He didn’t ask what it was, so I told him anyway.
‘You should have never touched my Greta.’
It would have been more impactful if I hadn’t belched just as I said Greta, but I felt like I still got my point across in the moment.
What I failed to realise, though, was that with his identity exposed, he had nothing left to lose anymore.
Whoops.
And that was when he pulled the knife from his sleeve, scrambled across the table, and drove for my heart. I threw up my arms in a desperate shield as my chair toppled beneath me as his weight crashed into mine. My fingers in my pocket still clenched tight around the scrap of Greta’s green dress.
Two things consumed my mind.
Firstly, I really hoped the police were on their way to rescue Detective Carlota.
Secondly, what animal would I be reincarnated as.
God, I really hoped it wasn’t a tortoise.
THIRTY-SIX
I’d never really imagined what it would feel like, experiencing the funeral directors from this particular perspective. Being there in the lobby, feeling slightly hemmed in by the display coffins, it felt oddly surreal.
I took one last look at the trinkets and traditions Uncle Phil kept on the shelves bordering the visitors’ desk in the lobby, a carefully chosen mix of death accessories and regalia, designed to appeal to the widest range of people who came into the office. I suppose we all cling to our rituals around death, little distractions from the sobering thought that death is the end because we want their lives to have had meaning, to have had importance.
‘Hiya, Ruth,’ Uncle Phil said, the natural glow of his optimism having returned to his face. I forgot how warm and inviting his whole presence was. He trotted up to me and wrapped his arms around me as delicately as he could. There was no trace of Capri-Sun on his breath this time which I took to mean he was doing pretty well, all things considered. I was so thankful he had kicked the habit; Capri-Sun addiction can ruin lives, kids.
‘How are you doing? How’s everything?’ he asked, gesturing to my still broken body.
‘Okay, I think,’ I said with a short sigh, instinctively smoothingmy hands over my ribs as I pulled the plastic Sainsbury’s bag from my side. I handed over my funeral directors’ clothes – mysmarties. ‘As requested,’ I said.
He gave a small, knowing smile.
‘Oh, I really should have called, Ruth. They won’t need these, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, feeling my face frown ever so slightly.
‘They’ll bring their own uniforms in apparently, these hideous purple things.’
‘Urgh,’ I groaned. ‘I should’ve known.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ll pop it in the charity van. They’ll find some use for it, I’m sure.’
I was glad things between Uncle Phil and me were… well, not perfect, but certainly better. I doubted they’d ever be great again, but since the sale to the mega funeral-director conglomerate had gone through, there was a fragile but significantly more cordial understanding between us. He’d said it wasn’t ideal, but after everything came out, including the news that I’d been, shall we say,fiddling with bodiesin my spare time, Camborne and Sons’ reputation was never going to recover. Of course I felt bad; I’d be an arsehole not to. Still, the fact Uncle Phil was retiring anyway eased my conscience. Sophie, meanwhile, was still glaring the sharpest of daggers at me as she hauled boxes from one room of the office to another. She hadn’t spoken to me since it all came out, still clinging to the belief that she’d been destined for the managing director role that I’d callously stolen from her. Oh well.
‘So, what day are you officially closing up?’ I asked Uncle Phil, as he couldn’t help himself from neatening up some of the pens on the visitors’ desk.
‘July eighteenth,’ he said with a few short nods, eyes roaming the room as if trying to memorise every last detail before he left. ‘And then we’ll be out of here and off to France to spend my pension on wine and cheese.’
The door creaked open behind me, and I turned to see DetectiveCarlota. She was still recovering from her injuries but, even on sick leave, she looked immaculate, the sharpness on her face had faded a little, her muscular frame had shrunk a bit, but her fit was still excellent – cream blazer and trousers, a white top underneath. It was effortlessly cool.
‘You ready?’ she asked me bluntly, not even a hello.
‘Yeah,’ I replied, then turned back to Uncle Phil. ‘I guess I’ll see you at your retirement do?’
Uncle Phil smiled, though I saw his whole face ever so slightly tighten at the sight of Carlota.
‘Are you here to question me again?’ he asked, trying to be funny but not doing a great job at hiding some of the fear that she actually was.
