After He Died

by Michael Malone

  ‘That was always a surprise to me. How Tommy took to gardening,’ Joe said with a sad smile.

  ‘Helped him to think,’ Paula said. ‘It was a release from all the decisions he had to make every day.’ Then the stray thought: who would make all those decisions now?

  The funeral ‘purvey’ was being held at a city-centre hotel; a big shiny tribute to ambition at the side of the M8 as it shot through the city.

  ‘Hate this place,’ said Paula as the limousine drew up at the hotel entrance.

  ‘Why choose it then?’ asked Joe.

  Paula shrugged. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  ‘Think they might have vol-au-vents?’ he asked, a smile laced through the question. He was remembering family get-togethers and his late mother’s cooking. Pride of place at every supper was taken by vol-au-vents with creamy chicken. The rest of the world moved on to olives and Italian cold cuts, but old Mrs Gadd persisted with her vol-au-vents.

  ‘God, I hope so,’ said Paula, thankful for Joe’s presence and his sense of humour. His experience was showing. He’d be going through this on a weekly basis, attending the funerals of his flock, doing his God’s representative-on-earth thing. She looked out of her side of the car, towards the hotel. Steeling herself.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Joe, placing a hand on hers. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  Inside, and up the wide staircase the suite set aside for their reception was already full. At the far side of the room it was ceiling-to-floor smoked glass and a number of small round tables were positioned around the space. They were all about chest height and held platters of edibles, like a series of islands. An archipelago of snacks, Paula heard in her mind, and it was Thomas’s voice, coloured with his trademark sarcasm.

  With a stab low in her gut she turned back to face the door, as if it had really been him who’d spoken. As if he was about to enter, walk over to her with that big smile of his and start a wry monologue on the faults of everyone in the room.

  The thing was, when he did behave like that people loved it. Folk gravitated to him, caught up in his glamour.

  Paula could have laid bets on the first thing a stranger might say to him.

  ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’

  He had that look. Success, and a confident air that intrigued.

  ‘You sure I haven’t seen you on TV?’ they would ask, and Thomas would smile, laugh and shake his head, delighted at the response.

  It’s all smoke and mirrors, honey, he would tell her. People see what they want to see. I have a mirror for a face, and I trail smoke out of my arse. If he was actually here, he’d be surrounded by men and women, each of them wanting a moment with him, like he could offer some sort of benediction.

  Wondering who she could talk to safely, Paula scanned the food and with a weak smile noted that there were, indeed, no vol-au-vents.

  A hand on her shoulder, a chirrup in her ear. It was Daphne. Big brother Bill’s wife.

  ‘Paula. How are you, hen?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, as bad as you’d expect,’ said Paula.

  Paula looked at Daphne. She was in a black trouser suit and a pink blouse, of a quality she’d never seen her wear before. Usually Daphne’s clothes looked like she’d thrown them on without giving it much thought. Paula recalled a time she’d offered to take Daphne shopping but was rebuffed. Her sister-in-law clearly didn’t want her charity, which she understood, but Paula’s view was that if you can’t share your wealth with family, what was the point in having it? Yes, distance had grown between the brothers, but she was keen that the women should show the men how families behaved.

  ‘Such a shock, hen. Such a shock,’ Daphne said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Paula, as if it wasn’t the ninetieth time Daphne had said that to her in the last few days. ‘Here. You should try those sausage rolls. They’re delicious.’ As she spoke she tried to remember where the distance between the men had come from. It seemed so stupid now, in the event of Thomas’s death.

  ‘Anything we can do for you, Paula…’ Bill came over to stand beside his wife. He looked like he meant it.

  ‘Thanks, Bill,’ she said, knowing the offer wasn’t genuine.

  It was after Christopher was killed, she remembered – that was when Bill and Thomas had grown apart. That was when they’d all grown apart. She coughed back rising emotion. Now wasn’t the time for such introspection.

  ‘When’s the will being read?’ Bill asked, pushing his specs back up into position. She looked at him properly, for the first time that day. He’d grown a beard and suited it. He hadn’t been immune to the Gadd family handsome gene, but his tendency to look at the world as if it had let him down badly, gave his good looks an unpleasant slant.

  ‘I … I’m not sure, Bill. I haven’t spoken to the lawyer about that yet.’

  Bill raised his right eyebrow. ‘I don’t imagine my brother would have left us anything…’ There was a tightness in his expression that made Paula think big brother Bill was praying that this was indeed what would happen. ‘But I just wanted to say that whatever the will says, we won’t be contesting it.’

  ‘Well, that’s … okay then,’ Paula replied and edged away from him. What was that about? Won’t be contesting? Contesting what? She’d been Thomas’s wife for nearly thirty years. Whatever was coming her way, she deserved.

  Bill turned to the food, shrugged at Daphne as if to say, I’m trying, before he picked up a plate. Paula looked at her sister-in-law and read the impact of several decades in a menial job: school cleaner. Bill was a floor manager in a men’s clothing store and Paula realised early on in her marriage that he was threatened by Thomas’s success. He was the eldest brother, took his role seriously and didn’t take the fact well that middle brother, Thomas, had won all the prizes.

  If all the money was the prize you were after.

  In the early days of that success, Paula had tried to share some of the symbols of it with Daphne – shoes, jewellery, gadgets – and, before Daphne put on all the weight, clothes. But Bill had made her return everything, saying they didn’t need any of their charity.

  Paula felt a grumble in her stomach. That was a novelty. She hadn’t felt any hunger since the news first came through. Since the two young plods showed up at her front door, with their hats in their hands. Out of the blur of words coming from their mouths she had heard heart attack and restaurant. Followed by dead on arrival.

  She debated now having anything to eat. Considered that it might not be hunger, but thirst she was feeling. And made for the bar at the other side of the room.

  The barman smiled. He looked about nineteen, but filled his white shirt nicely across the shoulders.

  ‘You look like you could do with a drink,’ he said.

  ‘The widow,’ she said waving a hand in front of her black suit, then realising that her attempt at humour was inappropriate, she fought the heat of a blush.

  She sat on a stool and placed her handbag on the bar. ‘Sorry, son,’ she said. ‘And yes, I could do with a drink.’

  ‘What would you like, madam?’

  She read his name badge.

  ‘Sam, I’d love a G&T. Heavy on the gin with just a smidge of tonic.’

  ‘A large gin and tonic it is,’ Sam said with a hint of a smile and turned away from her to make her drink. As she watched him work she couldn’t help but compare him to Christopher. Would they have made friends if they had met? she wondered. Christopher was probably only a few years older than him when he died. Twenty-five. She held her hand to her belly as if it could contain the gut-punch of grief at all that lost potential.

  This was something she did on an almost daily basis; placing Christopher into the lives of the people she encountered. Of course, it couldn’t be healthy, but she was powerless against the compulsion.

  When the drink arrived, she gave Sam a small nod of thanks, swivelled in her seat, placed her back against the bar and surveyed the gathering. It’s me, she wanted to shout. I’m the
widow. Why are you all avoiding me? Grief isn’t contagious. If Thomas was here they’d all be flocking around. Magnetised by his energy.

  After a few drinks and more than a few clichéd expressions of support from the more conscientious ‘grievers’, she eased herself off her stool and made her way to the ladies.

  In the toilet, she made straight for a cubicle, locked the door, and took a seat.

  She’d noticed a couple just beyond the entrance to the toilets. The woman had leaned in to the man. Head on his shoulder. And he’d taken a moment from reading whatever was on his phone to kiss the top of her head. A casual intimacy. It looked like the phone was the distraction, not his partner.

  It had been a long time since she and Thomas had communicated like that.

  It would be nice to feel his strong arms around her tonight in bed, a thought that brought on a crushing guilt. She could have been a better wife, and now she’d never be able to make things better.

  Then the tears fell.

  And felt like they would never stop.

  Once they had subsided, she made for the sink, tossed her handbag to the side and sluiced her face with cold water. Then, she patted it dry and examined herself in the mirror.

  Her eyes weren’t too puffy. A little bit of make-up and no one would notice.

  Once she finished touching up her mascara and dabbed some concealer onto the bags under her eyes, she rooted around her handbag, searching for her pills. Her mini-breakdown in the toilet suggested that the drugs were losing their effect.

  She held the small, brown, white-capped bottle in her hand and gave it a little shake as she debated whether or not to take more. The worst of the day was over, surely? And she hated the way they’d made her feel; at a remove from everything and everyone.

  The toilet door opened and she heard the clacking of a pair of high heels against the tiled floor. She looked up to see that it was Daphne.

  She gave her a little smile. ‘Had a wee greet?’ Daphne asked.

  Paula turned to face the mirror with her fingertips pressed against the skin under her eyes. ‘That obvious?’

  ‘You’ve looked better, hen.’

  Paula smiled at Daphne’s uncharacteristic honesty. She usually kept her opinions to herself.

  ‘Why did we never get on?’ Paula asked her.

  ‘Sorry?’ Daphne walked towards the sinks, her gait that of the mildly pissed.

  ‘We married the two brothers who could marry. I’ve no siblings and yours are all boys. We could have been like sisters to each other,’ Paula explained.

  Daphne looked at Paula. Her expression one of disbelief.

  ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

  ‘Know what?’ Paula asked, mystified. Just how pissed was Daphne? Usually a Bacardi and lemonade was her limit. She must have been hitting the whisky for a change.

  Daphne held her gaze for a moment as if trying to read her. Shook her head. ‘Nothing, hen,’ she said, turned away to face the mirror and fished in her handbag for her lipstick.

  ‘What?’ Paula felt a surge of irritation. She didn’t have the strength to fight it. ‘God, I tried to help you as much as I could. You always were jealous of me and Thomas.’

  ‘Jealous?’ Daphne laughed. The sound held no humour. She swallowed and crossed her arms as if that might help her contain what she had been about to say.

  But Paula knew what was on her mind. The same argument that would come up over every family get-together. Some people just wouldn’t respect the fact that hard work reaped rewards; and that not every success had a trail of bodies behind it.

  But before Paula could respond, Daphne spoke again. ‘Time to wake up, Paula. The big man’s gone. God knows what he was up to before he died…’ She sniffed. ‘…But I’m betting a few chickens are about to come home to roost.’

  With that, Daphne gathered her things and left. The door closed behind her with a solid thud.

  Paula fled from the reception, only managing to breathe once she got outside the hotel. She stood just beyond the door, bent over, taking great gasps as if she had just ran a marathon.

  She straightened her back and paced back and forth. Thought of Daphne’s twisted expression and her certainty as she threw the words at her like poisoned darts. Thought of Bill and his assertion that however Thomas had drawn up his will, there would be no contest.

  To hell with them, thought Paula. Throughout her entire marriage, at every family occasion, Bill would sniff when he saw her, as if he caught the scent of a dog turd and was trying to work out who’d dragged it in on the bottom of their shoe. And Daphne had taken his lead, just staying on the right side of not being downright rude.

  She turned to her right and saw the smoker’s area – a covered gazebo with two potted ferns on either side of the entrance. There was one man inside; his eyes squinted behind an exhalation of smoke when he saw her enter.

  ‘Got any spare?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure, no bother, darling,’ he replied.

  As he pulled a packet from one pocket and a lighter from the other, Paula studied him: bald, clean-shaven, late-fifties. His suit jacket was unbuttoned and his white shirt was just a tad too tight across his belly. She didn’t recognise him, which didn’t mean he hadn’t been at Thomas’s funeral reception; she barely knew any of her husband’s friends – she corrected that: associates.

  ‘Here on business?’ she asked, as she took a cigarette from him. And as she did so their hands touched. A split second of connection. Human skin on hers. A moment of appreciation. A moment of awkwardness. He was a total stranger. She hid her momentary discomfort in the mechanics of lighting her cigarette.

  ‘No,’ he replied. Here we go, she thought. But he surprised her. ‘I’m at a wedding.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said, grateful that he hadn’t known Thomas. She held the cigarette between her lips, and took a deep breath. Coughed. Coughed some more.

  ‘Been a while?’ the man asked, the skin around his eyes crinkled in a smile.

  ‘I’ve not had a cigarette in twenty years.’ She inhaled again. This one settled better in her lungs and she felt the nicotine hit. She held the cigarette up in front of her face and looked at it as if wondering why she’d ever stopped.

  ‘Hard day?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Funeral.’

  ‘Somebody close?’

  ‘Husband.’

  ‘Shit.’ He took a hit from his cigarette. Exhaled. ‘Life can be a right bastard, eh?’

  Later, when she got home, she would run through the conversation that followed and wonder at her ability to tell a total stranger everything. Well, not everything. She told him she’d met Thomas when she was sixteen. In a nightclub. She’d just started a new job as a secretary and was splashing her first wage. Thomas was a scruffy eighteen-year-old student. She remembered him sizing her up then nervously asking her for a dance. They quickly moved to smooching and had been together ever since.

  ‘Romance of the century, eh?’ Paula said with a faint smile. ‘No drama. He saw. He conquered. They lived happily ever after.’

  ‘How long were you married for?’ the man asked.

  ‘Our thirtieth anniversary is coming up in a couple of months. What should I get for that one? Pearls?’

  ‘Thirty years? Really?’ He looked at her with the expression that said, You’re in your late forties? Wow.

  She was used to it; but to be fair, she worked for it. Ate clean, barely drank, didn’t smoke – usually – and exercised almost every day. So, yeah, she was used to that little look. But normally she would shrug it off. Other people’s opinions weren’t usually important to her. But, unaccountably, this stranger’s approval gave her a little frisson of pleasure.

  ‘Kids?’ he asked.

  Paula nodded. Probed at the wound, like she might push her tongue into a mouth ulcer. Felt a flare of pain, a momentary fatigue in her core, but that was fine. It was a reminder. Her Chris had lived. And, boy, how he had lived. Energy enough for five people.
A mind that could grapple with any idea and an innocence that life was yet to quell – and then he died. But she couldn’t tell this stranger that he too was dead. The poor guy had just come out here for a cigarette, not to have her woes heaped upon him.

  ‘That’s what it’s all about, eh? Family.’ The man said. ‘I’m sure they’ll be a great comfort to you.’

  Paula just smiled. And thought of Daphne’s expression in the toilet, envy wrapped up in her snarl, and her words, carefully chosen to wound:

  God knows what he was up to before he died.

  3

  Thankfully, the taxi driver was silent as he drove her home to her townhouse in the west of the city.

  Just as he parked the car, her phone rang. She really didn’t want to speak to anyone, so with a sigh she fished it out of her handbag. But she didn’t recognise the number on the screen. Could it be someone who couldn’t make the funeral offering their condolences?

  ‘Hello?’

  There was nothing. But the connection was still live.

  ‘Hello?’ she repeated.

  What was that? Breathing?

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Nothing.

  ‘For goodness sake,’ she said as she disconnected the call.

  ‘Something wrong, missus?’ asked the driver over his shoulder.

  ‘Third time this week,’ she said absently, as she read the taxi meter and fumbled through her purse for the correct money.

  Getting out of the taxi, she tried to ignore the alarm bell ringing faintly in the back of her mind. She had enough to worry about; she didn’t need to fret over a few prank calls.

  After he drove away, she stood on the front step, the key in her hand, reluctant to enter her own home. The house Thomas worked towards – dreamed of – reached above her into a night sky turned featureless by electric light. His monument to success.

  Cold and as welcoming as a mausoleum.

  Somehow, miraculously, she slept. Only for an hour or so, but still, better than nothing. When she woke up, the room was in darkness and she imagined Thomas beside her, on his back, hands on his chest, his breath a soft gurgle in his throat.