The Husband Who Refused to Die

by Andrea Darby

  ‘Bet you wish you were there now,’ the carer says. Sunny doesn’t reply. ‘Wish I was. Are you bringing your fiddle in again next weekend?’

  ‘If you’d like me to.’ Sunny blushes, rubbing deep into the tissue on her dad’s ankles. I’m convinced they’re flirting.

  ‘We love hearing Sunny play. Last weekend, Mrs Blake cried all the way through Danny Boy. Oh yes, the doctor’s prescribed some new water tablets and sleeping pills.’

  ‘Oh, more tablets.’ Sunny sighs. ‘I’d really rather he didn’t have sleeping pills. There’s a herbal remedy on his locker. It contains valerian root and passionflower, both are great for aiding sleep naturally.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you chat to the doctor.’ The carer taps Mick’s shoulder. ‘I bet you’d prefer a pint before bed, eh, to help you sleep?’ Or maybe some pot, I think wickedly. He gives Mick a playful punch, walking away. ‘How’s that scarf coming along, Vera?’ he bellows. ‘Is it time to call the Guinness Book of World Records?’

  ‘OK, let’s put your socks back on then, Dad,’ Sunny says.

  Eleanor and I both stare. She never calls him dad. Always Mick.

  Mick jerks his leg, some kind of spasm perhaps. For a moment, I think he’s going to kick her. Sunny looks strangely uncomfortable.

  ‘Gosh, what was that about?’ she says with an awkward smile. ‘Did you want me to carry on. I’m sorry, I’ll make it a longer massage next time.’

  Yes, what was that all about?

  CHAPTER 11

  If only ripping it up would rid it from my mind. I stare at the mess of torn newspaper scattered like black and white confetti on the breakfast bar and floor beneath me.

  A few bits of paper float in my bowl of cereal. I bash them with a spoon; several drown. My appetite’s abandoned me. If only I’d cancelled Dan’s weekend newspaper delivery, I chastise myself, then perhaps I wouldn’t have seen it.

  But it’s too late. That day’s front page headline, now in tatters, is still there – in bold – in my mind’s eye, and emblazoned on everything I look at:

  AGEING POP STAR’S ULTIMATE COMEBACK

  Bryan Flint pays £2 million to ‘live again’

  There was a photograph of the star, now aged sixty-eight – taken after a recent facelift by the look of his too smooth, glossy skin and stunned expression – and a two-page article about how the old rocker had announced to the world that he wanted to be cryonically preserved. He’d donated two million pounds to research into improving human preservation techniques.

  But my eyes had fixed on a panel down the side of the second page, and a far more familiar face. Dan, pictured in his favourite grey Italian suit and pale pink tie, had stared at me from under a smaller heading: Other cryonics enthusiasts who’ve dug deep to donate. The caption: FROZEN ASSETS: Tetford businessman Dan Colwell handed over £200,000 before he died.

  Anger’s constricting my breath. Why had they raked up Dan’s case again? And how had they found out about his donation? Only Imogen and Mark knew. I’m not sure we’d even mentioned it to Eleanor. Dan didn’t want it to be common knowledge. It was a personal gesture, not one for the public domain, unlike his company’s charity donations – all recipients universally accepted as worthy causes, and great for PR, his acts of kindness carried out with a loud fanfare, official photographer and a tip-off to the local news.

  Wondering if a distant thud is Eleanor stirring upstairs, I frantically gather the shreds of paper and push them deep into the bin. I don’t want Eleanor to see it. It would upset her so much, like the previous stories. Yet I know it’s hopeless – destroying one newspaper won’t hide the headlines, shield her from gossip.

  I’m in two minds about phoning Imogen, burdening her at this difficult time. Following the porn episode, she had another row with Ben, ended up taking the girls to Brittany to stay with her sister for a few days. Imogen was convinced their issues must signify some huge, insurmountable problem in their marriage. It all seemed so drastic to me, a truly uncharacteristic overreaction for Imogen, always so considered and sensible, and I wondered if she was withholding some vital information. Had something else prompted their move abroad? A sexual misdemeanour in Britain by Ben perhaps? Yet Imogen would surely have told me. We shared everything. Maybe she was having some kind of meltdown, her superpowers flagging? Not surprising with what she’d taken on.

  I have to call. I stretch across the chaise longue, the red leather still pristine and retaining its rich, oily smell. I think of Dan. ‘It’s going to be a “chaise longue’’ one!’ he’d tease when I settled there for my more epic chats, arching an eyebrow at Eleanor.

  I’m so glad to hear Imogen’s back home – and no longer threatening to leave Ben. But things are still tense between them. She fears the girls are picking up on it. I’m desperate to see her. There’s a possibility she’ll be flying back to the UK for a meeting, so fingers crossed.

  I tell her about the headline. She got up early to work – hadn’t heard any UK news.

  ‘Bloody hell. Not again. Can they really just keep printing stories without speaking to you?’

  ‘It appears so. I know Dan didn’t keep the cryonics thing a secret, but he was discreet about the donation. So much for that!’

  ‘I thought donations like that were confidential.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘I’m sure Mark wouldn’t have told the press – and no one else knew, did they? Did Dan tell Sunny?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  After hanging up, I call Sunny, telling her Eleanor’s landed the part in Fame she wanted, how proud I am. Sunny’s stoked, requesting a ticket to see one of the performances. She talks about two new patients she’s taken on. I cut in.

  ‘Have you heard the news story, about Bryan Flint … the cryonics thing?’

  ‘No.’ Sunny sounds genuinely surprised.

  ‘It’s on the front page of The Daily Press, mentions Dan donating a big sum of money to fund research.’

  ‘Gosh. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t want it to be common knowledge,’ I say, rather pointedly.

  ‘I had no idea … he didn’t mention it to me.’ Sunny sounds deflated, voice weak. So it wasn’t her. ‘Did you know they were going to run the story?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they mention your … position again – not signing up.’

  ‘No – why would they?’ I snap.

  ‘It’s just … well, they’ve always mentioned it in previous stories and I wondered—’

  ‘No.’

  Sunny has the sense to move on, returning to work chat, but my head continues to contemplate who the culprit could be.

  The next day at work, I scrutinise colleagues’ faces, try to guess who’s heard the news. I’m pretty sure Pete has – his eyes dart more than usual as he briefs me about several new tasks. Barbara has, too, I surmise, as she does the opposite, giving me what appear to be sympathetic stares. Tash is clearly oblivious – there’s no way she’d be able to resist mentioning it.

  It’s a relief to finally discuss it with Mark, who makes an excuse to get me in the kitchen mid-morning and comes straight out with it.

  ‘Can they just keep writing what the hell they want – regurgitating stories?’ I expel a loud sigh, throwing a teaspoon into the sink.

  ‘Well, yes, pretty much.’ Mark takes a swig from a bottle of sparkling water, letting out a grunty belch.

  ‘I wonder how the bloody hell they found out about Dan’s donation? I’m pretty sure only three of us knew – and Imogen’s in France.’ I try not to sound accusatory, ensuring my eyes skirt his.

  ‘You don’t think I … ?’ Mark stops drinking, eyebrows raised. I hesitate, but he jumps back in before I can think, or speak. ‘Bloody hell. I’d hope that wouldn’t even cross your mind.’

  Sadly it had. Only fleetingly, against my will – and just because it couldn’t be anyone else. But I’d arrested the thought immediately. There’s no way he’d do it. And then I’d be
en upset with myself for thinking otherwise, even for a second. What was happening to me?

  Mark reads into my silence, clearly unconvinced by my emphatic shake of the head.

  ‘That’s a bloody smack in the face, that one.’ I try to force a dismissive laugh but tears well. ‘Sorry, but, come on – really!?’ He marches out, shuts the door.

  I’ve seen Mark moody before, but the rest of the day’s different. Even Tash picks up on it. Was he OK? She pesters him relentlessly. While I’m in the kitchen, he leaves for an interview without saying goodbye.

  That evening, I’m still giving myself metaphorical kicks for how atrociously I’d handled Mark, possibly jeopardising my relationship with one of the most important people in my life, when I receive a call from a Tetford Times reporter tasked with doing a local follow-up on the pop star story. He wonders if I want to comment – particularly in relation to Dan’s donation.

  ‘Who told the press about that?’ I squeeze my spare hand into a fist so tight it cuts off the circulation in my fingers. ‘My husband was very clear on it not being made public knowledge.’

  ‘These things tend to get out, Mrs Colwell,’ the reporter says. ‘It may well have been the research foundation themselves.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t run the story,’ I say, impressed by my audacity and determined tone. ‘I have a daughter, it was two years ago – we don’t want to keep seeing—’

  ‘I appreciate what you’re saying, but it’s not my decision. I can pass on what you’ve said to my editor but …’

  I stop listening. I swallow my anger, put down the phone and close my eyes to block the tears.

  Dan’s story will be resurrected in the local paper tomorrow – and along with it all the hurt and anguish it stirred in Eleanor and me – and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘They must be short of news.’ Mark and I stand by his desk, leaning over a copy of the Tetford Times. Dan’s donation’s the lead story on page five.

  ‘Yes, always.’ Mark folds the paper.

  ‘I’m so sorry about … Dan’s donation … what I implied. I really didn’t mean to,’ I say, as Mark flicks through the pages of his reporter’s notebook. ‘I think I’m losing the plot.’

  ‘Look – no more bloody apologies. All forgotten.’ He taps his pen on the desk. I hope he has truly forgiven me for my stupid semi-accusation.

  ‘I can’t believe Pete hasn’t heard about the Lorex contract,’ I say, heading to my chair. ‘Do you think it’s a ‘no’ and he’s not telling us, because he looks so miserable?’

  ‘No. He says they’ve delayed the decision. Something to do with a big project they’re working on. We may not hear for a few months. I hope the business can hold out.’

  At home, I get a message from Ashley saying he’s staying with a friend in Cherlsbury for a few days as he’s secured an audition for a part in a restoration comedy. As it’s half way between us, perhaps we can meet. I decide I can’t evade a straight answer any longer, so agree in principle. I just need to sort a day off.

  Hearing Eleanor’s key in the lock, I guiltily snap the laptop shut, slide it under the duvet and jump off the bed. The previous evening, Eleanor had rightly called me a hypocrite after catching me unawares next to a pile of women’s magazines, legs curled up in slouchy leggings, computer snuggled by my belly like a comfort blanket. ‘You moan at me for always being on my gadgets. He-ll-oo,’ she’d said, elongating the word. I couldn’t deny it.

  ‘Hi. I’m in the bedroom,’ I yell. There’s the usual reverberating thud of her schoolbag hitting the oak floor in the hall, a few footsteps – then nothing. I find her in bed, head buried beneath the duvet.

  ‘Eleanor, what on earth’s the matter, darling?’ I try to pull off the cover, but she grips it tightly.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I’m not going until you tell me what’s the matter.’ I perch on the bed. ‘The first rehearsal wasn’t that bad, was it? Have you got another detention?’ Silence. ‘Did they run out of ham pizza at lunch again?’

  ‘Shut up, Mum, you’re not funny.’ A muffled voice rises from under the cover. Seconds later, Eleanor sits up, dragging two index fingers across the tears under her eyes.

  ‘It’s the newspaper stories. About Dad – the donation thing. This new guy who everyone hates had a go in English about it. It was beyond cringe. He asked if I was going to join Dad – maybe they could make space in the school freezer. Amy said Bethany told her that her mum had said it was ‘immoral’ but when I asked Bethany, she denied it.’ I lean over to wipe a wet black smudge from Eleanor’s cheekbone. She pulls back. ‘He was humming the song from Frozen, then Mr George threw him out. Mr George had a little chat to me after, because I got really upset.’

  ‘Do you want me to go into school?’

  ‘No way. You’ll just make it worse.’

  ‘It will be forgotten in no time.’ I pull Eleanor into a hug, landing a crafty kiss on her wet cheek. ‘I know how you’re hurting. If it helps to talk – I’m here to listen any time. It helps me too—’

  ‘Mum – not now.’

  ‘OK. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  ‘Cheer up, and I’ll see you downstairs later. How about you, me and Mr Fluff have a big cuddle on the sofa and watch Corrie?’

  Eleanor looks disgusted. ‘Mum!’

  ***

  Days after I’ve assured Eleanor – and endeavoured to convince myself – that the donation story would soon be forgotten, the Tetford Times run another story. A local charity leader has hit out at narcissistic, wealthy people ‘wasting’ their money on self-indulgent whims when there are so many good causes desperately in need of funds. He’s scathing about pop star Bryan Flint, but also implicates Dan. The claims have proved controversial, prompting a flood of readers’ letters. Everyone has an opinion, it seems.

  ‘But Dan’s company gave thousands to local charities. Why didn’t they tell readers that?’ I ask Mark, who’s reading the story on my computer screen.

  ‘Um, they sort of allude to it. Remember, they don’t like facts to get in the way of a good story.’

  ‘I don’t think I can stand this any more.’ I take an audible breath, feel my throat tightening, eyes stinging.

  ‘I think you should ask for an apology, and maybe a follow-up story about Dan’s charity donations. Balance things out. Local papers are usually pretty fair about these things. It’s worth speaking to the editor.’

  ‘Yes, but … it’s just another story then, for Eleanor to face. Maybe it’s best to leave it. Oh, I don’t know.’

  Mark curls his meaty hand over my forearm, giving it a firm squeeze. ‘It’s up to you. Do you want me to contact the paper, see what I can do?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘No worries.’ Mark tilts his head, smiling softly.

  ‘I don’t deserve you,’ I say.

  ‘That’s true.’

  Back at home, a message from Sheena lands on my laptop:

  Hi Carrie. I can’t believe what Ashley told you. So sad. But at least now you know. Did you decide to meet again? Your last message made me laugh out loud. Yes, I remember Leroy – and those shorts! I must confess I bought the soundtrack album (from Woolworths). Hope Eleanor went for it! The local newspaper’s planning another appeal story for sightings of Geoff – fingers crossed. The girls keep nagging me to go out, but the invites aren’t exactly flooding in! We make dinner party conversation awkward, don’t we? Like you, counselling isn’t really for me, but my friend knows a life coach, so I’m meeting for a chat over a glass of wine. Worth a try? Must go, daughter number 2 needs homework help. Sheena xxx

  Every day was stomach-churning for Sheena, I think, head hanging over the sofa to swipe biscuit crumbs into the thick tufts of the rug. But she saw the media in such a positive light. Her allies; potential saviours. It’s an industry I’d love to work in, yet I was seeing a different side, beginning to view them as an adversary.


  I’d shaken off all the early sensational, insensitive headlines. Back then, all I could think of was surviving without Dan and making things better for Eleanor. But I still remembered them; and, recently, with increasing clarity.

  One particular gem was: Over My Dead Body. Wife Refuses to Join Hubby in Freezer. I’d only spoken, briefly, to one local reporter – the rest was scraped off loose tongues or concocted from hearsay and speculation. I’d taken great pleasure in wrapping potato peelings in those headlines and stamping them into the bin.

  I can’t resist skimming the latest Times article again, finding myself immersed in the online comments. A few are positive, several writers saying they’d sign up for cryonics if they could afford it. One relished the anticipation of ‘seeing the wonders of the future’. But most were scornful, some scathing, spiteful, describing cryonics as selfish, ludicrous, deluded, greedy – even vile and deeply creepy. ‘It’s a scheme to part the gullible and their cash.’ ‘Evolution needs fresh life, nobler people with more commitment on this planet, not retreads on worn tyres.’ Some cracked jokes – about staff unplugging the freezers to charge their phones, the bodies ending up as porridge or expensive hamburger, or what movie star they’d prefer their spouse to come back as.

  I’ve heard about internet trolls and assume many are just that – people deliberately trying to provoke a reaction with inflammatory remarks, hiding behind the mask of virtual anonymity.

  Stupidly, I watch an updated version of the Cryonics Emergency Procedure video on an official website, and wish I hadn’t. Later, images of what I’d seen keep hurtling across my mind. Sometimes, the corpse the trio of masked men are preparing for preservation is a dummy, others it’s real – it’s Dan’s. It reminds me of the nightmares I had after the memorial service. Back then, I’d blamed the anti-depressants.

  I try to lose myself in a magazine, but Sunny phones to express her outrage over the charity story.

  ‘Dan had such a generous spirit,’ she says. There’s no way she’s going to let people think her brother was less than charitable. I explain that Mark’s sorting it – he’s the expert – but, no, she’s resolute; she’s going to put the record straight. I think she feels I should be ranting and raving, making more noise in defence of Dan’s honour, rather than getting quietly upset.