been right. Just lately. She didn't say, but I felt it. She wasn't as present, I think you could say. Normally, with April, she was so focused. I think there was something on her mind.”

“You've no idea what?”

Lara shakes her head.

The day has been exhausting, extraordinary. Thanking Lara for her time, as I leave her, I'm deeply tired but calm, taking something with me from what she's shared.

But the day isn't over; the feeling doesn't last.