But no one came; not even when Mike shouted Silas’s name and banged on the door with both fists. And Yvonne’s enquiries at the adjoining flats yielded no information. In fact, the man at number 728 slammed the door in her face, after yelling, in a furious tone, ‘How many more times do I have to tell the lady I ain’t seen the stupid old bugger? Is she deaf or something?’
And, at flat 724, the same doddery old lady appeared, whom Maria had also questioned frequently; the last time less than an hour ago. The crone repeated her story: no, she rarely caught a glimpse of her neighbour and had long since written him off as a recluse.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to force the door,’ Mike said. ‘So, if you hold on here with Yvonne, I’ll go and fetch the enforcer from the car.’
While they waited, the woman made more small talk, although, with her mind fixated on Silas, it was no easier for Maria to engage in conversation than it had been earlier. If he were, in fact, deliberately avoiding her, he might be out now at the shops and would be incandescent with rage to come back home and find his flat violated, his front door wrecked.
When Mike returned, he was carrying something she recognized from television police dramas: a bright red metal object, about two feet long, with a handle on the top.
‘Stand back!’ he warned. ‘There might be flying splinters.’
Yvonne led her out of harm’s way, a few steps along the passage, yet, even so, she flinched at the sound of a splintering crash; watched the door fly open; saw the woman at 724 peering from her own door in astonished curiosity.
‘Wait there, Maria,’ Mike called, ‘while we check things out.’
Yvonne followed him into the flat, leaving Maria on her own, apart from the nosy neighbour, still gawping and expostulating.
The minute she saw Yvonne emerge, Maria darted forward to meet her at the open door, recoiling at the stench wafting from the flat: a sharp, acrid, shitty smell – the smell of death, decay. ‘Wh…what’s happened?’ she stuttered, screwing up her face against the nauseating reek.
Yvonne took her arm. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news.’
Those chilling words, coupled with the fearful stench, could only mean one thing. The thought induced first disbelief, followed by choking panic. Could Silas be dead? But how? Last time they had spoken, he’d seemed reasonably well, even uncharacteristically upbeat. ‘Y…you found his body?’ she asked, surprised she could speak at all, so great was her distress, yet desperately needing confirmation.
Yvonne nodded. ‘I’m very sorry, Maria. This must be a terrible shock. But you can leave everything to us, OK? What I suggest is that, while Mike deals with the formalities, I take you down for a brief walk in the fresh air, to settle your nerves and help you come to terms with the news.’
‘No, I must see his body myself.’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible – not at this stage, anyway. It’ll be taken to the mortuary and, since Silas has no relatives and you say you’re his only friend, they’ll need you to identify it formally. But that won’t be until Monday, at the earliest.’
‘It’s important that I identify it now.’ She knew she had to stand her ground. If Silas were dead – which still seemed beyond belief – it was imperative she proved that for herself; registered the appalling fact beyond all possible doubt.
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not our usual practice.’
‘But I shan’t be here on Monday. I’m going away – tomorrow.’ Felix had persuaded her to catch a train to Cornwall first thing in the morning. Although such a trip was now completely out of the question, she had no intention of revealing that to Yvonne, since her overwhelming desire was not to abandon Silas to strangers.
‘Even so, we still need to follow normal procedures, which include checking for any suspicious circumstances, or even a criminal element.’
‘Look, Silas was seventy-six and he’d had cancer for seven years, so his death must have been from natural causes, surely.’
‘We can’t assume that and, anyway, we have to stick to the rules.’
‘I need to see him now,’ she repeated, politely but insistently, ‘before I go away. He’s the father of my grown-up daughter and I’m the closest person to him in the world.’
‘But you’ll find it extremely upsetting. The body’s not a pretty sight. It’s already started to decompose.’
Despite the surge of nausea rising in her throat, she made a supreme effort to appear composed. ‘I can deal with that, Yvonne. I’m not someone prone to panic.’ Panic already threatened to engulf her, but she strained every nerve and muscle to control it.
‘Look, I’d better have a word with Mike, OK?’
As Yvonne went back inside the flat, Maria saw two more prying neighbours loitering in the corridor, clearly intrigued by the proceedings. Angrily, she turned her back, unable to bear their ghoulish faces.
When the officer returned, Maria was informed, although still with some reluctance, that Mike was willing to let her identify the body, since it was obviously so important to her.
Maria’s courage almost failed, however, as she was led inside the flat and along to Silas’s bathroom, where Mike was waiting for them. With every step, the vile stink increased, until she was coughing and retching in reaction.
The sight that met her eyes only increased her sense of shock. Silas was slumped on the toilet; his trousers drooping round his ankles; his body limp and lifeless; a sludge of mingled urine and excrement pooling at his feet; frantic flies already buzzing round the corpse. As she gazed, aghast, at the exposed genitals and grizzled pubic hair, she feared she might fall or faint, and had to clutch the officer’s arm.
‘Can you confirm this is your friend, Silas Keegan?’ Mike asked, his kindly tone doing nothing to alleviate her mounting agitation.
‘Yes,’ she muttered, hoarsely, ‘that’s Silas.’ More than just a friend; once, her lover; once, the man she had worshipped.
As soon as Mike received her confirmation, he radioed Force Control. ‘We’re at Latimer Court, flat number 726. Can you please contact the FME, Dr Tony Campbell, to attend and certify a death.’
FME? All sense and meaning were foundering as the normal world unravelled.
‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ Yvonne suggested, ‘and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
In a daze, she let herself be steered into Silas’s cramped, untidy kitchen. The waste-bin was overflowing; the draining board piled with dirty cups. Yvonne began searching for teabags, then checked the fridge, to see if there was milk. Yes, sour milk, which she sniffed with a grimace, then poured away down the sink.
‘I don’t want tea,’ Maria said. If she drank a mouthful of anything, she knew she would instantly vomit. It struck her now, with horror, that Silas might have died as early as the Sunday, and shortly after they had spoken on the phone. Otherwise, if he were expecting her for tea, wouldn’t he have bought fresh milk and washed the dirty cups, as he had done last time she’d visited?
‘Are you sure, my dear? Strong, sweet tea can be helpful when you’re shocked.’
Maria shook her head, still appalled by the fact that a man could expire so suddenly and with no apparent cause – unless something she had said on the phone might have precipitated a seizure or a heart attack? Maybe she’d been at fault all along, in trying to induce him to play a part in Amy’s life, when he was old, ill and basically unwilling. Which meant she was to blame for his death, at least in part.
‘Well, I think you should sit down, if nothing else. Shall we go into the living-room?’
‘Living-room’ seemed wrong. Nothing was living in this flat. However, she was grateful to have direction; a solid, motherly figure to support her shaky limbs, which seemed to have turned from flesh and bone to sawdust. She sank, trembling, into her usual chair, stroking the rough brown fabric and recalling Silas sitting opposite, tucking into his pizza and inviting her to live with him. Had she agreed, he might be still alive.
‘Is there anything I c
an do to help?’ Yvonne offered, still hovering by Maria’s chair. ‘Maybe phone a friend or relative, so they could give you some support?’
How could she tell a soul? A shock like this might threaten Amy’s pregnancy, and Felix would be preparing for the class. In any case, she couldn’t bear anyone to know the humiliating details of Silas’s death. ‘No, thank you. I’ll just sit quietly.’
The silence and the stench seemed to coalesce into a curdled, miasmic layer. Phrases drifted through her head: dead silence; deathly hush; quiet as the grave; reek of putrefaction. She latched onto the words; tried to spell them out for a class of imaginary pupils. Any distraction was a life-raft, to save her from total collapse.
‘What’s an FME?’ she asked, raising her head, at last, and almost surprised to see Yvonne still standing by her chair; substantial, busty, extraordinarily normal.
‘It means forensic medical examiner – a specially trained doctor who deals mainly with prisoners in custody. Some do the job full-time, but most work on a contract basis and combine it with their other duties, as a GP, perhaps, or a hospital doctor. Fortunately for us, we found your friend’s appointment card in the flat, and realized Dr Campbell is actually his GP, which makes him the ideal person to certify the death. He’ll carry out a few tests and—’
‘I want to be there when he does them.’ She was surprised by her own request, yet it seemed crucial that, as Silas’s only friend, she should remain with him right to the end; witness every process, however challenging.
‘I’m sorry to keep saying no, but these things just aren’t permitted.’
‘Can’t you ask Mike again? Please, Yvonne. This means a huge amount to me. And I assure you I can handle it,’ she added, with less conviction than she felt.
Yvonne was gone for quite some while, but eventually reappeared to say that, since she seemed a calm and stable person, Mike had agreed to ask Dr Campbell’s permission and leave it to him to decide.
She had never felt less calm and stable, and was worried that her nerve might fail if the FME were delayed. ‘How long before he comes?’ she asked.
‘Well, they’re usually here in under the hour and it’s been half an hour already, so pretty soon, I’d guess.’
When she had waited at the police station, time had seemed to slow down; now it had speeded up. How could half an hour have passed? She was vaguely aware of having planned a schedule – hours ago, in some other, different life: attending a life class; shopping and cooking for a party. None of that seemed to register. There was only the horrendous smell; the sensation of being thrown off-balance, as if the earth had tilted on its axis and she was sliding off, plunging into nothingness.
‘Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind about the tea?’ Yvonne enquired, in her usual soothing tone.
Again, she shook her head. Silas might have run out of teabags, or left a dirty spoon in the sugar packet. She didn’t want him shamed; his domestic inadequacies revealed.
Silence ensued again, suddenly interrupted by the noisy fellow banging about on the floor above. She half-expected Silas to yell abuse at his ‘cretin’ of a neighbour, or even dash out from the bathroom and go thundering upstairs to bawl him out. Instead, she heard voices, footsteps at the door.
‘Ah, that’ll be the FME,’ Yvonne said, as Mike came in, accompanied by a man in a smart, grey, pin-striped suit.
Having been introduced to the doctor, Maria stammered a hello, her attention distracted by his suave, well-groomed appearance, totally out of place in Silas’s shabby flat. She had expected him to be wearing protective clothing, yet the dapper little fellow looked dressed for a directors’ meeting in the boardroom.
‘Maria is a close friend of the deceased,’ Mike explained. ‘And she’d like to be present while you certify death. How do you feel about that?’
Dr Campbell frowned. ‘It’s not our normal practice,’ he demurred, echoing Yvonne’s words.
Maria stepped forward purposefully. ‘It means a lot to me,’ she said, she too repeating her earlier words, ‘and I assure you I can handle it.’
The doctor continued to look dubious and was clearly wrestling with his own misgivings. However, he finally agreed and also took the opportunity to express sympathy for Maria’s loss.
She tried to return his smile, but her mouth formed only a grimace, as the four of them made their way to the bathroom. ‘Stop!’ she wanted to shout. ‘I don’t want anyone else to see him in this undignified position.’ If only he could have died in his bed, or in the sitting-room; not trouserless on a stinking bog.
‘This won’t take long,’ Dr Campbell said, kneeling beside the toilet bowl and opening his black bag. ‘But could you stand well back, please.’
Maria pressed herself against the bathroom wall; glad, once again, of Yvonne’s support. As the doctor placed a stethoscope on Silas’s chest, she willed it to show some sign of life, however frail or weak. And when he picked up the limply dangling arm and felt for Silas’s pulse, she found herself desperately praying, ‘Let there be a pulse.’ Finally, he lifted both the eyelids and, again, she begged Hanna’s all-merciful God that Silas’s eyes would flicker into life.
The doctor replaced his stethoscope, rose to his feet and reported tersely: ‘I would consider your friend to have been dead for a matter of several days. As I said, you have my deepest sympathy, Maria. And, if you need anything to calm you down, I can write you a prescription straightaway.’
Politely, she declined. It was essential she was in full command if she were to see this through to its grim finale and ensure that Silas went to his rest with due respect. If she allowed herself to be sedated, she might fail him in his final hours.
As they all backed out into the tiny hall, Mike was already radioing Force Control. ‘Can we please arrange removal of a body from Latimer Court, flat number 726?’
‘Now’s the time for you to leave,’ Yvonne said, gently. ‘Mike and I will remain here until the ambulance arrives, but it could take up to a couple of hours, so I’d advise you to go home and get some rest.’
Although tempted by this easy option, Maria refused to weaken. ‘No,’ she said, emphatically. ‘I prefer to stay.’ Two hours, three hours, four hours – time was of no consequence. All she knew was that she had to do her duty by Amy’s father; not hand him over to people who would fail to understand that he was a gifted individual whose lifelong ambition was to make his mark as a poet.
When the men finally arrived to remove the body, again she was jolted by their appearance. She had assumed that those who did such work would wear white coats or overalls, whereas this pair was attired like undertakers, in sleekly formal black suits. They were trundling a strange contraption into the flat – a cross between a stretcher and a trolley – and although she had got up from her chair to meet them in the hall, the two officers tried to persuade her to return.
‘This is not for you to see,’ Mike warned. ‘I’d like you to stay with Yvonne in the sitting-room, OK?’
‘Silas would want me to be with him,’ she said, determined, once again, not to be overruled, and thus adopting the same steely tone she had used with the FME. Without her present, they might handle Silas insensitively, or treat this solemn task as just routine.
She noticed Mike and Yvonne exchange glances with the men, then, after a tense pause, the four consulted amongst themselves in barely audible voices. However, her resolute, assertive stance must have reassured them, because she was led along to the bathroom, behind the undertakers.
As she saw the two men donning rubber gloves, she squeezed past them in the confining space and crouched by Silas’s body. ‘I want to say goodbye,’ she told them, again speaking with authority and rigour, in the hope of being obeyed.
Taking Silas’s unresponsive hand, she whispered under her breath, ‘Thank you, Silas, for everything. You taught me so much; widened my whole world. And thank you most of all for Amy. Even if you didn’t want her, you’d have been proud of her, I know, if only you cou
ld have met her.’ It required all her self-control not to weep, not to retch at the overpowering stink, but if she showed the slightest sign of weakness, Mike and Yvonne might well insist she left. So she kept her voice as steady as possible as she pronounced her final goodbye. ‘I’ll never forget you, Silas, my first love. Rest in peace.’
Having kissed his hand, she rose to her feet, letting the undertakers take her place. With almost callous expertise, they positioned themselves, one at Silas’s head and one at his feet; took him off the toilet and manipulated his body into a large, heavy-duty, zipped black bag.
‘Look away,’ Yvonne advised.
Ignoring the advice, Maria continued her silent witness, as Silas was lifted onto the stretcher and wheeled towards the door. She followed at a respectful distance, but deliberately turned her back before the trolley was manoeuvred through the door and out into the passage. She had no wish to see Silas’s goggling neighbours inflate a tragedy into some vulgar tabloid drama.
‘The body will be taken to Lewisham Hospital Mortuary,’ Mike informed her, as he and Yvonne returned to the sitting-room. ‘As it’s Friday today, the post mortem may be postponed till Monday, or performed tomorrow, possibly. One of our officers who works for the coroner will phone you on the Monday, anyway, to introduce himself, then phone again a day or two later, to give you the result. I understand you’ll be away next week, so be sure to leave your contact details with us.’
Away? How could she go anywhere? Cornwall seemed a mere diversion compared to this catastrophe.
‘And what I suggest now,’ Yvonne added, ‘is that I take you back to the police station for a cup of tea or coffee. Mike will stay here until the premises are secured, but you need a chance to recover.’
What she actually needed was a chance to be alone. ‘I’d prefer to go straight home, if that’s all right.’
Home. My God! For the last few hours Amy’s birthday simply hadn’t featured in her thoughts, but now the whole scenario came whirling back in a turmoil of anxiety. How could she cook party food, or play her part in a joyous celebration, when she was sick with shock and grief? And if she mentioned Silas’s death this evening, it would shatter the mood at a stroke. Yet how, in God’s name, could she hush it up, when her whole demeanour was bound to reveal her frantic state?
An Enormous Yes Page 28
