After He Died

by Michael Malone

  As she neared her car she began to rummage in her coat pocket for her keys and remembered again that this was purely a reflex action. The Rover came with keyless entry, she told herself and she reached for the handle. But then something stopped her. Something in her peripheral vision.

  She turned her head.

  The man with the red hair was climbing into a blue car two vehicles behind them. She felt his eyes on her like a burning.

  ‘Who…’ Paula felt a cold surge of fear in her gut. She climbed inside. Closed the door and when Joe got in she pressed the door lock, relaxing slightly when she heard the click.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Joe asked looking over at her. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Joe,’ she answered with a fake smile, while fighting to curb a shiver. ‘Nothing at all.’

  14

  The cars in front of her began to move up the ramp and onto the quayside. Paula handed the urn to Joe and started the car. As soon as she was able, she moved in time with the queue off the ship.

  And they were on dry land, on her favourite place in the world. This small island on the Firth of Clyde, just thirty-three miles as the seagulls fly from the vast human spread of the city. A paltry distance really, but it was like a different world. Palm trees on a stretch of cultured lawn, a long line of Victorian villas, and hills in almost every direction covered in fir and heather.

  On the short drive to the main road they passed a long, low building on their right, the fancy Victorian loo that Thomas took great delight in visiting every time they were on the island.

  ‘They knew how to build things to last in those days,’ he said every time he used it. And now, Paula had a quick look at the door, almost expecting to see him walk out and wave at her.

  She sought the easing she normally felt whenever she drove off that ferry. And it was there, but muted. Thoughts of the man staring at her on the ferry were holding it off. Men stared at her all the time. Why was this one so unsettling?

  When the traffic allowed, she took a right onto the main road.

  The silent phone calls, the computer hacking, Kevin and his panic – all this was colouring everything, unsettling her. She should just relax and allow the island’s usual magic to work on her. She shouldn’t permit all of that to affect her day. The guy on the ferry was just a guy, doing the usual stuff she’d experienced most of her life from men. It was nothing unusual.

  She momentarily took her eyes off the road and looked in her rearview mirror, searching for the man’s blue car. She saw one she thought might be it, as it took a left. Her eyes returned to the road in front of her and she released a breath.

  She was being silly … wasn’t she?

  A loud noise came from behind. She almost jumped out of her seat. A car horn. She realised she was dawdling and looked in her rear-view mirror again to see the driver behind gesticulating. His mouth moving as if he was cursing. He beeped his horn again.

  Paula looked ahead and saw that there was a parking space just beyond the Victoria Hotel. She waved an apology to the angry guy behind her, feeling a blush at her inconsiderate driving, indicated and drove into the parking space.

  Parked safely, she pulled on the handbrake and turned to Joe.

  ‘I’d better tell you why I stopped at that locksmith,’ she began. And she told Joe about the docket, and then went on to Kevin’s unwelcome appearance and how terrified he’d been.

  ‘What the hell’s happening here, Joe?’ she pleaded. An image of Kevin Farrell appeared again in her mind. His face a frozen mask of fear. ‘He asked if I knew about some money. He was scared and desperate. Any idea what he might have been talking about?’

  Joe snorted. ‘I wouldn’t put any stock in anything Kevin Farrell has to say,’ he said, but his eyes were heavy with something she couldn’t define.

  ‘You didn’t see him the other night. He was bloody terrified. There’s more to all of this. Much more. First Thomas dies and then Kevin’s acting as if some Mexican cartel is after him.’

  Joe made another dismissive sound. ‘More to all of what? What are you actually saying, Paula? You think Farrell and Tommy were involved in something that … what? … got Tommy killed? You think the medics got it wrong? It wasn’t a heart attack?’ Joe’s voice was sharp. ‘That’s ridiculous. It’s too much like a conspiracy from a movie. And forgive me for being unkind, but Kevin Farrell can barely open a fridge door without instructions.’

  ‘I didn’t say Thomas was killed, Joe.’ She crossed her arms. Perhaps this was all part of the denial stage: Thomas was too good, too fit to die a natural death, so it had to be something out of the ordinary, because only then would it make sense. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. Sure it was like something out of a movie, but these things happened in real life, didn’t they? What if the police had it wrong? What if the disbelief she’d felt when they turned up at her door to tell her the news was based on something real?

  ‘But you didn’t see the state of Kevin,’ she continued. ‘The man was really scared. And anyway, why did Tommy keep him around all these years?’

  ‘I often wondered that myself. Maybe Tommy felt sorry for him.’

  ‘Thomas was a good businessman, he wouldn’t keep someone around he felt sorry for.’ She exhaled and stared out of the window at the quaintly titled Winter Palace. It was a squat round building, one storey, with four pagoda-style towers boxing it in, its gently sloping circular roof a landing and roosting point for a multitude of large gulls. The grass around the building was neatly clipped and was still, judging by the little wooden flags placed at intervals across it, being used as a putting green. In her mind she heard a whoop from Christopher as he magically produced a hole-in-one – Thomas picking him up and proudly swinging him in the air.

  The image was so sharp it stole her breath. Paula shook her head as if trying to dislodge it. This island was too full of memories. Was it a mistake coming here?

  No. It wasn’t. It was the perfect spot – their happy place, and she felt that certainty as if it was pinning her to her seat along with the seatbelt.

  She replayed Joe’s previous question and noted the mockery in his voice. Was denial about Thomas’s death now so strong, that she’d taken his heart attack, linked it with whatever he and Kevin and been up to, and the story Cara Connolly had told her and concocted some elaborate conspiracy?

  Feeling foolish, she also told Joe about the man who was staring at her on the ferry.

  ‘Now you’re putting two and two together and coming up with the plot of a bad movie, Paula.’

  She looked out of the window again, trying not to get annoyed at the dismissive tone in his voice. ‘Isn’t it all just a bit strange? And the timing of it all?’

  ‘Supposing there was a man on the ferry staring at you. Other than for the fact you are a good-looking woman, and men stare at you all the time…’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Joe.’ She turned back to him and gave him a stare. He had the decency to look abashed.

  ‘Right, supposing he was there for some nefarious purpose, how did he know you would be on that ferry? Did he follow us? Or did you tell someone we were coming over here today?’

  ‘Who would I tell?’ Her voice grew quiet. ‘Thomas always said I had more acquaintances than friends. He was worried that since Christopher died I’d cut myself off from people.’

  Which was true. At first it was a gradual slide away from company, until the thought of other people became unbearable. They had lives she didn’t. They had children. Happiness. And the impulse constantly to compare and contrast became the mental prism through which she considered every moment she spent with another human. It had been best to just withdraw. If you don’t let people in you don’t get hurt, right?

  And that became the new normal for her. That and what her counsellor called ‘suicide ideation’. Each time she drove across the Erskine Bridge she’d wonder what it would be like to park at the side of the road, climb
the fence and jump. Each time a bus drove past her she would wonder what it would be like to step in front of it. Each time she popped one of her pills, she wondered what it would be like to take the whole lot. It was only the idea of the mess that other people would have to clean up that stopped her. Besides, as she explained to the counsellor, it wasn’t that she really wanted to kill herself, she just didn’t want to be alive. To her mind, that was an important distinction.

  They sat in silence, Paula struggling with a melee of memory. And the additional complication that she’d been given: a horrifying reason behind Christopher’s death.

  ‘There will be an explanation for all of this that doesn’t involve anything strange or illegal.’ Joe said, backing up her change in thought. ‘The man giving you the eye on the ferry was just a man giving you the eye. And Tommy died from a heart attack. It was tragic but natural.’ Joe turned in his seat to face the front and crossed his arms. ‘Can we go now, while we still have daylight?’

  Checking the traffic in her wing mirror, Paula judged the space and pulled out. Images from the past continuing to jostle each other in her mind, she drove along the coast to Port Bannatyne, where she took a left and joined the narrow road that cut across the island to the beach at Ettrick Bay.

  Before she knew it she was there, in the car park, with the flat roof of the tearoom off to the side, mouth dry, pulse hard in her ear, staring out to the expanse of sand, stretch of water and, beyond that, the hills of Arran breaking the horizon.

  Silence.

  Joe was the first to speak. ‘One of my favourite views.’

  ‘This is perfect, Joe. Perfect.’ She looked at him, tears welling in her eyes, certainty fuelling her. ‘We really couldn’t do this anywhere else.’ She climbed out of the car and took a step towards the sand, paused. Thinking, where do we do this? How do we do this? Then she thanked God that Joe was with her. He was a veteran of this kind of thing. How many times must he have gone through similar with his parishioners? She reached a hand out to the side, expecting Joe to be there. Nothing. She turned. He was still in the car. Through the windscreen she could see the look of trepidation on his face.

  She walked back to the car and pulled his door open.

  ‘Right. Get your backside out here.’ Forced cheer into her voice. ‘These ashes aren’t going to scatter themselves.’

  Joe offered her a smile. ‘What are you like?’ He got out of the car and held up the blue bag with the urn. ‘Want to take these?’

  She accepted the ashes with a nod, then she took a small step towards him, took his arm in hers. ‘Let’s go for a walk, Father Joe.’

  He leaned forwards and kissed the top of her head. ‘Let’s.’

  They walked in silence. Words were insignificant in that moment. Nothing but a meaningless jumble of syllables waiting to be given noise. All Paula had was a mind soaked in emotion and breath being pushed out in a fog in the cold air. A foot on the sand. The pull of muscle to lift and replace and move forward. The chill nipping at the exposed skin on her face and neck.

  And nature. Sand, rock, sky, a chill breeze and blue-grey water.

  And ash.

  In unison they walked, towards the sea line as if obeying the timeless pull of the tide. Once there, with the water licking at the toe of her boot, Paula unwrapped the urn, took off the lid and with the sharp movement of the hammer thrower, she spun on her heel, arms out and offered Thomas’s remains to the unfeeling brine and breeze.

  Then, she paused, closed her eyes and imagined Thomas, a profile in dust, walking away into the distance, on top of the water until, just before he faded into the indistinct horizon a hand went up in a wave. She snorted at the silliness of the notion, but decided she liked it anyway. And feeling the cold slide of a tear on her cheek, she turned to Joe.

  ‘Right,’ she said, took his arm, turned and began to walk back to the car park. As they walked, he said. ‘Shouldn’t we have said something?’

  She snuggled up to him. ‘Nah. We loved him. We didn’t need to tell his ashes that.’ Then, ‘Coffee?’

  Joe nodded. ‘That would be perfect. I’m freezing my arse off.’

  ‘Father Joe,’ Paula made a mock shocked tone. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  ‘I’m having the day off from being intractable.’

  In the tearoom, they sat on either side of a small table, each of them with a mug of coffee in their hand. Paula looked out into the wide bay.

  ‘Heaven,’ she said. And smiled. ‘And memories.’

  ‘Mum and Dad used to bring us out here as well. That’s probably where Thomas got the urge.’ Joe gave what looked like his first genuine smile that day. ‘Always seemed to rain. Lots of our neighbours were going abroad, but Dad was adamant we should holiday in our own country, like he had done as a boy.’ He laughed. ‘He’d pile up all his beach paraphernalia in the car, get the ferry, drive over here, pitch his striped windbreaker into the sand and lie there on his blanket, wearing shorts and a simmit, regardless of the weather.’

  Paula laughed at Joe’s automatic use of the old Scottish word for vest. Simmit. ‘You never see them anymore. Windbreakers. I’m sure Thomas inherited your dad’s.’

  ‘That’s cos none of the rest of us wanted it.’ He paused. ‘Right enough, it must have been nearly in tatters. It saw a fair bit of service over the years.’

  Paula saw three wooden poles, about waist high, linked with cloth coloured in red, yellow, blue and green stripes that Thomas would hammer into the sand. Then she and Thomas would huddle behind it sheltering from the cool July wind while Christopher ran yelling to the sea-line.

  She saw Thomas pull up his t-shirt exposing the skin on his trim stomach with its coating of dark hair. Then the bump and curve of chest muscle, shoulders and bicep. He’d emerge smiling as he pulled the cloth over his head, his hair a mess. He’d do a Tarzan yell and race after Christopher. Vitality. Strength. Press-ups and burpees in their massive bathroom. Freshly prepared food at every meal. His lifelong pursuit of health.

  ‘No way Thomas had a heart attack,’ she said with feeling.

  Joe grimaced an apology. ‘That’s what it said on the death certificate.’

  ‘He was a fit man, Joe. Looked after himself. It just doesn’t add up.’ Paula slammed a hand on the table.

  ‘Death doesn’t add up, Paula. It sneaks up too often and—’

  ‘Don’t, Joe. Just don’t. I’m not one of your weak-minded parishioners desperate for a soothing word from the local priest.’ She tried to bite back on her irritation but nonetheless even she could hear it in her voice.

  ‘That’s unfair, Paula,’ he said, and she heard Joe’s voice rise in response to the anger in her words.

  ‘I know death sneaks up, Joe. I know it. I’ve lived it. I do not need you to tell me that.’ She clipped off each word.

  ‘I just—’

  ‘Explain it to me then, oh holy one,’ Paula demanded, part of her aware that the serenity she’d found on the beach was quickly dissipating and she was returning to the anger part of her grieving. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care if she was offending Joe. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. Why was she the only one who could see it?

  ‘No need to be nasty, Paula.’ Joe’s eyes were cold. The priest was retreating and the grieving brother taking centre stage.

  ‘Your fit and healthy brother, not quite fifty years old, died of a heart attack?’

  ‘It happens. This is Scotland after all. The land of sugar and processed fat.’

  ‘Thomas never had pie and chips in his life.’ Paula crossed her arms, feeling her hands in fists tucked into her oxters. Nails pressing into the flesh of each palm. She pushed her fists in there for fear she might punch something. ‘He was totally healthy.’

  ‘Sadly we can’t control what kind of people get what kind of illness.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Joe, stop it. Don’t retreat into sanctimony. Not with me.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He looked stung, but Paula was past car
ing.

  ‘You bloody are. You’re not wearing your dog collar today, Joe. Be a man, not a religious cypher. There’s something distinctly suspect going on here, and all you can do is spout nonsense about processed fat.’

  ‘Paula, you’re overwrought. You’re…’

  Paula shot to her feet. ‘I’m seeing clearly for the first time in a long while, Joe Gadd.’ She stabbed a finger at the table-top. ‘Go find a sand dune to bury your head in, but I’m going to find the truth.’ With that, she turned, fled from the tearoom, all but blinded with tears and fury, and ran out towards the water’s edge hoping to find peace, and possible answers in the spot where Thomas had been borne onto the wind.

  She got there, panting, after several minutes of running. Guilt at how she’d spoken to Joe now acted like the tip of a knife pressing against her conscience, and she questioned her reaction. Was she overwrought? Was she taking two and two and turning it into murder, in a weak attempt to make sense of all the recent random occurrences?

  She checked the sand at her feet for signs of Thomas’s remains. Any change in colour? She closed her eyes and saw the arc of ash, then opened them again and tried to work out where it might have landed. She ran along the water’s edge to her left. Stopped. Searched the sand for signs of him.

  Nothing.

  She fell to her knees as a wave approached, feeling the chill of the sea water bite at her knees and shins. Her head fell forwards and she gave in to the emotion, shoulders shaking, each juddering breath driving home the nails of her grief.

  Oh, Thomas. Thomas.

  This time out loud. A shout. His name an accusation. ‘Thomas.’