Dark Undertakings (32 page)

But Pauline would have to wait. The only thing Monica was focusing on now was getting Jim’s funeral over with. After that, then maybe she’d find the strength to give her friend the support that Pauline had given her.

For now, the pressing tasks appeared to be to do some shopping, and run a vacuum cleaner over the house. Philip had promised to come round well before the coffin was brought home; he could do the heavier job of shifting furniture to create a suitable space in the middle of the lounge. Trying to visualise it, she almost decided to cancel the whole idea. It seemed morbid and melodramatic, these days, to insist on such a performance. Yet something inside had prompted her – some sense that, given Jim’s character, it was a fitting thing to do. Father Barry with his hopeless lack of comprehension, had unwittingly confirmed her decision. If there
was no chance of a meaningful ritual at the Crematorium, then she would have to do what she could here at home to mark the event. Jim would have understood. ‘That’s it,’ he’d have said. ‘Give the neighbours something to talk about.’

She walked to the little parade of shops two streets away, to buy tea and biscuits and cake. She added peanuts and crisps, and some frozen sausage rolls. ‘Having a celebration?’ smiled the shop assistant, having no idea who she was. Monica wondered whether she had the heart to explain.

‘Sort of,’ she said.

It was more difficult than she’d anticipated, trying to construct a presentable compromise between a full-scale party and an embarrassing ‘viewing’ exercise. How long would people stay? Should they nibble crisps in the lounge, with the coffin open beside them, or discreetly in the kitchen? She half-giggled to herself at the bizarre nature of these questions. Whatever she did, it was bound to go wrong – David alone would probably see to that. Despite the improvement in his mood since he’d been told about his parentage, she knew better than to take anything for granted. The death of Craig might temporarily put his own problems into perspective and shake him into a more amenable
mood, but experience suggested that he wouldn’t stay like that for long. However hard she tried, she couldn’t imagine a mature and balanced David, accepting his lot in life, never causing any trouble.

She left the shop, with the plastic carrier bag pulling her slightly off balance. The presence of Doctor Lloyd on the pavement outside struck her as incongruous. His manner only fuelled the feeling: doctors were supposed to be hurrying, intent on the next call, the next appointment – Dr Lloyd was standing idly, with apparently nothing at all to do. ‘I saw you go into the shop,’ he explained, ‘and decided to wait for you. I just wondered how you are? Is there anything I can do for you?’

She looked at him – the well-proportioned face with its light tan hinting at some expensive summer holiday, the small frown between the eyes. He was a typical doctor, carrying the weight of ordinary people’s dependence with a straight back and a charismatic glance. The gloss of medical magic seldom failed. And yet, Monica could hear anxiety in his words.

‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll be better once tomorrow is over and done with. It’s been a very difficult week.’

‘It has indeed,’ he agreed with feeling. ‘One awful thing after another.’

‘Oh?’ Then, ‘Of course, you mean poor Craig Rawlinson. That’s terrible, isn’t it. Such an awful waste.’

‘Susie’s dreadfully upset of course. The brave girl turned up for work this morning, but I sent her home again.’ Something preoccupied in his manner snagged Monica’s curiosity; she still had the impression he was needing to say more to her than simple platitudes.

‘She was very kind to me last week,’ she said. ‘If it’s the same girl. Suicide is always so difficult, isn’t it. Everybody blames themselves.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Well, I’m pleased that you’re looking so much more your usual self. So much better than when I last saw you, and you still couldn’t believe what had happened to Jim.’

At last she understood. ‘That’s true,’ she agreed. ‘It never once occurred to me that Jim might die of a heart attack. But these things happen, don’t they. At least it was quick and straightforward.’

Apparently reassured, he gave her a friendly smile. ‘That’s a very sensible way of looking at it,’ he approved. ‘And now I must be getting along. If you need me for anything – well, you know where I am.’

She watched him walk away, his steps short and jerky, as if holding himself tightly together.
Shaking her head, she went home, and unpacked the shopping.

The kitchen was a mess; she hadn’t washed up properly for days. Since the scrambled eggs on Tuesday evening, she’d hardly cooked anything for herself, living instead on bread and cheese and apples and warmed-up tins of soup. She’d made several mugs of coffee and one or two of tea – tea had been Jim’s drink more than hers. He had had his own little teapot, enough for two cups or one large mug, and she never touched it, preferring the bag-in-mug approach. It sat there now, its cheerful red tartan design a familiar splash of colour in the avocado-
and-antique
-lace décor.

She supposed she should fish out the inevitable leftover teabag and wash out the pot. She grimaced at the thought. She’d always disliked cold, squashy teabags – it was one of the reasons why she preferred coffee. She pushed the little pot to a corner of the worktop, perhaps in the futile hope that someone else would eventually attend to it. An innate laziness in Monica’s character had never quite gone away, despite the demands of modern domestic standards. Jim had done almost half the housework throughout their marriage, teaching her the value of keeping the edges clean, where the floor met the walls, and
putting things away to give at least the illusion of a well-kept house.

But Jim wasn’t going to do it this time. The silly red stripes seemed to dance before her eyes, even when she turned away.
Damn it
, she inwardly cursed, and snatched up the pot, clattering off its lid as she did so.

There was almost no liquid in the pot, but a square-shaped bag clung to the inside, across the opening leading to the spout. It was like a teabag you got in hotels, with a little tag at the end of a string stapled to the teabag itself. Jim had had a habit of ‘collecting’ them when he was on holiday or staying overnight away from home. This one had a faint crust of white crystals rimming its lower edge. Awkwardly, Monica fished it out.

Jim had liked all sorts of different teas. He bought boxes of herbal mixes from the health food shop, tried exotic variations from all kinds of places. He had even been known to gather fennel or comfrey and infuse his own from them. He had tried to make her drink them, too, saying they were good for the libido, or were a general stimulant. Once in a while she would indulge him, but she never noticed any of the promised effects.

She put the teabag on top of a small collection of apple cores and other debris intended for
the compost heap; anything biodegradable was intended for this purpose. She then went to wash her hands. Before she got to the sink, however, a movement in the back garden caught her eye. A cat from further down the Close had caught a blackbird and was struggling to subdue its flapping. The scene was unpleasant and Monica automatically put her finger to her mouth as she watched. The resulting bitter taste didn’t register for several seconds. She rapped on the window with her left hand, but the cat ignored her. The bird would be too badly hurt to survive now, anyway, she decided. Better to let nature take its course.

In her mouth, something unusual was happening. The bitterness was expanding rather pleasantly, reminding her of something medicinal. She sucked her finger again, thoughtfully. She looked at the teapot and remembered the empty mug beside Jim’s chair on Tuesday morning. She looked at the cat outside and remembered Cassie’s last hours.

There was really only one person who would listen calmly to her resulting thoughts, and she knew she must go and speak to him quickly.

Lorraine was terrified.

Frank sat on the sofa, his legs up on a footstool, watching her through unblinking
eyes. They had been awake most of the night, both of them crying. Frank shouting, Lorraine begging him not to distress Cindy. Now the child had gone to school, and Frank was late for work.

It had taken him some time to reach his conclusion. There had been a couple of hours as they drove home from the hospital and picked unenthusiastically at their long-delayed lunch, when she thought she’d got away with it. Roxanne’s words had not been at all clear – something about ‘reputations’ and an assumption that Frank had a right to be angry with David Lapsford. Lorraine had done eveything she could to distract him from thinking about it, prattling away throughout their drive home, joking about people they’d met in Cyprus, pulling out all the stops in her desperation. Finally, he’d said, ‘Just shut up, will you. I’m trying to think.’

She knew then it was hopeless. Once the suspicion was rooted in his head, he’d nag and nag, ask around, ferret out every little detail, until he’d got the whole story. She could kill Roxanne for what she’d said – and after they’d been so friendly together, too! It just wasn’t fair. She wanted to walk away now, before things got any worse. Because, despite the terrible night they’d had, she felt sure that things could still get much worse.

Frank sipped cautiously at the mug of coffee she’d just given him, and then set it down beside him. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked. His voice came out hollow, as if all feeling inside him had died.

Lorraine decided to fight it to the end. ‘Why do we have to do anything? It’s all finished now. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

He shook his head like a stunned bull. For the first time since she’d known him, Lorraine felt afraid of him. ‘Sorry, darling, but you’re quite wrong about that.’

The
darling
was a snarl of disgust which sent waves of terror through her. Frank couldn’t have changed so much in a single night. ‘Shall I tell you how I worked it out?’ He gave a bitter little laugh. ‘It wasn’t just what that woman said in the canteen. I doubt I’d have twigged just from that. It was Saturday, in the pub. They were talking about Lapsford and somebody mentioned you. Tried to backtrack, of course, and I didn’t think much of it. Not at first, anyway.’ He put his head in his hands and yielded to one racking sob. ‘How could you, Lorrie? I
trusted
you.’

She didn’t even try to answer. A small voice was whispering in her head,
People don’t own each other. Your body’s yours, to do as you like with
. Jim had said that and it had seemed true at the time. Now she wasn’t sure. It felt now as
if her body had belonged to Frank all along and she’d never fully realised.

Now he was saying things, using language she had never heard from him before. What had she done to him? Where had so much pain and rage come from? She clasped her face between her hands, wishing she could hurt herself as much as Frank was hurting now.

‘I’m not stupid, whatever anyone might think,’ he went on, repeating a line he’d used many times during the night. ‘But everyone in town thinks I am. They’re laughing at me for trusting my own wife. How
could
you, Lorrie? Wasn’t I enough for you? Jim Lapsford was old enough to be your father. It’s disgusting.’

‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, Frank. It wasn’t anything to do with you. It didn’t mean I didn’t love you. It was just—’

He cut her off and she could see an even deeper spark of hurt flicker in his eyes. ‘This new baby,’ he said for the first time. ‘It’s his, isn’t it? You’ll have to abort it. If you do that, then for Cindy’s sake, maybe we can patch things up. The man’s dead, after all.’

‘No!’ she screamed, the sound bouncing off the walls. ‘It’s
your
baby, Frank. Of course it is.’ An overwhelming sense of her own powerlessness gripped her. What had she done? Put the innocent life of a baby at risk.
Wide-eyed she stared at him, her body rigid with shock at what he’d said. She saw ahead of her the choices he would force her to make, each of them equally unthinkable.

‘I’m going to work now,’ he said slowly, and got to his feet. The coffee remained forgotten on the side table. He staggered slightly, and put a hand to his face. But Lorraine made no move.

Only after he’d gone, and she reran the conversation through her mind again, did she understand her position. And then she knew who, of all people, she had to go to for help.

Roxanne reached Pauline’s flat before midday, and took upon herself the task of making some lunch. ‘I bet you haven’t eaten all day,’ she accused. ‘And for God’s sake stop smoking like that. Your hair’s going yellow. You look like some old vagrant.’

‘Susie’s coming round soon. She’s been sweet,’ Pauline said thickly. She’d only been up for an hour, having consumed an unwholesome mixture of alcoholic drinks the night before. ‘And I’ve got to phone some Coroner chap in a bit. He’s supposed to be telling me the cause of death. As if I didn’t know. Then I can go along to friend Daphne and order up the coffin. Jesus, Rox.’

Roxanne turned away from the cooker, and
moved closer to her sister, but didn’t touch her. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Bear up. You’re not holding it against that Susie, then?’

Pauline shook her head. ‘She’s been sweet,’ she repeated. ‘And she showed me his note. His … his suicide note.’

‘What did it say?’

‘He tried to convince me … her … himself, that this was nobody’s fault. He’d got himself into a mess of some sort and couldn’t see a way out.’

‘What sort of mess?’

‘Drugs, of course. Isn’t it always? It wasn’t very clear and Susie wouldn’t go into any details. She’s scared about something coming out at the inquest and making more trouble.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ Roxanne burst out, as she made the connection.

‘What?’ Pauline’s curiosity was tepid.

‘What if it was
Susie
supplying Jim with his Viagra? She could nick prescription pads from Dr Lloyd – he’s too disorganised to notice. Presumably Craig was in it with her. That must be what he was referring to in the note. He probably even dreamt it up in the first place. It’d count as drug-dealing, where the law is concerned. And when Jim died …’