But now that she is here, she realises this place is in far too sorry a state of disarray to carry out this scheme. So she wanders from room to room until she spots on a shelf an Audite – a second-rate Alexa-style virtual assistant – and a smile spreads across her face. That will do perfectly.
Chapter 82
Damon
Sleep isn’t always a given these days, but when it occurs, I can fall so deeply into it, it’s like I’m dead in the water again. Because my dreams have become so crystal-clear, it’s as if I am reliving moments I only ever witness when I’m drowning. Or when I had ECT again.
I don’t know for how long I’ve been asleep, but a raucous, thundering noise brings me back to consciousness. Music plays at a high volume in the disorienting, near pitch-black of my bedroom. I try to grab the lamp on my bedside table but misjudge the space, and as I switch it on, I accidentally send it crashing to the floor. ‘Hey Audite,’ I yell over the noise. ‘Stop music.’
However, it’s playing at full volume so it cannot hear me.
In my groggy state I scramble to my feet and move towards the device to turn it off manually, when the chorus plays. I assume it’s a software glitch because I haven’t asked the Audite to play this. But when I realise the title of the song, I know who is responsible. It’s ‘Every Breath You Take’ by The Police and includes lyrics about the protagonist’s obsession with watching someone and how they have left them with a trail of broken promises and vows.
Laura has been inside my flat. And she wants me to know it. She wants to scare me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I let out a laugh before I turn down the volume and ask it to play the song again. I actually admire Laura’s tenacity. She’s a psychopath who hates to be ignored. Don’t they all, I guess. But she will have to wait a little longer before I give her what she wants and reply.
Chapter 83
Damon
This place doesn’t resemble any crematorium I’ve visited before. I exit my taxi and my sunglasses slip down my nose as I scour the immaculately landscaped gardens. It’s more like the grounds of a plush country hotel than a place to bid farewell to a loved one. I count the number of other vehicles parked here. There are so few that I check my phone to see if I’ve made a mistake with the date. No, I have it right.
I make my way towards a set of wooden double doors under a tall arch, aware I probably shouldn’t be here. I look around and half expect to see Laura, waiting to remind me of the debt she thinks she’s owed. I finally replied to her a few days ago, confirming she will get what she wants but that I need to tie up some loose ends first. I first spelled loose with an ‘n’ by mistake and almost didn’t bother to correct myself. Gallows humour, quite literally.
When?she replied.
Soon.
When, came her response.
Soon, I replied, amused by her lack of patience. I have plans to capitalise on her frustration.
Two black vehicles appear. The first is a hearse with my father’s coffin inside. The only flowers propped against the dark wooden box are a white floral letter tribute, spelling out the word ‘son’. I take a few steps back and conceal myself behind a tree trunk as the doors to the second vehicle open and my grandmother steps out. A woman of a similar age supports her as my grandmother uses a walking frame to make her way inside.
Four pallbearers in identical dark suits and crisp white shirts carefully lift an inexpensive pine coffin on to their shoulders and carry it in. I wait for a moment before I follow, catching my reflection in one of the vehicle’s windows. The black suit I wear that once fitted me now hangs off my shoulders. I hold my head down, hoping my grandmother doesn’t see me, then make my way along the carpeted aisle until I reach the last row of wooden seats.
Organ music plays a hymn I don’t recognise. I’m one of only nine people here. That’s all my dad has to show for his fifty-plus years on this earth. Nine people who cared enough about him to want to say goodbye.
And that’s my fault. Because who wants to remain friends with a child killer? If only they knew the killer isn’t lying inside the coffin; he is sitting in the back of the room.
Finding where Dad’s funeral service was to be held was a struggle. As no death notice was placed either online or in the local paper, I had to call almost every funeral director in the area until I found the one handling him. They were hesitant to give out details until I told them I was his son. The 8.30 a.m. start makes me wonder if they operate a special fast-track under-the-radar system for child murderers and other such monsters.
I pick up an order of service from the little stack on the chair between me and the aisle. It’s one photocopied sheet and there’s a mention of the only person Dad has left behind: ‘his loving motherMaisy’. There’s a photograph of them together: him as a child, her in a café wearing a waitress’s uniform.
A middle-aged man in a brown shirt, jumper and chinos takes to the podium and introduces himself as our celebrant. He explains this is a non-religious funeral that will honour my dad’s life. I can’t help thinking there isn’t much to honour or celebrate. He talks about Dad’s childhood, how his father died when he was young leaving his mum to raise him alone. I’m struck by our similarities and learn more about him in ten minutes than I have in twenty-nine years. There’s a brief mention of Mum and the baby son they lost, but not of me. I don’t exist in this version of events. There’s also no mention of how Dad died. I wonder if our last confrontation was too much for him to handle emotionally and he took his own life?
Soon after, his coffin disappears behind a sweeping burgundy curtain, to the sound of the Oasis song ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’. I’ve played this track a lot over the years, and several of the lyrics have been incorporated into my sleeve of tattoos. I assumed I gravitated towards it of my own accord, but perhaps I used to hear Dad playing it on the occasions we were together.
When I spot my grandmother rising to her feet, I bow my head so she can’t see me. I give her five minutes after she leaves before I also go.
Only, she is standing outside, waiting for me.
Chapter 84
Damon
I’m caught in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut. I’m half expecting her to raise her walking frame and start clubbing me with it. And I don’t think I’d try to stop her. I probably deserve all the pain she wants to inflict. Instead, she settles for glaring at me, venom present in her milky eyes. I’m intruding on her grief and I have never felt so despised by anyone in my life. Does it bother me? In all honesty and in my present state of mind – no.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ she snaps in her deep, fiery London accent.
