The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (39 page)

“Hope I get Sodom and Gomorrah,” Patty thinks.

The most impressive part of the church, however, is the carved Jesus which towers over the congregation, his face a bloody mask of pain, his blood congealed to gore in puckered orbits on hands and feet. Arms outstretched to … to what? Absolve, condemn? He is a wooden man, spindly, grotesque, a mahogany Pinocchio with no strings to hold him down. He dominates the room, his eyes following Patty around, seeming to say: murderer. She takes a seat toward the back, away from the altar and the towering Jesus, but on the aisle close to the exit.

Funereal black is a lifesaver. She is bulked up: three jumpers, jacket and then a black suit. Huge and baggy without the padding, but with it … grieving fat woman. The ensemble is topped
off with a black hat and veil from Cat Rescue. Patty had hoped the body would be on show—she had wanted to see his face one last time but this is no open-casket freak show.

Slowly, a trickle of people arrive and the chairs start to fill. She holds firm to the aisle seat and moves aside so people can squeeze past her intimidating bulk. The room is full by the time the vicar enters, and even then, as the organ strikes up “Nearer My God to thee,” there is another wave of mourners who have to stand along the walls and at the back. There are at least two hundred people in the room before the service begins.

Finally, two women enter, arm-in-arm, both tall and slim—widow and daughter. The older woman walks fully erect, her chin hyper-extended to show she is bowed by nothing. The younger is slightly curved and leans a little into her mother. Both are dressed in elegant black dresses. The two women process down the aisle and take their places center stage, below the all-encompassing Jesus.

“What is a man …” the priest begins and Patty shifts her attention to the other mourners. She has never been a fan of organized religion, always thought it destroyed the questioning mind. Her eyes scan the room and her blood turns cold. There is the policeman who tried to question her in the hospital, but he isn’t in uniform. He is looking straight at her: their eyes latch, she holds her breath. Finally, his gaze moves on. He seems to be scanning the congregation, is he searching for a killer there? Patty feels herself shake, though it’s not her illness, merely the shudder of blood unfreezing and starting to pump again. She has no idea if her disguise held up to scrutiny. He certainly didn’t seem to register any recognition and yet policeman are also actors, trained to morph into friend and confidant of the criminal, to blur the distinction between good, bad and ugly.

For a second she wishes Jim were there with her—then feels
guilty for that thought. It was bad enough that she got him into trouble this far; she cannot endanger him any more. “Shit.” She suddenly realizes everybody is standing except for her. She blushes and, with some difficulty, pulls herself up for a hymn.

God sent His Son, they called Him Jesus; He came to love, heal, and forgive
.

Patty moves her mouth a little, to look as if she’s singing. She cranes forward, trying to see the widow, is she singing? She can’t tell. The hymn finally ends and everyone sits again. Now the vicar begins to recount a litany of charity work done by Duncan Cobhurn. A long list of young people’s charities, homeless and drug-addicted teens mostly. Around Patty, men and women nod their heads, many shed tears and some hold hands; some of these mourners are the drug-addicted teens, now grown up and made good: Duncan Cobhurn helped save them. Patty feels her stomach lurch. He sounds like a saint.

“Here you go,” a whisper comes from beside her. A hand is flapping a tissue, she realizes she’s crying.

“Thanks.” Patty dabs away her Judas tears.

Lorraine, his daughter, rises to read from his favorite book. She makes it through ten lines of
Watership Down
before tears make it impossible for her to continue. Patty gets it though: poor bunnies, life sucks. Then a favorite song: “Lola” by the Kinks. The congregation is told it was playing on the radio when Duncan met Audrey, his wife of more than forty years. At this the widow’s head sags and she leans into her daughter, both heads touch and seem to merge into one conjoined grief.

Patty’s throat is dry and mouth sour like that little taste of reflux sick. She cannot see the widow’s face or look into her eyes and yet knows what is written there. She sees that her need for revenge has sliced love from this poor woman’s heart, destroyed her life
as callously and as starkly as Dani’s murder ruined Patty’s. She should stand and announce her guilt, let Audrey Cobhurn have the satisfaction of seeing her ripped to shreds like an exhausted fox set upon by hounds. She should … but is too afraid. Patty is disgusted with her own cowardice. Two more songs, then a last reading and it’s the final hymn.

The vibrato of the organ hangs in the air as the final words die away and the funeral is over. The widow and her daughter walk hand-in-hand up the aisle. The older woman is still bent into her daughter, deflated like a burst balloon. As they pass she reaches out and touches Audrey’s arm, then widow and daughter are gone. Patty can’t breathe. She needs to get out. She makes for the door: one step, two, three, four … Hand outstretched … and is through. She staggers over to the teeth of headstones, leans on one … the world is smeary with snotty tears and her chest heaves, she has to breathe or will blac—

“Where—why am I facedown in grass?” Patty asks herself, not sure where she is or … the funeral. It leaps back at her. “Crap.” Her knee hurts, she puts the slightest pressure on it and it burns—maybe twisted, definitely swollen. Her chin is wet, maybe with blood. She fishes around in her pocket and finds a tissue; she wipes at her chin and it comes away with only tears and mucus. She has no idea how long she’s been down here—seconds or minutes or hours? She gets up, slowly, supporting her knee, holding on to a headstone. Died 1824—they won’t mind then. Her hat is crushed, she leaves it where it is. Most cars have gone but a couple remain—she
prays the policeman isn’t still here. But why pray when she plans to confess?

She can see her little car and slowly walks toward it. She is almost there when somebody comes out of the church. Patty turns—force of habit—and looks directly into the eyes of Audrey Cobhurn. A sign. It’s time to confess. She walks over to her.

“You don’t know me, Mrs. Cobhurn …”

“I bloody do.” The widow’s face turns quickly from puzzlement through recognition to fury. She pulls her arm free from her daughter.

“She knows me, my God, she knows who I am and what I have done,” thinks Patty, incredulous—but then all thought is stripped away as Audrey Cobhurn slaps Patty, who staggers back under the onslaught.

Patty is dazed by the ferocity—her ears ring and cheeks flare. Audrey’s hands strike Patty’s chest, sinking into the woolen blubber of the disguise—she looks at Patty with wonder. Then lashes out again.

“I buried my fucking husband here today. You have no right, no right.”

The punches start to lessen and then die away as the demon departs her. Her daughter manages to grab her arms as she falls forward, clutching at Patty, oozing into the padding as her rage is replaced by the utter desolation of loss. She falls to her knees, still grabbing Patty’s body—sliding down her. She looks up as she drops, her face a mass of streaming colors and all she can do is mouth …

“You shouldn’t have come here. I did what I had to do for …” and there is nothing except streaming tears. Patty kneels down and takes the widow in her arms, they hold each other and together they sob. Patty sobs for Dani and Jim. Audrey wails for her Duncan.

Lorraine gently grasps her mother’s shoulders and pulls her away from Patty. Her own face is a flood, all has been washed away. She turns her mother around and slowly walks her toward their car. Patty stays on her knees, watching the two women walk toward their car. Suddenly she is bombarded by questions: “How did Audrey Cobhurn know who I was? Why did she have such an angry reaction? Does she know I killed her husband? If she does—then why not call the police? What just happened?”

She sees Lorraine put her mother in the car, say a few words, then she turns once more and walks toward Patty. When she reaches her, Lorraine does not meet Patty’s eyes.

“I didn’t come here to cause you pain. Not you or your mother.”

Lorraine nods.

“I don’t know why I came really … I just …” Patty trails off—she has no idea how to end that sentence.

“We can’t cope with you too,” Lorraine says almost inaudibly, still looking down at the ground between them.

In the distance a new group of black cars drives through the gate and down to the church—black suits emerge. Next funeral … death goes on. Lorraine watches them arrive and forces herself to continue: “What we did to you, what Mum did—all that time ago. It’s never left us. I think it cursed us. Dad has tried to pay it back; he tried to make good. I … am … sorry! I know we all need to bury our dead.”

Patty can’t breathe.

“Please don’t hate us.” She pulls her bag open and fishes in it, finding a card and a pen. She scribbles something and then hands it to Patty. It’s a business card,
LORRAINE SUMMERS DESIGNS
, and then a mobile number scrawled on the back. She hands the pen and a blank card to Patty who, with numb fingers, writes her own mobile number on it.

“I can’t talk now, Mum needs me. Please call tomorrow and we can meet.”

She smiles at Patty, a conciliatory smile.

“Maybe it has been a good thing that you came today. Maybe you can forgive us after all these years, Mrs. Lancing,” and she turns and walks back to her mother.

Patty cannot move: she has looked into the heart of Sodom, like Lot’s wife, and been turned into a pillar of salt. The cold suddenly blows up and she is dissipated into the air.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Jim feels anxious. He’s been pacing around the house ever since he kissed Patty goodbye that morning. He looks at his watch again—the funeral was supposed to have started ten minutes ago. Christ, what will she do? She had held his hand and kissed him so tenderly, like a permanent farewell. He had asked to go with her, but she had held firm.

“I have to go alone.”

“I don’t understand why you have to go at all.”

“I’ll be back this evening.”

“Promise?”

“Scout’s honor.”

He knew she was telling him what he wanted to hear. It was more likely that she would see the weeping widow and then find the nearest policeman to confess to. In many ways he admired that, admired her. But what consolation was that? Admiration—he’d had twenty years of admiration and it didn’t fill his empty heart. He feels so alone. Where was Dani? Was he going to lose them both?

Suddenly the phone rings, he snatches it up.

“Patty?”

There is no answer, just a faraway sound of breath.

“Who is this?”

“James Lancing?” It’s a voice Jim doesn’t know.

“Who is this?” Jim asks.

“A friend, Mr. Lancing. I have some information for you. For you and your wife. Could you meet me?”

“I have not seen my wife in—”

“Please don’t bother lying to me, Mr. Lancing. You have been with her for the last few days.”

Jim feels sick. He lets the information sit there for a few seconds before he can speak again.

“When do you want to meet?”

“Now. Now would be good.”

“My wife isn’t here, we can’t both meet you.”

“You alone will be fine, Mr. Lancing.”

Jim is silent for a few moments. “Where?”

“The birthplace of time?”

“When?”

“How about twenty minutes?”

There is a click and the call is ended. It takes Jim just a few minutes to get ready. He stands in the hall looking at the door. His stomach is full of moths. He’s scared. He heads out into the cold.