In his heart he berated himself yet again, wishing that had he known she would get her wish, he could have eased Isla’s suffering more effectively. The death watch had been so difficult to endure. There were days when he had seen her only briefly, not because he didn’t love her, but because it tore him apart. And now she was gone.
Chapter Thirty
He parked his car outside the funeral home – he was early for the appointment. Automatically, and without thinking, he picked up the messages on his answerphone.
In an unemotional tone, Dawn Farren’s message told him that the head of Field Colt Children’s Home, Peter Donaldson, had been found dead in his car. It was thought to be suicide. The staff had been given a date of closure of the home. Nick Fowley and Tanya King had retracted their statements. Dawn suspected they were too afraid of the consequences to speak out. But when she spoke of getting the youngsters justice her voice changed. She assured him that no matter how many months or years it took, she would have her day in court with those responsible for the child sex abuse.
A result? He should have cared. He felt numb.
The next message was from Larry, who advised him that Fisher and Todd had been remanded in custody. He anticipated they would both enter guilty pleas eventually, but Dylan knew there were no guarantees once a defence solicitor saw the colour of money that came with a not-guilty trial.
Patrick Todd was looking at possibly twelve years behind bars and Kenny Fisher at life imprisonment with a recommendation he served a minimum of thirty years for murder and for arson with intent to endanger life.
Dylan briefly wondered if they would speak to each other in prison, himself being the common denominator. Not that it mattered. What did matter was that they wouldn’t be lurking loose in the shadows waiting for him, or anyone else that they chose to focus their anger on.
Death, Dylan was more than aware, had a strange effect on people, and his own former belief in the hereafter had been called into question. Once he had finished at the funeral home, he could not, after all, face returning to the police station and, instead, he drove to his new temporary home.
Max, surprised and obviously pleased to see someone walking through the front door in the middle of the day, didn’t bark, but instead proffered a low, guttural growl that rumbled from his throat. When Dylan tickled him under his chin, his big brown eyes looked up at him trustingly and he pressed his firm, soft head under Dylan’s hand. He leaned closer, his flank against the side of Dylan’s leg, as if sensing his mood. It felt natural to Dylan to respond by bending down to ruffle the retriever behind his ears and offer him a few softly spoken words.
Max followed him upstairs and lay in the bedroom doorway, watching him dress. His eyes were narrowed and focused tightly on Dylan, until his eyelids became heavy and almost, but not quite, closed. When Dylan had changed out of his work clothes, Max followed him to the door, his tail wagging expectantly and Dylan didn’t want to disappoint him by leaving him behind. He left a note for Jen, just in case she should drop by and wonder where the dog was, opened the back door of the car to allow Max to jump in, and once again got behind the steering wheel. He headed towards the Haworth moors.
Max soon settled on the back seat and Dylan found himself reaching for the radio. Seldom had he felt the need for music as much as he had done lately. Immediately, ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams burst over the airwaves. He had been a favourite of Isla’s and she’d loved this song. Instead of turning the volume down as he usually did, with a scowl, he turned it up. He listened to the words as if Isla was sitting in the car singing them. Tears ran down his cheeks, unchecked. He pulled to the side of the road to catch his breath.
Then it was time for the news and, as he listened to the newsreader talking about man’s inhumanity to man, he composed himself and drove on. After the news he did a double take as Gareth Gates came on, pouring his heart out with ‘Unchained Melody’. And, finally, as he pulled up on the moors, the heartrending ‘Hero’ by Enrique … Isla had picked the songs for her mum’s funeral – if there was ever a time that Dylan should feel that Isla was with him, it was now. It really felt as if she was speaking to him from beyond the grave.
It was fiercely cold and the terrain on the moors was unforgiving, but as he struggled against the wind, Dylan felt his veins tingle and his strength gradually being reinforced. He found himself laughing at Max’s antics and was in awe of his power, watching him running downwind just as fast as he ran up the hills. When he reached the pinnacle of the rocks, which commanded a wide-reaching view of the county for miles, he sat for a moment or two and Max came and sat in solidarity by his side. He stroked the animal’s head and felt a sense of comfort he’d never experienced before. No wonder Jen thought the world of Max.
It was half past six when Dylan arrived back at Jen’s. When he opened the door, he was met with the wonderful aroma of dinner cooking. The table was carefully set, with knives, forks and spoons on linen napkins. There were two wine glasses and lit candles, which were dripping wax on the silver candleholders. Flowers adorned the cottage’s stone mantle and there was a real fire in the hearth – it gave him hope and the promise of what a real home could be.
Max was the first in the kitchen and when Dylan put his head around the door he saw the dog’s head in a large bowl of kibble and Jen peering into the oven. She stood up, picked up an oven mitt and put the oven dish on top of the stove. ‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes,’ she said. When he didn’t answer she looked up at him. ‘You okay?’ she asked, gently. ‘I hope you don’t mind me assuming you’d want to eat with me?’ Her eyes were wary, but full of hope. ‘I just thought you might be hungry.’
Dylan stared at her for a long moment. ‘Thank you,’ he said, swallowing hard.
The day he had been dreading was finally upon him and Dylan suddenly found himself sitting in the front row of the crematorium at the funeral. He sat on his own near the aisle, alone but where he was expected to sit: closest to his loved ones – nearest the coffins.
He attempted to listen to the soothing classical music he had randomly chosen, along with the songs chosen by Isla for her mum, but found he couldn’t concentrate. Standing with his back to the others, he was the focus of their attention: the grieving widower; the grieving dad.
He knew others were in attendance because he could hear them shuffling into their seats and the faint rustling of their coats as they removed them. It was warm in the crematorium. He was vaguely aware of whisperings echoing around the room, but the others there, they were nothing to him.
The music stopped and he heard the brushes at the bottom of the big doors at the back of the room as they slowly closed. There was the sound of footsteps coming down the aisle and a hand gently grabbed his shoulder from behind. He felt a kiss on his cheek and he instinctively he knew it was Dawn and Larry, who sat down behind him, and he felt extremely grateful for their support.
The Humanist celebrant talked about Kay and Isla, and gave the account of their lives that Dylan had related to her. She talked about Kay’s first husband, Isla’s father, and how he had been taken away from them. She didn’t mention God or say that Kay would go to heaven. Kay hadn’t believed in God unless it suited her, but Dylan prayed that, if there was a god and an afterlife, his wife and daughter would be there together.
The service was short and the heavy, crimson curtains in front of the coffins closed. He heard the crying and tears of the congregation and yet his own eyes remained dry. He was a realist; it wasn’t Isla and Kay in the boxes before him but merely their shells, the remains of the bodies they had lived in.
When he got back into his car and listened to his messages the first words he heard were from Jen. In her soft, gentle way she told him if he needed anything to let her know and that she was thinking of him. Now, blinded by tears, he could hardly believe his luck. What had he done to deserve her friendship and kindness? He wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, he was officially grateful he had done it.
�
�I’m going to take Kay’s and Isla’s ashes to Haworth and scatter them together,’ he said later that night. ‘I think they’d both like that.’
He knew a chapter of his life was over, and the memories would leave deep scars, but he had to put it behind him. It would never be forgotten, but he needed to look forward, not back, for his own sanity and survival.
And who knew what this relationship with Jen would bring? After all the recent turmoil in his life, for now it was the brief respite he needed, based on friendship. They would keep the fact they were living under the same roof as much of a secret as possible, for as long as possible. The last thing he wanted was to bring his enemies to her door: as he’d recently discovered, he had many.
‘Carpe diem,’ was his toast to Jen.
Maybe Miss Jones was his end of the rainbow?
One thing he now knew for sure: tomorrow was never promised, but it wouldn’t stop him living for today.
Published by The Dome Press, 2019
Copyright © R.C. Bridgestock
The moral right of R.C. Bridgestock to be recognised as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9781912534159
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Poetic Justice Page 25
