The Big Chill Read online

  Now she was Googling him, checking social media, snooping around his last interactions, seeing if there was anything sinister in there. She felt sick. But maybe this wasn’t what she thought. Maybe he was just ghosting her, had enough of her baggage, enough of the middle-aged girlfriend with the saggy body and the killer ex-husband running loose. Maybe he was on a beach in Mykonos chatting up the cute waitress in the local restaurant, entertaining other holidaymakers with his close escape from a crazy family of funeral directors and private investigators.

  The door opened and there was Mary Dundas, hair still beautifully orchestrated, haunted look on her face.

  ‘My son,’ she said. ‘Is he here?’

  Jenny took a moment. ‘No, he’s still at the morgue. They won’t release the body without next of kin.’

  Mary swallowed hard, leaned against the wall and tears came.

  Jenny led her through to the discreet room they had for distressed mourners, tasteful armchairs, box of tissues on the coffee table, soft light through thin curtains.

  Mary didn’t look as if she’d slept, her eyes were red and puffy despite make-up. There was a tremor in her body, a current that felt as if it might make her explode any minute. Her son was dead and she was on the edge. Jenny flipped a tissue from the box and handed it over. Mary looked at it like it was a bomb.

  ‘Jamie was such a sensitive boy, he took everything to heart, always thinking of others. We found a sparrow once with a broken wing, he nursed that thing for days but it still died. God, he was inconsolable.’ She looked at Jenny. ‘You must hear this kind of thing all the time.’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘Everyone has a story.’

  Mary nodded as if that was some kind of obvious truth and Jenny realised it probably was.

  ‘Do you have children?’ Mary said, touching the tissue to her nose with a sniff.

  ‘A daughter.’

  ‘Grown up?’

  Jenny thought about Hannah, all the shit thrown at her recently. ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Then you know.’

  Jenny had never been convinced by the argument that only parents know what it’s like to have children. Empathy put you in someone else’s shoes and isn’t that what society is all about, allowing ourselves to think what it’s like to be someone else?

  Mary shook her head. ‘When they’re little they rely on you for everything. Absolutely everything. They take over your life, fill every moment with their needs and destroy your sleep, your personality, your life.’

  Jenny remembered Hannah as a baby and there was an element of truth to it. Then it was exponentially harder when she split with Craig, the single-mum thing.

  ‘But then, gradually, they stop needing you,’ Mary said. ‘They develop their own personalities, their own friends, their own lives. And what are you left with?’

  ‘It’s not easy.’ Jenny considered patting Mary’s knee but kept her hands to herself.

  ‘My life has been empty for a long time,’ Mary said. ‘I threw everything into looking after Jamie, I gave up my own life for him, like so many mothers. I didn’t want anything back, just for him to be happy and healthy.’

  Jenny heard the rumble of a truck on the road outside somewhere. ‘What happened?’

  Mary stuck her chin out, Jenny could see the muscles straining in her neck as she tried to compose herself.

  ‘People change, don’t they?’ She looked at Jenny’s left hand. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘Things didn’t work out,’ Mary said. ‘Did your husband change?’

  Jenny laughed out loud then covered her mouth. She thought about Craig, everything he’d done. What he was like at the beginning, ten years of happy marriage, for God’s sake.

  ‘You could say that.’

  Mary nodded. ‘My husband had a hard childhood. Boarding school. Never got on with his parents but joined the army anyway to please his father. What is it about fathers and sons?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘The army is supposed to be modern these days, inclusive. I don’t know if that’s true now, but it wasn’t back then. It made you into a certain kind of man. Closed off, hard. I didn’t understand at the beginning. When Jamie came along I thought things might change. But James never understood him. He was effeminate, creative, full of joy. My husband hated that, he was jealous. His world was full of rules, order, masculine pride.’

  Mary swallowed hard, closed her eyes for a long time, a tear rolled down her cheek.

  ‘Of course I knew Jamie was gay long before he came out. I say “came out” but he didn’t have a choice after he was discovered with that teacher. But James had been blind to it all and my God it was like the end of the world. My husband threw him out the next day, the very next day, can you believe that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jenny said, though it felt worthless.

  ‘I should’ve left right then, of course.’ Mary stared at Jenny then looked away. ‘But I didn’t. I was a coward.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  This time Jenny did reach out and touch Mary’s leg. Mary jerked her knee away like Jenny was infected.

  ‘Of course it’s my fault,’ she said. ‘But I was scared. I’d been with James for so long, I didn’t know what adult life was without him. I was a kept woman, an officer’s wife, I never had a life, never had my own personality. I was James’s wife then Jamie’s mother.’

  Mary held her gaze. ‘You think I’m an appalling person.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You do, quite rightly. I stayed with James and gave up on my son. I managed to keep in touch with Jamie for a while but it became hard. I was secretive, didn’t tell James. Jamie hated that I was sneaking around, like I was ashamed. I don’t blame him.’

  Jenny touched her neck and thought about Hannah, the guilt of parenthood.

  ‘Heroin is so seductive,’ Mary said. ‘It’s a warm bath. That’s how Jamie described it, the best warm bath you’ll ever have. It sounds lovely, doesn’t it? But it took him. He kept moving, couldn’t pay rent, lost his phone. When I met him he took all my money. I began bringing him hundreds of pounds each time. Then he just stopped calling.’

  Her voice broke and she sobbed, head bowed, tissue gripped in her fist. She began rocking then an animal keening came from the back of her throat. Jenny thought of wolves howling at night, imagined early men and women on the African plains tearing at the earth in grief. Slowly Mary got herself together, straightened her hair, dabbed her nose and eyes, pulled another tissue from the box.

  ‘Happy and healthy,’ she said.

  Jenny didn’t follow. ‘What?’

  Mary gulped. ‘I said before all you want is for your child to be happy and healthy. Jamie was happy and healthy when he was small. Sensitive, yes, but a happy little boy. So full of life.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ Jenny said.

  Mary smiled. ‘He wasn’t sporty but he loved nature and having outdoor adventures. We were lucky, we live next to Duddingston Loch and Arthur’s Seat. Every Sunday when James was playing golf Jamie and I would be out spotting birds and animals, finding rare flowers amongst the gorse. We saw a red kite hunting above the trees, an otter swimming in the loch, herons catching frogs in the reeds. He was so excited and I loved seeing him like that so much. I couldn’t explain to James, he wouldn’t have understood.’

  Jenny stayed quiet, the simple gift of the funeral director.

  ‘And he was very arty,’ Mary said, rubbing at the back of her hand. ‘At primary school he would draw the animals we saw, beautiful pencil sketches, much better than anything I could’ve done. It’s so strange, seeing someone you made develop skills you can’t comprehend.’

  Jenny nodded, thinking of Hannah.

  Mary shook her head. ‘He didn’t like Craighouse. Art was the only thing he cared about, all the academic stuff went by the wayside. I tried to talk to him, but you know how teenagers are. I wondered over and over what I did wrong, if I lo
ved him enough, if I was strong enough. Or if he needed more from someone else, from his father.’

  ‘It’s not anyone’s fault.’

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Mary’s sharpness surprised Jenny.

  ‘You can’t play “what if”,’ Jenny said. ‘When someone dies, we all ask if there’s something we could’ve done, no matter the circumstances. But you can’t torture yourself.’

  Mary shook her head, swallowed hard.

  ‘I’ve left James,’ she said. ‘I know it’s too late but I’ve finally done it. My beautiful boy dying has made me realise I’ve wasted my life. The one good thing I had is gone. I haven’t loved James in years, kept hoping things would change. I always assumed Jamie would come back one day, want his old room back. My husband would understand, let him back in, we would be a family again. It was stupid to think things would work out, that was never on the cards. So I’ve left. A forty-seven-year-old woman with no skills, no husband, nowhere to live. A dead son. It’s all I deserve.’

  She thrust her chin out as if challenging the world to smack it with a punch.

  Jenny’s phone pinged in her pocket. She cringed and pulled it out to switch the ringer off, and there was a message:

  Come to Ann Street now.

  If you tell the police or anyone else, Liam is dead.

  57

  DOROTHY

  Dorothy couldn’t shake the image of Sandra sitting drunk in the Earl of Marchmont, contemplating the grave she’d dug for herself. She walked home along Warrender Park Road, past Abi’s school where she’d bullshitted at reception with the empty lunchbox. Poor Abi, simply wanting a dad. Dorothy thought about the fathers in her life. Her own had died when she was not much older than Abi, and while it obviously had an impact, her dad was a reticent and distant figure, had fought in the Second World War and come back an empty shell. He must’ve gone through so much, and Dorothy never blamed him for that distance. We never know what others are going through.

  She thought about Jim, a good dad to Jenny, but always so busy with the funeral business. Dealing with the dead instead of spending time with the living, a common problem in this industry. But he doted on her when he could and she was besotted with him, snatching time amongst the coffins and services, eulogies and embalmings.

  And then there was Craig. The fact he left Jenny when Hannah was ten was maybe the catalyst for a lot of Hannah’s problems, but that was nothing compared to the last year. Dorothy had often told Hannah that you choose your family, whatever form that takes, genes don’t come into it. Find the support you need from the people around you, that’s your family. She, Jenny and Hannah were family, Indy was family. Craig was just a fucked-up guy, nothing to do with her.

  Dorothy walked across Bruntsfield Links and thought about Jim’s ashes scattered there, making the grass grow, feeding the worms. And she thought about Craig running bleeding across the same piece of ground, chased by Hannah. Maybe everything Dorothy thought about family was bullcrap, maybe you couldn’t escape your blood.

  She was surprised to see no lights on in the house. She walked through the garden and saw the van was gone from the garage, Jenny must’ve taken it. Hannah was still at hospital with her funeral interloper, but was due back soon for the Skelf round-up. Dorothy loved their kitchen meetings. Despite the talk of deaths and the nefarious dealings of their investigations, she loved the time with her daughter and granddaughter, a bond that tied her to them both.

  Dorothy wondered what Sandra was going to say to Abi. Jesus, she didn’t envy her. She opened the front door and Einstein came tumbling down the stairs, tail thumping against the banister.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said, kneeling to cuddle him.

  Another stray brought into the big house, another victim of loss looking for a family.

  ‘Where’s Jen, eh?’ she said, standing up.

  She looked around reception in the gloom. She loved this place, so much a part of her, so peaceful, something reliable in her life.

  ‘Jenny?’

  No answer. She went upstairs, Einstein behind, into the kitchen and switched the light on. She got her phone out and called. Voicemail. ‘Hi, it’s me, just wondering what you’re up to, give me a call.’

  She hung up and stared at her phone, then made another call.

  Hannah picked up after two rings. ‘Hey, Gran.’

  ‘Hi, darling, where are you?’

  ‘On the bus, just left the hospital.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  A sigh down the line. ‘I’ll tell you when I get there.’

  ‘Do you know where your mum is?’

  ‘She’s not at home?’

  ‘And not answering her phone.’

  Silence down the line, something unspoken between them. Normally they wouldn’t be worried but this wasn’t a normal time.

  ‘I can track her phone,’ Hannah said.

  Dorothy smiled. ‘OK, see you soon.’

  She hung up, thinking about mothers and daughters. Sandra and Abi, Jenny and Hannah, her and Jenny. The symbiotic nature of it, how we all need someone to rely on. Speaking of relying, she went to get Einstein some food. The dog trotted after her, nose in the air, eager for what was coming.

  58

  JENNY

  The house on Ann Street was dark. There was a police car parked across the road, no one inside. Jenny thought about that, then Craig’s message, no cops. She went to the car, tried the door, locked. She looked along the road at all the family homes, lights on, food being eaten, homework getting done, games being played. She looked back inside the car then turned to number eleven. She got her phone out, saw a missed call from Mum. She didn’t listen to the voicemail. She read the text for the hundredth time. It was stupid not to tell anyone but she knew he was serious, Liam was in trouble. She knew what Craig was capable of, had seen it first hand. Her fingers went to her belly, touched the scar.

  Her hand moved to the back of her jeans at the waistband. She pulled out the kitchen knife she’d brought after she packed Mary Dundas off, making thin excuses about other appointments. She ran a finger along the blade. It was just like the one Craig plunged into her guts six months ago. She replaced it, felt the cold metal against her skin. She tried to be prepared, second guess what Craig would do, how this would end. But no final scenario came to mind, she couldn’t see a way out of this. She got on her phone and sent a message:

  I’m outside now.

  Waited a few minutes then the door of number eleven opened.

  Just a dark doorway, he must be behind the door. She looked at the blackness waiting for a sign, the face of evil, a stupid jump scare. Any fucking thing.

  She started up the steps, was almost at the door when he emerged from behind it, standing there like nothing was wrong. He wore jeans and a loose shirt, black loafers. He seemed at ease with himself, comfortable in his skin, even after all of this.

  And he was pointing a gun at her.

  She couldn’t stop the surprise on her face.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, like she just dropped by for a drink.

  She nodded at the gun. ‘Where did you get that?’

  She tried not to show she was trembling. Casually reached round to her back, pretended to scratch herself, touched the handle of the knife.

  He smiled, watching her.

  ‘I’ve always been a resourceful man,’ he said. ‘You don’t spend six months in prison without making contacts.’

  ‘This has been some slippery slope for you, huh?’

  He shrugged, waggled the gun. Jenny gauged how close she was, if she could grab it. His grip seemed loose.

  ‘We are where we are,’ he said.

  Jenny looked inside the house. ‘Where’s Liam?’

  ‘Why don’t you come and see?’ He was focused now, gun pointing at her chest.

  Jenny stood judging the distance between them, thinking about the knife. Her hands were at her side, loose, ready.

  ‘Do you have your wife and daughter tied up in there too
?’

  Craig actually smiled. ‘I knew they would go to her mum’s after the break-in. I knew the place would be empty, and it’s my home, after all.’

  Jenny nodded at the patrol car across the street. ‘Where’s the cop?’

  Craig looked up and down the street. Waved the gun at her. It was small and black, she knew nothing about guns, for all she knew it was a starting pistol.

  ‘Inside,’ he said, voice hardening.

  He stood aside.

  She would have to pass him, an easy reach with the knife. Her heart was a drum, limbs shaking, as she took the last few steps towards the house. She forced a smile, thinking of all the times she charmed him round when they were married, got her way by distracting him with sex, turned an argument into making up like flicking a switch. She used to be able to manipulate him or so she thought, then she found out he was playing her all along, he was the one having an affair, he won in the end.

  She was at him now, could smell him, was surprised he smelled fresh but he’d had time to wash, get changed into normal clothes, do whatever it is escaped prisoners do in their expensive Stockbridge homes when nobody seems to be after them.

  She held his gaze in the doorway, reached behind her back and grabbed the knife, pulled it from her trousers then felt his grip on her wrist, a sudden shock of violence, pulling her arm in front of them both with the knife still in it, shaking the wrist until the knife flopped and clattered on the tiles.

  ‘Fucking devious bitch,’ he said, holding her wrist with one hand, pushing the barrel of the gun into her cheek with the other. ‘Little cunt.’

  He shoved her against the wall, pressed himself against her crotch and breasts, his breath on her face, the gun stretching the skin of her cheekbone. She craned her neck to get away, she could see the knife on the floor next to Sophia’s welly boots, yellow with red flowers. She thought about Hannah, whether she would ever see her again.