Authors: Laura Carter
Chapter Twenty-Six
I watch myself in my floor-length mirror, slowly stepping into black heels then pulling tight the waist belt on my black mac over my suit. I move my loose curls back over my shoulders.
“Ready?” Sandy asks beneath her black net veil as I walk down the stairs.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The doorknocker is tapped and Sandy steps toward the door, her heels clipping once, twice on the floor.
“Good morning,” she says, motioning for the greying man to step into the house.
As he crosses the threshold in his striped trousers and black morning jacket, the undertaker removes his top hat and dips his head.
“Am Richard,” he says in a broad Cockney accent, stepping into the hall.
“I’m Scarlett and this is Sandy.”
His hand is covered in a thick, black leather glove protecting him from the frost in the air.
“D’ ‘earse is ready. D’ya ‘ave flowas ya’d like me to take?”
I motion to the large arrangement of blue, orange and white flowers to be placed on top of my father’s coffin.
“And this one’s from me,” Sandy says, handing him a small, delicate posy of winter flowers she’s made herself.
“It’s beautiful, Sandy,” I say.
Resting a hand on her shoulder, we both watch Richard leave the house. My body stiffens at the first sight of my father. His perfectly polished coffin gleams through the shaded windows of the hearse. Sandy’s body convulses beneath my hand then she begins to cry. I take a deep breath and hand her the cotton tissue I tucked into the pocket of my mac.
I stand in front of her, my body shielding her from the view. “Come on, Sandy, let’s be strong for him.”
She nods and wipes her nose with the tissue. Pulling the door shut behind us, we slowly make our way to the black limousine parked behind the hearse. When we’re inside, the undertaker signals and both cars crawl behind him as he walks the first hundred meters away from the house. At the first T-junction, he climbs into the front of the hearse and the cars pick up some speed as we head toward the church.
I’ve never noticed before now the reaction that seeing a funeral car procession evokes. It seems obvious that a hearse carrying a coffin held in place by one thin metal prong is limited in speed but why would a person ever put their mind to the speed of a hearse if it’s never affected their life? I’m one of those people, the unaffected. My father is the first person I’ve seen die. It occurs to me that the shitbag who revs his Volvo V40 alongside the hearse in a desperate urge to overtake us when the traffic lights flick to green is probably also one of the unaffected. I could slap his bum-fluff covered, Yankee cap wearing face.
We move forward through the lights. An elderly man pauses in the street, takes off his flat cap and, holding it in front of him with two hands, he dips his head to my father. This turns Sandy’s whimpers to a sob. Pulling her toward me, I kiss her brow and she blows her nose into my handkerchief.
“Fuck man, look! Shut the fuck up!” says a girl in low-rise stone wash jeans and a yellow crop top, despite the weather. She strikes the boom box her boyfriend or
boy
friend is carrying on his Adidas zip-up covered shoulder.
“He’s dead, what the fuck does he care?” the ignorant dick asks.
He disappears from my view as the limousine continues to move forward behind the hearse. A woman is pushing a baby in a pram and holding the hand of a young girl with braids. The young girl tugs on her mother’s hand and points. The mother bends to the girl and speaks into her ear, their eyes never leaving my father.
Reverend Griffiths meets us at the church entrance and motions for Sandy and me to walk behind the coffin. I squeeze Sandy’s hand as she weeps quietly into a handkerchief. Reverend Griffiths leads us into the church and down the aisle. My father is set down centrally, on display for the mourners to see. I’m pleased to reach the front of the church and turn my back to the staring eyes.
“I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies,” Reverend Griffiths recites from John 11:25, just as he said he would.
Sandy wraps her arm tightly in mine as we take a seat in the front pew. I stare blankly as Reverend Griffiths continues the service and all of the way through the first hymn. I’m considering the words of John,
he who believes in me will live.
My father believed, so somewhere, somehow he’s looking down on us and watching as sniffles and tears fill the church. He’ll still be watching tonight, tomorrow and the next day, watching every move I make.
What would you do, Dad? What do you want me to do?
Anger builds like a weight in my body. I want revenge.
Reverend Griffiths talks about my father and relays the stories Sandy and I shared with him. I try to listen to distract me from my rage.
At the end of the service, Reverend Griffiths asks God to care for my father. I hope that God does a better job than I did. The reverend explains that only close friends and family are invited to the committal but that all other guests can make their way to the wake. Some make their excuses and leave directly from the church, others kiss and hug me before I’m able to climb back into the sanctity of the limousine with Sandy and drive to the committal grounds.
“I’m not going to the wake, Sandy. The cars can take us home or we can drop you at the wake first. I’m sorry, I just can’t sit in a room with those people.”
She nods, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with my approach but understanding.
At the first set of traffic lights a lorry driver leans forward in his seat when his vehicle brakes to a standstill parallel to the limousine. He leans as far forward as he can to see into our cars. Sandy flaps a hand angrily to tell him to look elsewhere then breaks into another round of tears.
Small, light, infrequent raindrops begin to fall on the tinted windows. I hold up my fingertips as I step out of the car beneath the dark sky and rub a drop of rain between my finger and thumb, then put on my black leather gloves. Our driver offers me an umbrella.
“Let Sandy have it,” I say, motioning to the back of the car where the driver offers a hand to Sandy.
Reverend Griffiths leads the way to my father’s plot, followed by four men bearing the coffin. An ominous looking hole awaits, a mound of dirt resting to one side of the plot. I take note that my father will rest between Martha and Rodger Haines to his right, eighty-two and seventy-nine years old, respectively, and Patricia Whelehan, sixty-six, to his left.
Sandy stands to my side, to the left of Reverend Griffiths, who’s positioned himself at the head of the coffin. As my father is being lowered, I briefly search the small gathering of people who’ve come to see the committal and offer Amanda a soft half smile. The rain is suddenly heavy and loud as it bounces off the polished wood.
“We now commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.”
And that’s it. That’s my father’s goodbye.
“Scarlett,” Reverend Griffiths says, placing a hand onto my elbow, encouraging me forward.
He opens a small casket filled with soil. I take a handful and step forward to throw it over the gold plaque displaying my father’s name, followed by the white rose I’ve been holding since we arrived.
People begin to disappear into the grey background, their faces with silent moving mouths step closer to mine, some kissing my cheeks. More than once, I feel the faces touch my sodden padded shoulder or my gloved hands. They walk away, hidden beneath their large black umbrellas. Some run, their grey coats blending into the decaying headstones that cover the ground of the cemetery.
The rain suddenly stops in just the spot I’m standing. I turn my gloved hand in front of me. There are no fresh drops of water. The smell of dampness, foist and loneliness is smothering. I’m vaguely aware of an arm around my shoulder, encouraging me to take my eyes from my father. My thick, brown hair is stuck to the sides of my face. My once buoyant curls are drowned. My suit clings to my trembling body beneath my soaked black mac.
The arm around my shoulder tugs but I can’t take my eyes from the coffin, despite desperately blinking through dripping eyelashes. My father would scarcely recognise his little girl—who she’s become and the corrupt web in which she’s gotten herself entangled.
The hand tightens on my shoulder and becomes strong enough to turn the weight of my heavy body, dragging my heels from the saturated ground. The groundkeepers move in to cover the coffin and the white rose. This is it, all his years of goodness, caring and strength, buried deep beneath sand and dirt. He deserves more than this. For every time he picked me up when I’d fallen, for every time his thumb swept tears from my face, he deserves more than this.
“Let’s get you to your car,” says Reverend Griffiths.
I raise my head, my mind returning to real time. His words resonate as the world, a new world, comes into focus. Amanda is leading Sandy back to the limousine. I feel the sharp, cold air blow across my cheek. Thick charcoal clouds drift slowly through the grey sky. Reverend Griffiths speaks again. I shake my head, forcing it to register the sound, ordering my eyes to focus on him but they’re drawn to movement behind him.
The black Mercedes rolls to a stop in the distance at the edge of the cemetery.
It’s him. The reason all this came to be and the very person I want to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay.
I burst from the grip of the reverend and with all the strength left in my broken body, I surge towards Gregory as he steps out of the car. I reach him, punching frantically at his body and striking my palms against his face. Tears stream down my cheeks and uncontrollable sobs burst from the depths of me. He does nothing to stop me. He absorbs each impact like he deserves it, as if he wants to feel the pain.
“I hate you. I hate everything you’ve brought on us. I hate that deal.”
My energy is drained. I have nothing left.
“And I hate myself for not really hating you at all.”
Before my legs give way under the weight of my body, he wraps his arms around me. He pulls me into his chest and lowers me to the sodden grass in his lap. I feel the touch of his lips on my head and the gentle tug of his body rocking me. He warms my cold, wet body as we sit. The rain pounds again, washing away my gushing tears. My world fades to black, the shade of my soul.
“I’ve got her, grab the door,” Gregory says.
He lifts me into the back of the Mercedes and rests my head on his lap. I open my eyes wearily to see Jackson glance at me in the rearview mirror before he pulls us away from the cemetery.
“Drop us off then get some food, something warm, she needs to eat,” Gregory says quietly.
“Sandy,” I croak.
“She’s fine, angel, she’s with Amanda.”
The cold from my wet clothes seeps into my bones and my body starts to shiver uncontrollably. My teeth chatter and my breathing becomes audible. Gregory lifts me from his lap and pulls me into his chest, stroking my hair with his warm hand. His soft lips press against my scalp and like a baby, I drift to sleep.
Jackson wakes me when he opens the back door. “Do you want me to carry her?”
I recognise the underground car park of the Shard.
“I can walk.”
In truth, my legs are weak and my body is still trembling from the cold. My head is so confused I don’t know what I am or what I should be feeling but I know there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than with Gregory.
The elevator pings as it arrives at the basement. Gregory gestures for me to step in ahead of him. I watch my feet as we rise in silence, neither of us knowing where to go from here. I’m exhausted. My father is dead and I have no idea how to talk to the man I love. This all started because of one sick bastard. And he’s out there.
Gregory opens the door to his apartment with a hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the lounge.
“Take this off,” he says, undoing the belt around my mac and pulling it from my shoulders.
I’m even colder without it.
“I’ll run you a bath.”
I walk to the window and look out over the city. Gregory was born into a life he didn’t deserve, that no child deserves. And his demon is down there somewhere, hiding. Weaving between buildings. Most likely out of his mind with a toxic combination of alcohol and the thrill of my father’s kill.
“Here,” Gregory says handing me a crystal glass with a small amount of brandy in the bottom.
He wraps a wool blanket around my shoulders and I sit down onto the sofa, pulling my knees into my freezing cold chest. The glass shakes in my hand as I shudder, part from cold, part from seething hatred.
“I want to kill him,” I whisper.
“Pardon?”
“I. Want. To. Kill. Him.” The words leave my mouth through gritted teeth.
Gregory takes a seat on the sofa beside me, his legs wide, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Don’t let it take over you, Scarlett. He’s not worth it.”
He takes the brandy from my hands, peeling my rigid fingers from side of the glass then leads me to the bathroom. The freestanding bath is deep and full of bubbles. The lights are dim and Gregory has lit candles around the room.
I cast my eyes from the bath to him.
“I’ll leave you to it. I’m sorry but this is the best I can do.” He pats the blue hooded jumper he’s placed on the heated chrome towel rail.
“Thank you.”
I watch him leave the room, his white shirt still immaculately tucked into his slim-fit grey pants, despite the events of the last few hours.
He should be working.
Sinking into the bubbles, the hot water stings my skin at first then settles to soothe me. I close my eyes and see Gregory, pulling his own hair in the lounge. Dipping my head beneath the water, I stare up to the dark ceiling, candles flickering in my vision.
“He’ll never be free,” I whisper to myself.
I realise that the hate, the anger I feel now, Gregory has felt all his life. The little boy I keep seeing felt like this instead of having a childhood. What he said about the children in the hospital—how they should be shielded from the darkness of the world—it all makes sense now. I want to end it for him. I want revenge for my father and an end to Gregory’s pain.