Heathen/Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  Jackie found tears coursing down her own cheeks, so touched was she by the plight of her friend.

  Gradually Donna stopped sobbing. Jackie held her close again, rocking her as she would rock a child. She kissed the top of Donna’s head, pressing her face against the other woman’s hair. Donna pulled back slightly and looked at her.

  ‘It happened yesterday,’ she said quietly. ‘A car crash. I had to identify his body.’

  ‘Donna, I’m so sorry,’ Jackie murmured, wiping tears from her own face before pulling a tissue from her handbag and wiping Donna’s face. The older woman sat still and allowed her friend to minister to her.

  ‘Have you been here on your own all night?’ she asked.

  Donna nodded.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you call me? You need someone with you.’

  ‘I need Chris.’

  Jackie nodded slowly and swallowed.

  ‘Have you slept?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘A few hours. I must have dropped off on the bed last night. You woke me up, ringing the doorbell.’ She smiled thinly.

  ‘Come on,’ Jackie said, holding out a hand and beckoning her. ‘You’re going back to bed.’

  ‘I can’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Not now.’

  ‘You’re out on your feet. If I hadn’t woken you up you’d still be asleep now. Come on.’

  ‘I’ll never be able to sleep, Jackie.’

  ‘I’ve got some sleeping pills in my handbag; you can take those if you have to. Please, Donna. You need some sleep now.’

  Donna got to her feet and allowed herself to be led upstairs to the bedroom. There, Jackie drew the curtains and turned down the bed while Donna slipped off her clothes and threw them to the floor. Naked, she slipped between the sheets. Jackie sat on the edge of the bed stroking her hair until she saw her friend’s eyes begin to close. It took a matter of minutes before she was asleep. Jackie took one more look at her then hurried downstairs.

  In her sleep Donna rolled over, her lips parted slightly, her breathing even.

  One hand slid across the bed to rest where her husband would normally have slept.

  Nine

  She awoke with a start for the second time that day, sitting bolt upright, her head spinning.

  Donna looked round to see Jackie standing by her bedside, a tray in her hand. On the tray was a bowl of soup, some bread and two mugs of tea. Donna smiled thinly and sank back onto her pillows, pulling the sheet round her breasts. She glanced across at the clock on the bedside table and saw that it was almost two-thirty. A watery afternoon sun was trying to fight its way out from behind a bank of thin, high cloud.

  ‘You should have woken me earlier,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘You needed the sleep,’ Jackie told her, setting the tray down on the bed. ‘You need food, too.’

  ‘Jackie, I can’t,’ Donna murmured wearily.

  ‘I don’t care whether you can or can’t, you need to eat. Take it.’ She pushed the tray towards her friend and perched on the edge of the bed. Donna looked so tired, so drained. Normally, the two women were not dissimilar in appearance. Both were blonde and about the same height, Jackie perhaps a little bigger around the hips and bust, but they shared the same well-defined features; on more than one occasion they had been mistaken for sisters. At the moment, Jackie thought, Donna could have passed for her mother.

  Reluctantly Donna reached for the soup and began sipping it.

  ‘The doctor will be here at about four,’ Jackie announced, raising a hand to silence the protest she saw forming on Donna’s lips. ‘I don’t care how much you complain, it’s better he looks at you. He might give you some tranquillisers or something.’

  ‘I don’t need bloody tranquillisers,’ Donna said irritably.

  ‘You need something to help you through this, Donna. They’ll do you good. Our doctor prescribed them for my mum when my dad died.’

  ‘What are you trying to do, turn me into a junkie?’

  ‘He’ll probably give you valium, not cocaine.’

  Donna managed a smile. She reached out and squeezed Jackie’s hand.

  ‘Thanks for what you’ve done, Jackie. I appreciate it. I’m sorry if I’ve put you to any trouble ...’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. What was I supposed to do this morning, just turn around and walk away? What would you have done if you’d found me the same way?’

  ‘Exactly what you’ve done. But I’m still grateful.’

  She sipped more of the soup, then some of her tea.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Jackie asked quietly.

  ‘No, not really, but I suppose I’m going to have to eventually. People will have to be told.’ She sighed and rubbed a hand across her face.

  ‘Chris didn’t have any family, did he?’

  Donna shook her head.

  ‘Neither of us did, but there’s my sister. I’ll have to let Julie know.’

  ‘It’s all taken care of. I phoned her before I phoned the doctor. She said she’ll be here tomorrow morning. She’s taking time off work.’

  Donna looked blankly at Jackie.

  ‘She’s your sister, Donna; she should be with you. You shouldn’t be alone. Not now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Donna said softly.

  ‘So, do you want to talk?’

  Donna nodded.

  ‘It was a car crash, somewhere in Central London as far as I know. He was working there for a couple of days, researching a new book. He’d been using the British Museum Library a lot. So he said.’ She repeated the sequence of events which led up to the identification of her husband’s body the previous night.

  ‘It must have been terrible for you. I’m sorry, Donna.’

  ‘Jackie ...’

  I think he was having an affair.

  The words were there but Donna could not bring herself to say them.

  ‘What?’ Jackie wanted to know.

  Donna shook her head.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she lied. Then, trying to change the subject: ‘Did anyone ring while I was asleep?’

  ‘Two or three people rang. They wanted to speak to Chris. I just told them he wasn’t available.’ Jackie shrugged. ‘I didn’t think it was my place to tell them the truth. You’re not mad, are you? I suppose if I had done it would have saved you the trouble. Perhaps I should ...’

  ‘You were right,’ Donna said. ‘As usual.’

  It was Jackie’s turn to smile.

  ‘The police rang,’ she said after a moment or two, the smile fading. ‘They said that you could pick up Chris’s belongings whenever you wanted to. Some bloke called Mackenzie. He said he wanted to speak to you when you felt better.’

  ‘He was there last night,’ Donna said. Then she frowned. ‘I wonder why they need to speak to me again? I identified Chris.’ She swallowed hard. ‘What more could they want to know?’

  Some details about Suzanne Regan, perhaps?

  Could you tell us how long your husband had been having an affair, Mrs Ward?

  She wiped a tear from her eye and sniffed, pushing the tray away.

  ‘I can’t eat any more,’ she announced apologetically.

  ‘There’s some stuff in your fridge, I checked. I’ll warm it up for you later. Chops, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I can’t eat anything, Jackie, I told you. Anyway, you can’t stay here all the time. Dave gets home at about six, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Dave is on a training course for a couple of nights in Southampton. I’ve got nothing to rush back for, anyway.’

  Are you sure that’s where he is, Jackie? Are you certain he’s not driving around with another woman? Positive he isn’t involved?

  That word again.

  ‘If you want me to stay the night with you I will,’ Jackie said.

  ‘I appreciate it, really, but I’ve got to face things sooner or later.’

  ‘It’s only the day after, Donna; be fair to yourself. Don’t try to be too strong.’

  ‘I’ll be okay.�
��

  ‘I’ll stay until the doctor’s been, how’s that?’

  Donna smiled and nodded, watching Jackie pick up the tray and head for the door. She heard her footfalls on the stairs and lay down, eyes closed for long moments.

  A car crash in Central London. He was working there.

  Was he? Was he really working?

  On a book or on Suzanne Regan?

  Donna opened her eyes, felt the moisture there.

  Had it been an affair?

  Somehow she had to find out.

  Ten

  It was about seven-thirty when Jackie finally left. She had tried to encourage Donna to eat something, using a combination of threats and cajolements. The two women had ended up smiling at each other across the kitchen table. Both of them knew that there was no relief in that smile, however; no hint of a respite from the suffering Donna felt.

  The doctor had prescribed a mild dosage of Valium, just 2mg, the minimum dose, but Donna was wary of the drug and said she’d only take it if she found she had no option.

  Alone in the house now, seated at the kitchen table dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt several sizes too big, she stared at the bottle reproachfully and ran a hand through her hair. She had showered and washed her hair after Jackie had left, standing beneath the spray for more than twenty minutes, as if the powerful jets of water could wash away some of her grief.

  She’d sat in the sitting-room and tried to watch television but the images on the screen did not register in her mind. She had flicked aimlessly from channel to channel before switching the set off and turning on the stereo instead. It didn’t seem to matter what she did as long as she didn’t have to put up with the silence. In the kitchen she had switched on the ghetto-blaster, but every tape she selected seemed to bring different memories. If she played one of Chris’s tapes it made her think of him. If she played one of her own then the words she normally sang along to quite happily had added poignancy. He always used to joke with her about her choice of music, telling her the sad love songs she was so fond of would make her depressed. They never had. Until now.

  She sat alone and silent in the kitchen, tapping the lid of the valium bottle, wondering if she should take just one.

  It might help.

  She shook her head. Tranquillizers helped to alleviate symptoms of stress and suffering; they didn’t remove the cause.

  She got to her feet and padded barefoot from the kitchen back towards the stairs, climbing them slowly.

  The phone rang again but she ignored it, allowing the message to be taken by the answering machine. The green light was already flashing three times but Donna had no inclination to learn the identity of the callers just yet. As she reached the top of the stairs she heard the click as the machine recorded the latest call and stored it.

  The house was silent again as she wandered down the corridor that led off the landing to her husband’s office.

  It was cold inside there, colder than the rest of the house, she thought, but realized that this was merely fanciful supposition. She touched the radiator and found it was hot. She switched on the desk lamp and sat down behind the typewriter, running her fingers over the black keys as if it were a musical instrument.

  There was a framed picture of her husband on the wall to the left of the desk, from a photo shoot he’d done in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors for the launch of his last book. It showed him standing beside the guillotine, pointing up at the blade and smiling.

  Donna stared at the photo, her eyes filling with tears. She fought them back and glanced around at the other things on his desk. It was organised chaos. File trays were marked with white sticky labels, each one supposedly home, according to the legend on the sticker, to various documents.

  CONTRACTS

  RESEARCH AND NOTES

  FAN MAIL

  She picked a letter from the top of the tray and glanced at it. It was the usual thing. ‘I enjoyed your books very much. I look forward to the next one. Please can I have a signed photo etc. etc.’

  Ward received a lot of fan mail and was always grateful for it. The readers, he used to tell her, paid their mortgage.

  Did they pay for his mistress, too?

  Donna slid open one of the drawers and peered in. More notepads, more envelopes. Elastic bands, paper clips, Tipp-Ex.

  A letter.

  She pulled it out and spread it out on the desk, scanning it through tired eyes.

  Dear Suzanne.

  Donna stiffened, sucked in a shallow breath.

  Suzanne.

  One part of her wanted to read the letter; the other part told her not to continue.

  ‘Dear Suzanne,’ she read aloud. ‘Just a quick note to tell you that everything is taken care of.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I hope you are well and I will see you next Thursday. Love, Chris.’

  Love.

  Donna closed her eyes for a moment, her body shaking. Then she looked at the letter again. There was no date on it.

  See you next Thursday.

  She snatched at the letter and balled it up, crushing it between her hands, finally hurling it across the room with a despairing grunt. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. She glared across at the photo of her husband on the wall.

  He smiled back at her.

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ she roared at the photo.

  She didn’t know whether her tears were of pain or anger.

  And it didn’t really seem to matter any more.

  Eleven

  Donna hadn’t expected so much coverage in the papers.

  She’d thought there would be a mention of her husband’s death in the trade magazines, and perhaps a line or two in one of the nationals, but she was unprepared for what actually appeared.

  Three of the tabloids ran two-column stories (one with a photograph) while even The Times mentioned Chris’s death. A little ironic, Donna thought, considering how they had lambasted his books when he’d been alive. The coverage provoked a flood of phone calls to the house. She moved around irritably, not picking up the phone, leaving the answering machine to cope with the deluge. Occasionally she would stand beside the machine and listen to see who was on the other end of the line, but by the afternoon she had unplugged all the phones except the one connected to the answerphone in an effort to get some peace.

  She hadn’t slept much the previous night and what rest she’d managed had been fitful. She’d woken twice from a nightmare but had been unable to remember the images that had shocked her into consciousness.

  Car crashes, perhaps?

  Funerals?

  Mistresses?

  She didn’t go near Ward’s office that day; she feared what she might find in there. The letter she had discovered had only reinforced her conviction that her husband had been having an affair with Suzanne Regan. What Donna was aware of was how little she had cried since finding the letter. More and more of the emotion she felt was tinged with anger now.

  She ate a bowl of soup and some bread at about two o’clock and sat staring at the Valium bottle. She thought about taking one of the tablets but decided against it.

  The phone was silent now. As she dropped her bowl into the sink, Donna decided to check the messages before a new batch came in.

  The house seemed very quiet as she walked through the hallway and flicked the switch marked ‘Incoming Message’. She heard a high-pitched squeal, a cacophony of indecipherable noise as the tape rewound quickly then began with its catalogue of calls.

  A reporter from the local paper.

  Diana Wellsby, Ward’s editor, offering her condolences.

  Nick Crosby, Managing Director of his publishers, also offering his sympathies.

  No message.

  Chris’s accountant; could he ring him? (Obviously not everyone read the papers, Donna thought.)

  Her mother, who said she refused to speak to a machine but would ring back.

  Donna smiled thinly when she heard her mother’s voice.

  Jackie. Ring he
r, just to let her know how things were going.

  ‘Mrs Ward, this is Detective Constable Mackenzie. I’d appreciate it if you could call me as soon as possible. Thank you.’

  Donna chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. The policeman had called yesterday, too. What was so important? She reached for the pad and pen beside the phone, rewound the tape and took down the number he’d left.

  ‘Donna, it’s Martin Connelly,’ the next voice announced. She smiled at the warmth in the tone. It was Chris’s agent. ‘I realize what you must be feeling and I’m very sorry about what’s happened. I’ll call you back later. Take care, gorgeous.’

  One more call.

  She waited for a voice but there wasn’t one.

  A wrong number, perhaps?

  She could hear breathing on the tape, slow, rhythmic breathing. No background noise. Nothing but breathing.

  Then the message was brought to an abrupt end as the phone was put down.

  Donna flicked her hair from her face and was about to walk away from the phone when it rang again.

  Her hand hovered over the receiver. She thought about picking it up but finally allowed the machine to click on.

  Breathing.

  The same breathing as on the message she’d just listened to.

  Pick it up.

  Donna stared at the phone, listening to the breathing. Then finally she heard, ‘Shit.’ The phone was put down, slammed down hard at the other end.

  Donna backed away from the machine as if it were some kind of venomous serpent. If it was a crank call, it was either bad timing or a particularly sick bastard getting his rocks off at the other end of the line. She suddenly felt very lonely and vulnerable.

  It was then that the doorbell rang.

  Twelve