I step back and he makes his way into the bedroom—it’s a familiar route for him now. While I don’t want to be in the room, I hover around the doorway as he confirms Malcolm has passed.
“He went to sleep. I checked …” My voice cracks, but all I feel is relief. He wasn’t a good patient and got more and more frustrated as time went on.
My abuser is dead.
He nods. “I’ll go back to the office and get this entered on the computer so the funeral director can access it.”
“Thank you.”
I meet his gaze when there’s silence, and he reaches out and gives my bicep a reassuring rub. “He’s in a better place now. Look after yourself. If you need anything, give the clinic a call.”
I nod. He’s mistaken my relief for pain, but I’m sure I’ll get a lot of that.
As soon as he’s gone, I pick up my phone and dial the funeral director. Everything’s paid for—Malcolm had some plan he’d started when he was diagnosed with end-stage heart failure.
His health deteriorated too fast for a transplant to be considered, and his age was against him—he was sixty-seven when he passed.
They’ve been expecting my call for a while. Malcolm spoke to them a few weeks ago to let them know what was happening, and now it’s just a matter of when.
“Did you want us to come tonight or in the morning?” The woman on the phone is so gentle and caring.
“Tonight, if you could.”
“I’ll make some calls and let you know when we’re on the way.”
“Thank you.”
And then I’m left in the silence—hoping no one wakes up because for the first time in forever, I’ve got time to myself.
It’s nearly eleven at night when they finally arrive, but they’re quick and efficient, speaking in hushed tones to be respectful. I’m grateful as it also minimises the chances of my children being woken.
The funeral directors must have done this a million times before.
By the time they emerge from the room with his body on the gurney, he’s wrapped and I will never have to look at him again.
My shoulders droop in relief.
It’ll be simple.
There was no point in having a funeral—he didn’t want one anyway. While he worked for a while, we haven’t made friends here. Until his illness got worse, I rarely left the house apart from school runs and grocery shopping.
He’ll be cremated and then interred in the Canterbury Memorial Gardens where he bought a family plot back before he joined the church.
I won’t be joining him there.
The fact he owned the plot tells me he joined the church with an ulterior motive. He knew my parents, and I believe he moved with them to the remote community at the bottom of the country to find a wife.
He found me—a vulnerable pregnant teenager who had no way out.
“Mrs Nichols.” I blink, shaken out of my thoughts by the soft voice. Mr Simms, the funeral director stands in the doorway, a small smile on his lips. “Someone will give you a call in the morning to confirm everything.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see my way out.”
I close my eyes and listen to the low rumble of the car engine pulling away.
I’m free.
