The Protector of Memories (The Veil of Death Book 1) (16 page)

A thought had just occurred to her;
if Hope hadn’t decided to stay with Faith she could have been in that park… the fire_

Sam turned and faced the sink.

Her soot stained tears dripped and splashed down onto the stainless steel bowl and her mind screamed with anger, despair and sadness at what her friends had done.

She slammed her fist down onto the draining-board… again… and again - until the side of her hand hurt like hell and she felt as if she had nothing left inside of her.

The effects of the brandy seeped into Sam’s senses and she was grateful at the numbness that her body and mind was consumed in.

The sensation reminded her of what Hope had once told her;
it numbs the pain that I feel when despair and hopelessness cuts deep into me.

That had been Hope’s answer to Sam’s question of ‘why do you have to drink so much.

A valid point
, Sam thought,
when seen in the true light of day.

She made her way into the bathroom, got undressed and stepped into the shower unit. She turned the temperature to a point where her skin could tolerate the heat.

The surge of water felt like tiny pin pricks and all that she had experienced hurtled into her mind; empty ghosts, the cigarette marks on Dawn’s body, Alan’s article, Faith scratching at her scalp until it bled, Linda’s strength of loyalty toward Faith; Lolly’s love for brightly coloured make-up.

The thought of losing Hope… she would never be the same if she lost Hope.

Then the smell of burnt flesh hit her all over again.

Sam finally snapped. “What did they ever do to you?!” She screamed out as her thoughts screamed in;
I belong to a race of people that can do that!

She sank down onto the ceramic shower tray, hugged her legs and put her face down onto her knees.

Faith’s words sounded into her mind;
experience these emotions and feel them… no matter how painful they get.

She hugged her knees even tighter and wept.

Charity had been watching the television during most of the morning.

When the broadcast of her statement and the police statement was finally aired, she put it on ‘stand-by’.

The police believed her version of events.
Why wouldn’t they? And as to poor dead Alice
. “Where are you Alice?” Charity asked as she tapped the side of her head. “I hear not the sound of your little voice? Are you scared little Alice… are they not sharing my memories of life with you?”

She laughed, picked up the newspaper and read the article that Alastair had told her to read.

Charity smiled at what Alan Bowling had written about Faith;
plant a seed of doubt and Faith will nourish it with her need to tell the truth.
She smiled with smugness as she thought about Faith’s behaviour;
behave like a nutcase and you will be seen as one.

She walked over toward the cabinet, took out the clear plastic bag that held her personal belongings, retrieved the phone and scrolled through her contacts for Faith’s mobile number.

When she could not find it, she dialled it instead.

A generic voice told her to; ‘leave a message’.

Damn.

She had wanted to talk to Faith in person… hear the tone of failure in that pious and old voice of hers.

Charity stopped the phone’s ring, tapped it against her chin and thought about the mortal woman called Dawn Woodhouse mentioned in Alan Bowling’s article; s
he only has
one empty ghost residing in her mind and yet it is damaging the woman’s body as it drinks from it?

She paced the room and spoke quietly to her little army of five empty ghosts;
I am of mortal body so why do you not break my vessel as you drink from it?

Charity stopped pacing, re-read the article; ‘
chokes me until I pass out’?
She frowned, twiddled with the key-ring attached to the phone and laughed as she realised that it must be the stardust that was protecting her body from becoming damaged… broken.

“Thank you mother,” she said and meant it.

The thought of five empty ghosts breaking her mortal vessel did not exactly fit into her plans.

She tilted her head, listened to the voices of the ghosts and after a couple of minutes whispered;
you drink greedily from my vessel for I have a lot for you to drink… all my memories of life fill your emptiness and you waste it on remembering that you are dead?

Charity rubbed at her temples – felt the coarseness from the material of her bandages and continued to turn the phone over and over in her hand.

It was a phone that had a pink casing with glitzy kitten stickers all over it and a key-ring with diamante lettering spelling out - ‘Alice’.

“Well well,” she said and scrolled through the contacts, realising now why she had not found Faith’s number.

This was not her mobile phone but that of the mortal called Alice and sighting the ‘image’ folder, Charity sneered at the photographs within the phone;
this is what the world looked like to a little mortal: Kittens, love hearts… friendship and family.

Resentment filled her as she scrolled through the never-ending photographs of smiling, happy, laughing faces.

Charity sighted now an image of her own face – an old and ugly face.
She took a fucking picture!
Her inner voice screamed into her mind:
The worse moment of my life and this yapping mortal took a picture!
She searched the phone for more images of her face but there was only the one.

She pressed, ‘delete’.

At that same moment, Alastair walked into the room and snapped out, “Let’s get this over and done with.”

“You make it sound as if you’re about to shag your wife.” She snapped back.

Alastair’s face flushed red with anger.

He clenched his hands into fists and dug his fingernails into the skin of his palms.

She smiled when she saw his reaction and walked toward him, patted the side of his face and slipped the mobile phone into his overcoat pocket.

As she walked out of the room, she cared not that Alastair loathed her, but she resented the fact that she needed him more than he needed her.

Janet Crewmonger was sitting in her car outside the police station.

She leant her head against the seat and peered out at the grey, drab building.

Tears ran down her face at the memory of yesterday when the police had shown her the written statement from Charity.

I’ve taken too much
; Janet repeated her Alice’s last words. They had sealed the fate of how her daughter will be remembered. ‘Drug-driving’ was what her neighbour, Shirley had said to Janet earlier that morning.

She closed her eyes at the memory.

What had hurt Janet the most was the fact that Shirley was more than just a neighbour – she had been a very close friend. They had shared years of barbecues, holidays and babysitting. Alice had grown up with Shirley’s daughter; best of friends; shared parties, clothes and no doubt secrets.

Janet had been there for Shirley when her Eric had died suddenly two years ago.

Shirley had been a tower of strength for Janet when her Fred had died last year.

But to so easily believe the lie that her Alice had taken drugs?

Janet had assumed that her friendship with Shirley was stronger than that; its ties bound forever because of the precious moments that they had shared over the years.

She blew her nose into her tissue and sat in the car for a while longer… waiting until she felt confident enough to be able to walk into that police station without breaking down in floods of tears.

Her fear was that if she did cry in front of anybody else, she would never stop.

She blew her nose again, stuffed the soggy tissues into the well of the car, opened the door - shut and locked it and made her way into the police station.

The police officer looked up and before Janet uttered a single word he started to apologise. “Mrs Crewmonger. I am so sorry and I can guarantee that the statement that we issued will put a stop to all speculation and gossip.”

He stopped talking, looked at Janet and repeated. “I am very sorry.” And returning her nod asked. “You are here to collect Alice’s belongings?”

Janet took the plastic bag from him and looked at its contents; a locket (with a photograph of the three of them on holiday in Tenerife), a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

“No mobile phone then?” She asked.

“Mrs Crewmonger there is no evidence that a crime has been committed.”

She took a deep breath. “Charity’s face aged right before my Alice’s eyes. She took a photograph. It proves that those creams have been sabotaged. Somebody means to kill Charity and they will try again_.”

“Mrs Crewmonger. There is no evidence to indicate any wrong-doing…” he took a breath. “Please. Try not to look for things that are not really there. I expect there is a very reasonable explanation for all of this_.”

“I expect there is. But I will not have my Alice dying for nothing. This was no accident.” Her tears that she was trying so hard to hold back, surfaced.

She turned away from the police officer, hurried out the station, fumbled for the car keys but dropped them. Wiping her eyes she concentrated on getting back into her car.

When she finally managed to get the door open, she clambered into the seat, slammed the door shut;
this isn’t fair. None of this is fair. I should not have to be burying my Alice!

She slammed the palm of her hand down onto the steering wheel.

The horn blared out; she jumped – looked about her - but nobody was paying any attention.

Janet sat quietly and ten minutes later, two packets of tissues spent – she looked up through the window screen.

Taking a deep breath, she started the car and made her way to the funeral director who had helped her with the arrangements for her Fred’s cremation last year.

∞

When Janet finally ventured out from the funeral director’s office and onto the streets of London, two hours had flown by and she felt exhausted… emotionally drained and numb.

Knowing there to be a café around the corner, she made her way toward it but when she reached the door, Janet hesitated, glanced at the pub next door and decided that she could do with something far stronger than a cup of tea.

She ordered a brandy and dry ginger.

While the barman fixed her drink, she picked the threads off of the beer towel.

Sounds of laughter broke out but Janet kept her head down.

Her drink was placed down in front of her and mumbling a “Thank you,” she turned and made her way to the most secluded booth that she could find.

While Janet sipped her drink, she flicked through the brochures that Tony had given to her; funeral flowers, urns and counselling services.

How she had gotten through the delicate arrangements she will never know. She had emotionally closed herself down in order to achieve any sort of decision making.

With Fred it had been different.

Throughout his illness, they had managed to talk about the difficult but necessary arrangements of his funeral. So when his day did eventually arrive, it was a matter of ‘getting it right’ for Fred. For the man who had been a very good husband and an excellent father to Alice.

Janet topped the brandy with the rest of her dry ginger and glanced at the brochure that displayed an assortment of flowers and all the while the questions that Tony had asked of her, drifted throughout her mind:
Any particular flower your daughter liked? A favourite song we can play… poem?

With every question that she could not answer, it had made her feel more and more a failure… an inadequate mother. It was as if she had not known her daughter at all. But she had;
my Alice was too young to have a favourite of anything. It was too fixed. My Alice wasn’t like that.

She picked up a serviette, wiped her nose and decided to call Katherine Adams.

“Katherine_” but Janet stopped talking and listened to Katherine telling her that she had seen the news that morning.

Janet nodded into the phone and then told Katherine what had happened at the police station. “I tried talking to the police but they don’t believe me. I’m still not sure how those women… Faith and Hope are going to improve the situation. I believe Charity to be in danger and they and the police are not interested in helping her.”

Janet stared off into the distance as Katherine continued to speak and when she stopped, she said, “I’ll come with you to see Faith but only because you have been kind to me. I’ll see you soon.” And she hung up on Katherine, collected up her handbag and removed her daughter’s cigarettes, lighter and locket.

She put the objects on the table and stared at them as she thought about the last words that she had spoken to her daughter, Alice;
those things will be the death of you.

When Janet had told her Alice to take a photograph, she had heard the sound of intermittent sucking. She had known it was a cigarette. She had said what she had said, but then her Alice had said; ‘Got to go mum’ and hung up.

Janet stared down at the scratches and glass rings that stained the table’s varnish.

She would give anything to have the opportunity to see her Alice lighting up a cigarette and putting her head into her heads questioned;
what am I going to do_?

“This drink is on me.” The barman said.

Janet looked up and was about to argue with the man, but he said. “I don’t do this to all me customers. But I reckoned you could do with another one,” he nodded toward the brochures before walking away.

She watched him for a couple of minutes but tears welled up in her eyes. Janet turned and looked out of the pub’s frosted glass window.

A photograph of Janet and Alice had been in the newspapers alongside Charity’s statement.

Bitterness filled Janet as her thoughts said;
my fifteen minutes of fame
.

She frowned and looked up at the grey clouds and the imminent signs of another rain shower.

Tears flowed down her face and she took a little comfort in the knowledge that her Fred and Alice were in a safe place.

She leant back into the comfort of the booth, drank her brandy and spoke to God;
you look after them… you hear me?