So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) (17 page)

So the following day, Reverend Peter McKay went to Mr and Mrs Garrick’s beautiful house outside the village. He sat down with Roberta on the luxurious couch in the living room and took her hands in his.

He asked, ‘How do I do it?’

The answer was simpler than he could have believed. Every night, Mr Garrick ate a pot of yogurt – he preferred strawberry flavour – laced with the prescribed morphine granules the pharmacist delivered once every two weeks. One sachet per night, fourteen sachets per delivery. The granules were to be swallowed whole to allow them to disperse slowly in the stomach. The doctor had given dire warnings that they shouldn’t be chewed lest too much of the drug be released at once: mixed with yogurt was the best way to consume the granules. And so had begun the nightly ritual of Mr Garrick finishing his small evening meal – he didn’t need a great deal of calories, but the nutritionist had insisted on an abundance of protein to promote healing – followed by a pot of yogurt spoon-fed to him by his wife, or occasionally by a concerned friend. Like McKay.

They talked about it over the weeks that followed. It seemed an abstract idea, not something they would actually do. Like the way a couple might talk about leaving their jobs to buy a vineyard in France, or take a round-the-world trip. A fantasy to pass time in each other’s arms, not a real act to be undertaken in earnest. But the plan grew flesh, details emerged, problems were revealed and resolved.

The granules would have to be crushed, but that was easy, just use a pestle and mortar, ditch them after. But surely they’d know he hadn’t chewed them? Simply rub some of the yogurt and crushed granule mix onto his teeth with a cotton bud. But wouldn’t the cotton bud leave traces of its fabric on the teeth? Then use a finger in a rubber glove.

But even though a course of action emerged clear and firm from their wonderings, McKay never truly believed it to be real. Even on Sunday night past, when he arrived at the Garricks’ house, he didn’t truly think he’d go through with it. Even when he saw the ceramic pestle and mortar on the kitchen worktop, the open box of morphine sachets beside it, along with a box of the surgical gloves she used when cleaning her husband.

‘There,’ she said, pointing at them, as if he hadn’t seen them as he entered the room. She took a step back, showed him she would take no further part in it. It was up to him, and him alone.

He looked at her, and she saw the question on his face.

‘Yes, tonight,’ she said. ‘Just like we talked about. It has to be tonight.’

He stayed where he was. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Go on.’

McKay moved to the worktop. Slow steps, as if a noose waited for him there. He reached for a sachet.

‘Gloves first,’ she said.

A latex glove protruded from the dispenser box. He plucked it, then the second that sprouted in its place. Tight. He struggled to put one on, then the other.

‘Two pairs,’ she said. ‘To be safe.’

He took another pair, pulled them on over the first. Talcum powder dusted the worktop.

‘You’ll need to wipe this down,’ he said.

She did not answer. He took the first sachet, tore along its top edge, and poured the milky white granules into the pestle.

‘Ten, you reckon?’

‘I think so,’ she said.

One after another, he tore them open, emptied their contents into the bowl until ten empty packets lay on the worktop and granules mounded in the pestle. He gripped the pestle in his right hand, the edge of the mortar in his left, and set to work. It didn’t take long. The cracking and crunching of the larger pieces breaking down gave way to a sandy grinding that made him think of the beach in Cushendun where he had spent childhood summer Saturdays.

When the morphine had been reduced to a gritty powder, McKay lifted the bowl and showed it to Roberta.

‘Good enough?’ he asked.

‘Good enough,’ she said.

She went to the fridge and fetched a large pot of strawberry yogurt, the expensive kind, the kind they advertised with beautiful actresses licking the spoons, purring words like creamy
and decadent. Not the type he usually had, the type the supermarkets sold in packs of six, bound together at the rim to be snapped apart.

Roberta took a teaspoon from a drawer and joined McKay at the worktop. She set the pot down and peeled back the lid, put it aside. McKay held the pestle for her while she scooped spoonfuls of powdered morphine into the yogurt. She worked with a steady care and precision, not letting a single grain fall from the spoon, stirring occasionally as she went.

When the last of the morphine had been scraped from the pestle, McKay set it down next to the yogurt pot. Roberta pulled a crumpled-up carrier bag from the cupboard beneath the sink, opened it wide while McKay put the pestle and mortar inside, along with the gloves. She tied the handles in a loose knot.

‘Are you ready?’ Roberta asked.

‘I’m ready,’ he said.

She lifted the yogurt pot, the spoon standing inside it, and handed them to him. He followed her out of the kitchen, across the hall, to the closed door of Mr Garrick’s room. Roberta knocked once and opened it.

Mr Garrick lay on the bed, its back raised, pillows propping him up. He seemed to be adrift somewhere inside himself, his eyes open but unfocused. A sharp breath and he came back, looked towards the door.

‘Oh, what’s this?’ he said, the scarred mouth stretching into a smile.

‘Reverend Peter dropped in to see you,’ Roberta said.

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ he said. ‘Good to see you, Peter. It’s been a while.’

Mr Garrick had always called McKay by his first name, ever since he first took over the parish.

‘Been busy,’ McKay said, following Roberta into the room. It was a lie. In truth, he had avoided seeing Mr Garrick as much as possible since he’d taken the poor bastard’s wife into his bed. ‘I brought you your pudding.’

‘Good man,’ Mr Garrick said.

Cheery. Always cheery. When he had all the reasons in the world not to be.

Roberta gathered up the plate and cutlery from dinner, clearing space on the wheeled table that overhung the bed.

‘Thanks, love,’ Mr Garrick said.

As McKay went to the chair by the bed, Roberta carried the plate to the door, out into the hall, and started to close it behind her.

‘Are you going?’ McKay asked, a hard edge to his voice he hadn’t intended. He cleared his throat. ‘I thought you might stay and chat with us.’

She shook her head. ‘Sure, you boys chat away and I’ll get the dishes done.’

If not for the panic in his breast, he might have noted for the hundredth time how her accent took on her husband’s soft country lilt when she was around him.

The door closed, and McKay stared at the wood until Mr Garrick said, ‘Sit down, Peter, sit down.’

McKay did so, holding out the yogurt pot.

‘Oh, she’s got me the fancy stuff this time. Set it on the table, there, I’ll have it in a wee bit.’

McKay put the pot on the table, then put his hands on his knees. His mind scrambled for something to say, anything, anything at all.

‘For a man who came to chat, you’re awful quiet tonight,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘No crack with you?’

McKay swallowed and said, ‘No, nothing at all, just work at the minute. How’ve you been?’

‘Oh, much the same, good days and bad days. More bad than good, if I’m honest. If it wasn’t for Ro, I wouldn’t be able to stick it.’

Ro. His pet name for her. McKay could never call her that.

Mr Garrick winked, the gesture creasing the pink scar tissue on his cheek. ‘Still no movement in your love life, then? No wee Dilsey-Janes chasing after you?’

McKay felt heat in his cheeks. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve no time for that.’

‘Then make time.’ Mr Garrick raised a clawed hand to him. ‘
Cherchez la femme
, as the man says. You should try online. There’s no shame in it these days. Sure, I did all right out of it, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, you did,’ McKay said. ‘You have that to be thankful for, at least.’

‘At least,’ Mr Garrick echoed. ‘Speaking of thanks, maybe we should say a few words to Him upstairs, what do you think?’

‘Would you like to?’

Mr Garrick’s eyes glistened. ‘Yes, I’d like to.’

Even though there was nothing he wanted less at that moment, McKay said, ‘All right.’

He leaned forward, bowed his head, put his hands on the edge of the bed, brought them together. He inhaled, ready to speak, but Mr Garrick started first.

‘Dear Lord,’ he said, ‘I just want to thank you for all my blessings. I’ve had some hard times, but You’ve blessed me with good friends. And I thank You for bringing Ro to me, and I pray that You give her the strength to care for me the way she has done so far.’

McKay felt knuckles nudge his shoulder.

‘And Dear God, I pray You put some sense into this man’s head, and help him get up off his backside and find a decent woman, because he deserves one as much as he needs one. Amen.’

In spite of himself, McKay smiled and said, ‘Amen.’

He looked up at the table, the yogurt pot, the spoon.

‘Maybe you don’t want that,’ he said, standing as he reached for it. ‘I’ll put it into the bin for you.’

Mr Garrick hooked his clawed hand around the pot. ‘No, you’re not taking that off me. That’s the good stuff, and I’m not wasting it.’

With his right hand he was able to grip the spoon between his thumb and index finger. He scooped yogurt into his mouth, worked it around his tongue, and swallowed. He opened and closed his mouth a few times.

McKay sat down again, watching.

‘Texture’s a bit funny,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘Tastes good, though.’

He took another spoonful, then another. With the next one, the spoon slipped in his grasp before it reached his lips, spilling yogurt down his chin. He tutted and shook his head.

‘Here, let me,’ McKay said. He reached for a napkin from the table.

‘These spoons are too small,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘I can’t keep hold of them like the big spoons.’

‘I’ll help,’ McKay said.

He used the napkin to grip the spoon handle, scooped some yogurt out of the pot and into Mr Garrick’s mouth.

When he’d swallowed, Mr Garrick gave a dry laugh. ‘Look at me, like a baby. Don’t be making choo-choo noises, now.’

He giggled, and his head rocked forward then back onto the pillow. ‘She’s kicking in quick tonight, boy.’

‘Good,’ McKay said, scooping as much as he could into the spoon. ‘The sleep will do you good.’

Into his mouth, there, don’t spill.

‘I remember feeding our wee Erin,’ Mr Garrick said, his eyes focusing and defocusing, the pupils growing. ‘She was a great eater. You remember our wee Erin?’

Another spoonful.

‘Of course I do,’ McKay said.

Mr Garrick’s head nodded forward but didn’t fall back again. ‘She’s getting big,’ he said. ‘She’s near up to my . . . what?’

McKay put a finger beneath Mr Garrick’s chin, lifted it until the weight of the head carried it back. His eyes glassy now.

Don’t go yet, McKay thought. If he passed out too soon he might not get enough morphine. He might wake and know what they’d tried to do. McKay clicked his fingers in front of Mr Garrick’s face until he blinked and said, ‘What?’

Another spoonful in, and Mr Garrick swallowed by reflex. And another.

The eyelids fluttering.

‘I . . . I . . . don . . . wan . . .’

Another, and another, then McKay scraped the bottom of the pot for the last drops. He tipped them into the open mouth. Mr Garrick smacked his lips together then went very still. McKay stood there over the bed, the napkin-wrapped spoon suspended in one hand. He held his breath, felt the silence press in on him.

Then Mr Garrick inhaled with a long, low, guttural snore and McKay let the air out of his lungs. He reached across and placed the spoon handle between the fingers of Mr Garrick’s right hand, feeling the dying man’s breath upon his cheek. He shivered and stood up straight.

Simple as that.

And wasn’t Roberta right? Wasn’t it a mercy?

No, it wasn’t. McKay was a murderer. The truth of it threatened to flood his mind, drive all reason from him. Be calm, he thought. You’re not done yet.

Roberta had googled suicide, the methods and investigation. Often people place photographs around themselves, watch them as they die. McKay took another napkin from the bundle on the table. He moved each of the framed pictures from the bedside locker and arranged them in front of Mr Garrick. There, good.

He went to the door, opened it, out into the hall, across to the kitchen.

Where was Roberta? No time to think of that now.

He squeezed his hands into another two pairs of surgical gloves then gathered up the empty morphine sachets, bundled them in one hand, lifted the box with the other. Back in Mr Garrick’s
room, he spread the sachets on the table, put the box on the bedclothes, just within Mr Garrick’s reach.

That done, he surveyed his work. Yes, everything was as they’d discussed and planned. All he had to do now was leave the room and close the door.

Then he noticed the utter silence. No snoring. Not even a whisper of a breath.

Some time between McKay’s leaving this room and returning, Mr Garrick had died.

A wave of panic swelled in him, and he began to shake as adrenalin surged through his body, telling him to run, run, get away, get out of here.

‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘Stop it now.’

Breathe. For Christ’s sake, breathe.

He willed his lungs to obey, air in, air out, until the tremors subsided enough for him to be able to step back through the door and close it behind him.

Done.

God help him, he had done it.

Suddenly, all air left the hallway. McKay inhaled as deep as his lungs would allow, but there was no air. Breathed out, and in again. No air. He reached for his collar, pulled aside the white tabard, found the button at his throat, undid it. Inhaled again, but no good, there was no air. His vision narrowed, closed in.

McKay’s legs gave way, and he tried to put his hands out to break his fall. The wooden floor slammed into his knees. His heart boomed behind his breastbone, and he felt that the next thunderous beat would burst it inside him.