Authors: Susan Lewis
Not much had emerged about the suicide itself; all the police would say was that a thorough investigation was under way. However, Matt had been told that a young woman who’d visited Ben only days before the event was being questioned. It was possible that she’d managed to slip him the blade, though how he’d requested it, or even if he had, was not known. Fellow inmates were also being questioned, but no one was hopeful of getting any useful information out of them.
Justine was still finding it hard to accept that her son was actually dead. Having not seen him for months, she could easily persuade herself that he was still at the prison and this was all a bad dream.
Or a good dream, depending on who you were.
Every time she remembered how she’d virtually wished him dead she felt swamped by guilt, grief, regret…
She hadn’t meant what she’d said. It had slipped out in a moment of angry despair when she wasn’t able to control what she was saying, or thinking. And yet, had she been able to bring him back, she had to admit in her heart of hearts that she wouldn’t. What would be the point, when his life had been all but over anyway? There could be no quality to it while he was locked away from society, and society would never want him back, or accept him if at some distant time in the future he was forced upon them.
She wondered if he could see them now from wherever he was, her and Matt, traveling in a Mercedes sedan with both their mothers, and Rob and Maggie, following a solemn black hearse containing a coffin where his body lay inert, bloodless, clean-shaven and dressed in the smart gray suit she and Matt had bought specially. Though the windows of their vehicle were heavily tinted, they kept their heads down as they passed the waiting press on their way into the crematorium, aware of flashes going off, voices calling out to them, cold and inquisitive eyes watching, waiting and hoping for only they knew what.
She shouldn’t have come, but how could she have stayed away?
How could she never have written him a letter?
Had he wanted to hear from her?
He hadn’t said so in the note he’d left for her.
It had arrived at Rob’s address two days after his suicide, postmarked the day it had happened.
Why hadn’t anyone at the prison read it? If they had, they could have stopped him.
She hadn’t given the note to the police yet, or to Matt, although he knew she’d received one. He hadn’t asked to see it, and because of the things Ben had said she’d decided that she wouldn’t be ready to confront them until the funeral was over.
There had been no note for Matt, and Justine knew how hurt he was by that. The father who’d stayed with him, had visited every week, sometimes twice a week, had not been considered worth a goodbye at the end: another demonstration of how Ben’s conscience wasn’t the same as most other people’s.
She didn’t glance at Matt now, but was picturing him in her mind’s eye, pale, tense, and with more gray hair and lines around his eyes than she remembered. His natural charisma, though dulled, was still there; she’d felt it the instant they’d found each other in the crowded arrivals hall, and when he’d stooped to Lula’s height to reintroduce himself to his daughter, Justine could tell that Lula had felt it too.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he’d whispered, “do you remember me? I’m your daddy.”
Lula’s eyes had rounded with awe. She looked at Justine as though seeking reassurance.
Justine nodded, and Lula turned back to Matt.
“You’re very naughty because you didn’t ring us back,” she told him earnestly.
Laughing and sobbing, he’d swept her up in his arms and buried his face in the sweet, little-girl scent of her. “You’re right,” he murmured, “it’s very naughty not to return someone’s calls. We must make sure you’ve got my new number.”
They’d been inseparable since then, which had been harder to cope with than it should have been, mainly thanks to Ben’s note, but at least it had given Justine time with her mother. Their reunion had been as emotional as she’d expected; she wondered now why she hadn’t always felt close to her mother when it seemed to be happening so naturally, so powerfully. They’d talked a great deal, mostly about Grandma May and Phillip, with Justine doing all she could to help soothe her mother’s guilt and grief, while Camilla did the same for Justine over Ben. A new and vital bond had developed between them that Justine was drawing strength from right now.
On reaching the chapel, they got out of the car and Rob and Matt joined the funeral director’s pallbearers to help carry the coffin inside. Justine followed, holding on to her mother’s arm and feeling Camilla’s long, slim fingers curled around hers. Justine was aware of the cameras searching her mother out; being the celebrity among them, she’d make as many front pages tomorrow as her infamous grandson. It wasn’t going to be easy for her, having to live through the shame all over again, but she’d come to the funeral despite this, and Justine was reminded once more that her mother had been there for her more often in her life than she’d ever given her credit for.
Behind them Catherine and Maggie walked together, soberly dressed and heads bowed. To the rest of the world they probably appeared as no more than bit players in this unholy drama; to Justine and Matt they were as vital in their love and support as Camilla and Rob.
Matt had chosen the music for the service, along with the readings. He’d kept it traditional, unremarkable, not wanting to give the press any more reason to criticize, or to accuse them of celebrating the life of a killer.
When the time came the minister didn’t speak for long, but he was generous in the way he commended Ben’s soul to God.
There was no one else in the chapel, just the six of them, sitting quietly in the front pew watching a heavy curtain moving around the coffin to take it from view. There were no tears, no other movements at all, only a terrible, silent grief for all the children who’d gone.
Feeling Matt’s hand reaching for hers, Justine let him hold it for a moment, not knowing whether he was offering strength or seeking it. Probably both. Their two eldest children were both dead. It didn’t seem credible, it couldn’t be true, and yet it was.
There was a chasm inside her, so deep and black and unending it could never be filled.
Abby and Ben. How had this happened? What kind of malice had been at play when fate had mapped out their ways?
Justine’s mind went to Lula, at home with Francine, her round blue eyes watching, trying to understand, wondering why everyone was so sad. Perhaps they should have explained about Ben, but what could they say when for the past fifteen months she’d been encouraged to forget she even had a brother?
They were handling it all wrong. They needed some advice; Lula had to be counseled, and so did they.
Outside in the cold damp air Justine stood with her mother, Catherine, and Maggie while Matt and Rob thanked the funeral officials. There were bouquets and wreaths spread out over the courtyard from a previous funeral; the only flowers for Ben were still on his coffin. Would they be burned with him, or set aside for…what? Justine didn’t know and wouldn’t ask. Later, the crematorium would organize the disposal of the ashes—there was nowhere to scatter them that felt right, and they didn’t want any sort of plaque or memorial that might cause offense to others. It was more than enough, they’d felt, for reminders of their son to live on in the scars he’d left in their hearts.
Abby’s ashes were still in a white marble urn at the bottom of Justine’s closet in Culver. Maybe when she got back she’d see about scattering them on the lake: that way she’d always feel close. This was provided Justine decided to go back, but she couldn’t imagine not doing so. Culver felt much more like home now than anywhere in England.
Beside her Catherine murmured, “I wasn’t sure they’d come.”
Justine glanced at her, then followed her eyes. Her heart contracted to see Simon clasping Matt’s shoulder.
Matt turned round, and after a moment the brothers moved into a powerful embrace.
Then Gina was there, pulling Justine into her arms and holding her tight.
“I’ve missed you,” Gina whispered.
Too emotional to speak, Justine simply hugged her back.
When she opened her eyes she saw that Maddy and Ronnie were there too, and Melanie and Kelvin, but they didn’t come close, barely even looked at her, apart from Melanie, who glared at her so coldly it almost felt like a weapon.
The only reason they’d come, Justine realized, was to make sure Ben really had gone, and perhaps to seek some sort of closure.
As they walked away Justine looked around for Cheryl, wanting desperately to see her, but there was no sign of her.
“Do you ever hear from Cheryl now?” she asked Gina as they started back to the cars.
“No,” Gina replied. “I tried her mobile a few months ago, but she never got back to me, so I don’t even know if she got my message.”
“What did you say?”
“I simply asked how she was. I wondered afterward if she’s found that cutting herself off from us all is the only way she can cope.”
Suspecting that was the case, Justine’s heart ached with grief and pity for her dearest friend. She wanted to see her so badly, to be sure that she was all right, but the only person she could call was Cheryl’s father, and why would he want to hear from her, much less assure her that his beloved daughter was recovering from the loss of her only child?
She’d never recover from it, Justine knew that, and being in touch with her would only reopen the very worst of the wounds, which was the last thing Justine wanted.
—
Though Matt invited Simon and Gina to come back to Rob’s when the formalities were over, they gently but firmly excused themselves. There would be time soon, Simon had said, for them to get together, but today they needed to go their separate ways.
“I guess,” Matt said in the car on the way home, “that now Ben’s gone they feel they can speak to us again.”
Justine didn’t reply, though she’d reached the same conclusion. She could only wish Cheryl had felt the same way.
“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” Matt commented.
Justine wasn’t either, but what she said was, “You understand it, surely.”
Matt nodded and sighed. The day had clearly taken it out of him, out of them all, but Matt’s strain was showing.
Justine’s eyes went to Catherine. It would mean the world to her mother if her sons were reconciled; it would no doubt mean the world to them too, if they could manage it.
Taking out her phone, she sent a text to Francine, asking her to let Lula know that Mummy was on the way home. Maggie had probably already alerted her daughter, but Justine had felt a sudden overpowering need for Lula, and for now this was the closest she could get to her.
It wasn’t until after they’d eaten—and praised—the cake and sandwiches Lula had helped Francine to prepare that Justine felt able to say she needed a lie-down.
“I’ll come with you,” Matt said, starting to get up.
“No, don’t!” she replied, so sharply that the others glanced up in surprise. Seeing the hurt and confusion in Matt’s eyes, she said, more gently, “Stay with Lula,” and, signaling to her mother to follow in a few minutes, she left the sitting room and went upstairs to the small guest suite Rob and Maggie had added to the house some years ago. It was warm and cozy, with toast-colored walls and matching curtains and carpet. The bed was an English king-size, American queen, covered by caramel-striped bedding and cream faux-silk pillows. This was where she and Matt had slept for two nights out of the five she’d been back; the other three they’d spent at her mother’s. She couldn’t be sure now why they hadn’t made love at the beginning; perhaps it was jet lag or grief. Since receiving Ben’s letter she’d simply been unable to, in spite of wanting him more than she ever had in her life.
“Are you OK?” her mother asked, letting herself in the door.
Taking Ben’s note from her bag, Justine handed it over. “I want you to read this,” she said. With a sad half-smile she added, “We seem to be reading a lot of letters lately. At least I do.” Oddly, the brief allusion to her grandmother brought a lump to her throat.
Taking the note and seeing the prison paper, her mother’s eyes returned to hers. She was looking older, Justine noticed, and tired, though whether that was overwork, or all the heartache she’d been through, it wasn’t possible to know.
“When did it arrive?” Camilla asked. “Before or after?”
Understanding she was omitting “the suicide,” Justine said, “After. Matt hasn’t seen it yet, but he knows I have it.”
Clearly baffled by that, Camilla said, “Why haven’t you shown him?”
“You’ll see when you read it.”
Saying no more, Camilla unfolded the note and started to read.
Dear Mummy–
The way her mother’s eyes quickly flicked to hers told Justine that she was wondering the same as Justine had on reading that childlike word—was it sarcasm, or had he reverted to being a little boy in his mind?
The answer was almost instant.
It’s all a load of bollocks really, isn’t it? Life, death—good, evil—freedom, captivity—guilt, innocence. I don’t get what all the fuss is about. We’re all going to die one day, so why the big deal when someone makes it happen? What’s wrong with having control, paying someone back for the shit they dished out? An eye for an eye and all that crap. I could always buy into that much more than turning the other cheek. What kind of fuckwit would do that?
I know everyone wants me to feel bad about what I did, but sorry, I can’t. I hated every one of those wasters and I have to be honest, it made me feel good to watch them squeal and panic when they realized what was happening. They knew it was me, and they knew they were paying for fucking me off. Dumb thing they did calling me a psycho, dumber still to laugh. Had to do something about that, didn’t I, and what better than to prove them right?
BTW, if you’re interested, Abby was the last to get it. She might have saved herself if she’d run, but only might, because I was on fire that day. She was screaming at me to stop. She didn’t think I’d have the balls to take her out too, but she knows better now.