Dark Undertakings (12 page)

David Lapsford was drunk, at eleven in the morning. It had been a deliberate process, pouring whisky into a tumbler, filling it half full
at regular intervals, and taking big mouthfuls of it. It tasted marvellous. He concentrated on the taste, and the friendly burn that followed every swallow.
Firewater is right,
he thought.
The perfect name for it.
He ought to be at work, of course. He hadn’t even bothered to phone in. If he lost the job, then too bad. It didn’t strike him as worth bothering about.

The muzziness of the alcohol in his blood stream brought relief, self-pity and frustration. At ten, he’d phoned the only person in the world he thought might understand him. ‘Sorry, she’s not here,’ an impatient voice had told him. ‘She’s gone off somewhere for the morning.’

David put the phone down without responding. An hour later, he was too skewed by the drink to remember he’d made the call.

The door opened without warning, and his mother came in; she had a key to his flat, just as he had one to the Primrose Close house. He could see her sniffing the air like a questing dog, and it made him laugh. He stopped abruptly when a second person followed Monica into the room. ‘Hi, Davey,’ said Jodie. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘Brought reinforcements, did you, Ma?’ he slurred, trying to remember why he’d already spoken Jodie’s name that day.

‘David, you’ve been drinking!’ Monica was rigid with outrage. ‘The whole place stinks of it.’

‘Just drowning my sorrows,’ he said extravagantly. ‘Isn’t that what you do when a person dies?’

Monica looked at Jodie for rescue. ‘Have you seen him like this before?’ she demanded.

Jodie shrugged. David wondered whose side she thought she was on, as she met his eyes with something of the old affection. He remembered then that his mother had come with a specific purpose, to talk to him about his real parents, and he took another swift gulp from the tumbler. Now she was here, he didn’t think he wanted to know the truth after all.

‘It’s very nice of you to come and visit me,’ he said slowly. ‘I appreciate it – yes, I do. Would you like a drink? Coffee, not whisky. I don’t think there’s much whisky left. Jodie, will you help me make it, please? Ma, you sit down, I won’t be long.’ He led the way unsteadily down the narrow corridor to the kitchen. The mess was no worse than usual. David had a flatmate, Angus: a divorced man with sorrows of his own to drown. He was a shadowy figure, even to David, saying little and keeping to his room for most of the time. Angus never washed anything up, and never cleaned the floor or the sink or
the cooker. David did the bare minimum, unless expecting visitors, when he was capable of making an impressive effort. At least to that extent, his early training at Monica’s hands had stuck. But clearly the effort had not been made recently.

Monica remained obediently in the living room, which had been furnished and decorated barely a year ago. The carpet had some
unpleasant-looking
stains on it, and there was a splintery gash in the wall which looked as if it had been rammed with something sharp. Jim had lent David his deposit. Not much chance of getting that back, thought Monica wryly.

The fact of David’s drunkenness loomed over her like a heavy rock teetering and threatening to land on her head. If she made a wrong move, there could be a disaster. She was far from sure that she had the strength or the skill to push it upright again, and get it onto a firmer foundation. One thing she had realised in the first few moments was that David was in no state to hear the truth about his origins. She simply couldn’t trust him to grasp the facts, nor to react to them in anything like an adult fashion. Having endured the four-mile drive with Jodie, trying to rehearse what she would say, the sense of anticlimax was acute.

Jodie carried the three large mugs of coffee back into the living room, on a tray.

David followed close behind. ‘Here we are!’ he trilled, the perfect host. Although he seemed steadier on his feet, his eyes were bleary and unfocused. Monica felt sick; she knew she couldn’t drink the coffee. Sick and self-pitying and disgusted. Hurtful accusations crowded the tip of her tongue. As if aware of this, Jodie began to speak.

‘David, your father died two days ago, and this morning your mother found poor Cassie dead, too. The last thing she needs is for you to start behaving like a complete idiot. You don’t get many chances in this life, you know. If you can’t get yourself sorted out, stick with the job, tidy this place up, figure out what you want to do with yourself – then you’ll always be a loser.’ She spoke levelly, looking straight at him. Monica winced at some of the words, but was reassured by David’s reaction. Despite the familiar sideways tilt of the head and jerky raising of his shoulder, he seemed to be calmer.

One phrase had hooked his attention. ‘Sort myself out,’ he echoed. ‘Yeah. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’ve been trying for years. And I was going to ask him – I was. I was going to tackle him – and her – this week. They don’t
know that I know. But I do, and I want them to explain.’

Jodie’s blank expression almost made Monica laugh. It was obvious, as she had already assumed, that David had never shared his suspicions about his parenthood with his former girlfriend. She herself had told Jodie no more than that she had something very difficult to discuss with her son, and would appreciate the girl’s company. She hadn’t used the word ‘protection’ – but the implication had been there.

Monica said nothing for a long minute, as the other two looked on. She recalled a flickering image from four or five years ago, when David and Jodie had defied Monica or Jim or anybody else to try and separate them. Monica had never made the attempt; she knew David was lucky to have Jodie. Jim’s response had been a lot more complicated. He had obviously felt uncomfortable about the relationship, but Monica had never understood why.

‘It’s okay, Mama,’ he said, with a startlingly sober smile. ‘You can be excused for now. You’ve told me all I need to know, just by coming here. I know I’m not your natural son.’

Jodie’s chin jerked up with shock and she stared wildly at David. ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded.

‘Didn’t she tell you?’ he frowned suspiciously.

Jodie shook her head. ‘I never doubted you were her son. And Jim’s.’

‘Then you’re in for a surprise, my old mate,’ he said, brandishing the mug like a beacon.

The local weekly paper that day carried a brief report in the
‘STOP PRESS’
column.

For one person at least, this small report was the first she knew of the death. Lorraine Dunlop had been away in Cyprus for three weeks with her husband and young daughter; they had arrived home at eleven that morning. She felt the shock as a liquidising of her internal organs, puddling in her lower belly, fixing her to the sofa, where she had flung herself for a moment’s flip through the news. She felt cold and terribly, horribly lonely. There seemed to be a vicious wind blowing from somewhere, forcing her to
stand in a dark void where nobody would love her ever again.

She clamped her lips together, and quickly turned the page. Frank hadn’t noticed anything; too busy inspecting his fish tank and checking for any casualties during their absence. The urge to say, ‘Jim’s dead! Can you believe that? He’s
dead
’ was almost beyond bearing. And why not say it? Frank knew Jim;
everybody
knew Jim. It was a piece of real news, which she might be able to read out without betraying herself. Except she knew she wouldn’t be able to say it. To say the actual words. Not without screaming, crying, running out of the room like a teenager. Swallowing hard, she realised that she would never be able to talk about Jim as she wanted to, not to anyone. Like that woman in Madison County, she would go to her grave with her love unspoken. The dramatic romance of it made her feel slightly better.

Putting the paper down, Lorraine allowed herself a few moments’ reverie. Jim’s strong arms, thick with black hairs, had hugged her so warmly, so protectively, after they made love. Jim had been so different from Frank, who merely kissed her briefly and rolled away when the sex was over. Jim had held her tightly to him, savouring the afterglow. He had always thanked her, as if she had given him the
greatest gift imaginable; making him so happy had been the best part of the whole thing. Jim understood how to take pleasure, gracefully and wholeheartedly.

Jim had let her talk about disappointment and frustration, and then laughed her into a new state of being. ‘Enjoy life!’ he had told her. ‘Take it by the throat and squeeze every drop of fun out of it. That’s what I’ve decided to do. This is just the start.’ He’d been wicked and boyish and she could scarcely believe afterwards the things they’d done together.

The shock hit her again, harder than ever. It wasn’t possible that he was dead. Jim had been too vital, too overflowing with life for this to happen. What would he look like, pale and cold in his coffin? Those lovely arms, stiff and folded. No, it was impossible to imagine.

She couldn’t face the rest of the day, unpacking and washing the sandy holiday clothes, persuading Cindy to stay awake, so she’d sleep properly at bedtime. The flight had left Cyprus at six-thirty, which meant they’d had to get up at four. It seemed a million miles away already, the sun and smiling brown people, everything so easy and uncomplicated. Frank had been a different man, swimming in the sea each day, eating the foreign food with relish, and rampantly sexy into the bargain. With a mixture
of fear and excitement, Lorraine suspected that they’d started a second baby during the first days out there. The sweaty afternoons, where clothes had been sheer insanity, and the rhythms of the tides just outside the hotel combined with something visceral and urgent to bring them together time after time. She hadn’t given Jim more than a fleeting thought, taking her pleasure with Frank, feeling a sense of wifely virtue in the process.

‘I’d better go and get some shopping in,’ she said, heaving herself up, praying that she sounded normal. ‘There’s nothing for lunch.’

‘We could go to the pub,’ he offered. ‘We’re still on holiday, after all.’

Lorraine shook her head, a shade too vehemently. ‘There’s lots of stuff we need. I’d best get it over with. I might be too tired later on.’

‘It’ll be tomorrow that it hits us,’ he said, with his usual irritating certainty. ‘Just when I’ve got to go back to work.’

‘Well, time enough to worry about that. It’s daft going back on a Friday, anyway. Are the fish okay?’

‘Seem to be. That self-feeder gadget worked, by the looks of it.’

‘That’s good. Keep an eye on Cindy, will you? She’s up in her room. Don’t let her go to sleep.’

‘Might be a bit late for that. She’s very quiet.’

‘Oh, hell. Well, I can’t be bothered with it now. I need to get out.’

He lifted his head. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘Just jangled with coming home again.’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing. See you later, okay?’

‘Okay.’ He turned back to his fish. ‘I’m sure the koolie eels have grown.’

In the mortuary, Sid was pulling an over-tight dress onto a woman of seventy whose daughter thought she should go to her Maker looking as if she was off to a cocktail party. There was no real knack to it, apart from being firm with the uncooperative limbs. It was a point of honour not to simply cut the garment down the back, put it on like a hospital gown and then crudely pin or stitch it up again. Never once had he done that, though many a time he’d been tempted. Perhaps it was less a matter of principle than an anxiety that somehow the family would find out and be outraged. Sid was highly sensitive to criticism.

Daphne’s system worked smoothly. A shiny whiteboard was mounted on one wall, and on it she wrote details of jewellery to be left on the body; chapel viewing; whether the cremation papers were completed. Not until this last was accomplished could Sid proceed with any significant tampering with the body. He kept glancing at the board as if half-expecting
some unseen hand to have ticked the column for Lapsford. Doctor Parton should have constituted permission – but Sid remembered the day he’d jumped the gun, only to have Daphne’s wrath descend on his head. ‘You have to wait until I’ve put it on the
board
,’ she’d raged. ‘You can’t just carry on regardless. For all you know, the second doctor might not be satisfied. It might seem just a stupid formality to you, but I promise you it isn’t.’ Sid had apologised, and agreed to stick to the rules in future. Once he’d thought about it, he fully approved of the firm discipline, anyway. Word of mouth and personal observation were not reliable, especially when things were busy.

Vince clattered in, swinging a tin bucket containing a spray of bright flowers. ‘These are for the chapel,’ he said. ‘Fancy arranging them for me?’

Sid shrugged. None of the men were much good with the flowers, but Daphne never seemed to notice. Now and then she sent Olga to do it, but the result was no better than when Vince or Pat simply plunked them into a vase and fluffed them out into a rough shape. Sid felt obliged to make a little more effort, with a mixture of resentment and conscientiousness.

‘Where did Drew go?’ queried Vince. ‘He’s taken the Espace.’

‘Daphne sent him to fetch a dog,’ Sid reported, with a straight face.

‘A
dog
? Are you taking the piss?’

‘Not just any dog. Apparently Lapsford’s died. Must have had a broken heart.’

Vince groaned. ‘Not that nice little white thing?’ He was genuinely saddened. ‘What a shame. But why—?’

‘She thought we might put it in his coffin with him. Better than burying it in the garden, I s’pose. It’s out of order, so we’re not to say anything to the crem. Better not tell the others, either.’