by Roberta Kray
It was five to nine when Iris next checked her watch. Everything was quieter now, everything in place. A sense of calm had descended on the room. As she glanced around, she noticed Toby leaning idly against the wall with a Starbucks cup in his hand.
‘Keeping busy?’ she said.
He raised the cup and grinned. ‘Just steadying myself for the big event.’
Gerald Grand’s son was twenty-six, the same age as herself, but she always thought of him as younger. With his silky blond hair, pale skin and wide blue eyes he had the look of an overgrown choirboy. He was both feckless and charming, a combination that attracted countless numbers of female admirers. Iris, however, wasn’t one of them. Not that she disliked him. Far from it. For all his faults, he was still good company.
Although ostensibly a partner in the firm, Toby rarely spent much time there. Funerals, as he frequently insisted, were not his thing although he didn’t have any objection to picking up a pay cheque at the end of every month. This funeral, however, was different. Lizzie may not have been the most popular woman in the neighbourhood, but she was still the wife of Terry Street. And Terry had enough ‘celebrity’ friends to make this an occasion worth attending.
‘If you want your picture taken, you’d better get out there now before the paparazzi find someone more interesting to snap.’
Toby flashed his white-toothed smile. ‘More famous perhaps, but never more interesting.’
‘You wish.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘We’ll be opening the doors soon. Think there’ll be a big turn out?’
‘There’d better be or Mr S will be none too pleased.’
Iris moved the Book of Remembrance into the centre of the table, opened it to the first crisp white page and smoothed out the sheet. Beside it she had placed a pen attached by a chain to a solid black holder.
Toby peered over her shoulder. She could smell the lemony scent of his expensive aftershave. ‘He’ll be reading that from cover to cover tonight. Let’s hope our guests can come up with a few good things to say about her.’
Terry Street arrived at ten o’clock, securely cuffed to one prison officer and accompanied by another. He was brought in amidst the flash of camera lights. By then the reception area was packed. For the past hour it had felt more like a party than a funeral, a gathering of old friends slapping each other on the back and exchanging stories.
Everyone fell quiet as he walked in and then a murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd. He stopped to shake hands, to exchange a few words with the assembled mourners. Iris watched from the other side of the room. A lean, gaunt man in his early sixties, Street was impeccably dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, white shirt and tie. His thinning hair was grey and swept back off his forehead. She saw his eyes flick quickly around, but couldn’t tell whether he was searching for one particular person or simply checking out the attendance figures.
As he grew closer, Iris heard his voice for the first time. It was unexpectedly soft and low but also slightly raspy as if he was suffering from a bad cold.
Toby leaned forward and whispered in her ear. ‘Shot in the throat,’ he said as if reading her mind. ‘Lucky to survive.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Well, lucky for him. I’m not sure about the rest of us.’
‘Toby,’ she remonstrated. She was not so much concerned with the content of the comment - there was probably some truth in it - as worried that he might be overheard.
As she looked more closely, Iris noticed the ugly white scars extending up from beneath the collar of Street’s shirt. She glanced away, not wanting to stare and a few seconds later he entered the private room. The door was open and as her gaze slid back, she saw the cuffs being removed from his wrist. He stepped forward then and embraced his two sons.
Chris and Danny Street had arrived twenty minutes earlier. Chris’s other half, a tall leggy blonde with long straight hair down to her waist, had been hanging from his arm like the original trophy wife. There were no signs on the older brother’s face of the altercation that had taken place yesterday. The younger one, however, was sporting a split lip and some bruising to his cheek.
‘Shame I missed the fun at the viewing,’ Toby said.
‘Serves you right for skiving off.’
‘I prefer to call it working from home. I see Deadhead took a beating.’
‘Deadhead?’ she repeated quietly.
Toby lowered his voice too. ‘Danny Street,’ he murmured. ‘A full-on nutter if ever I met one. Crack, H, coke, booze - you name it, it’s all there swimming around in his bloodstream. He takes the bloody stuff for breakfast. That is one crazy guy. Twisted too, if you get my meaning.’
Iris was pretty sure she did. She remembered the man’s dark glaring eyes as he had slammed his fist down on the desk. A shudder ran through her. ‘He was none too pleasant yesterday,’ she said resentfully. ‘He even called me “ginger”.’
Toby laughed, his breath fluttering lightly against her ear. ‘So it was you, not Wilder, who landed one on him.’
She smiled, almost wishing it was true. Then, reminded of Lizzie Street’s son, she rapidly scanned the reception area. ‘Do you think he’ll come? Guy Wilder, I mean. Do you think he’ll turn up?’
‘Not if he’s got any sense.’
‘But it’s his mother’s funeral. Can’t the family put aside whatever grievances they have for just one day?’
Toby laughed again. ‘Ah, my sweet Iris,’ he said teasingly, ‘what a lot you have to learn. Families like the Streets don’t put aside anything, not even to bury their dead.’
She was prevented from making a reply by the approach of Gerald Grand. He was heading for the private room with a group of five serious-looking men in tow. Three of them she recognised as being old-school villains, the type who had been active in the sixties and seventies and were now eking out their pensions by writing and promoting their memoirs. The other two were younger, faces she hadn’t seen before. They were, perhaps, trusted members of Street’s firm.
‘The chosen few,’ Toby said, echoing her thoughts.
The last thing Iris saw, before the door closed, was Chris Street taking a miniature bottle of whisky from his pocket and pouring it discreetly into his father’s coffee.
She returned her attention to reception and did the rounds again, making sure everyone was happy - or at least as happy as they could appear to be in the circumstances - and that they knew refreshments were available. She made a few cups of tea and passed them to anyone in need. She also provided some gentle reminders about the book sitting on the table. Everything was running smoothly and she wanted it to stay that way. Any complaints would inevitably find their way back to Terry Street and his worryingly violent sons.
Iris knew the faces of a few other people who were present, mainly B-list actors and actresses. How well they had actually been acquainted with Lizzie, she could only guess at. She had the feeling they were there more for the publicity than through any genuine sense of grief. The men were all in sharp suits, the women in fashionable black dresses, veiled hats and gloves. If she hadn’t known it was a funeral, it could easily have passed for a rather sombre West End film launch.
It was ten-twenty when Terry Street emerged from the room again. He went, along with his prison escort, to see the body of his wife and reappeared ten minutes later. That he had not been allowed to spend any time alone with her might have struck Iris as tragic if Guy Wilder’s words hadn’t been revolving in her head. ‘He’s got away with murder . . .’
Street’s face was tight as he came out, closed down and impossible to read. Retracing his steps, he moved through the reception area, stopping again to accept the condolences of anyone who offered them. The prison officers nudged him gently forward. There was a schedule to adhere to.
Iris followed them outside. The crowd had expanded now, snaking down the street for as far as the eye could see. A long row of shiny Daimlers were lined up behind the hearse. Most had been hired for the occasion; Tobias Grand & Sons didn’t have
the money to keep such a fleet on standby. The car at the very front, however, was a blue Peugeot - this was the prison vehicle that would transport Terry to the church. As he climbed into the back, one of the plumed horses pawed at the ground and snorted out a steamy cloud of breath.
While the other mourners found their seats in the cars behind, the press leapt into action, grabbing sound bites from anyone prepared to give them. And there wasn’t a shortage of volunteers. Iris lifted her brows as she heard praise for Lizzie’s ‘charity work’, her strong family values and her contribution, through her various businesses, to the regeneration of the local economy. No mention, naturally, of any of the more dubious enterprises she had been involved in.
‘Makes you laugh, doesn’t it?’ a voice beside her said.
Iris turned, surprised to find Guy Wilder standing beside her. He was dressed casually in blue jeans and a leather jacket. Apart from a little pinkness around the base of his nose, his face, like Chris Street’s, had escaped relatively unscathed from yesterday’s incident. She gave a faint smile, not sure what to say to him.
‘My mother, the loving matriarch,’ he continued caustically. ‘If she’s listening, she’s going to be lapping it up. Saint Lizzie! Still, she probably deserves to be sainted, just for putting up with Terry for so many years.’
Iris left a short pause before replying. ‘You’re not going to the church then?’
He shook his head, his gaze fixed firmly on the hearse as it started to pull away. ‘I’ve already said my goodbyes.’
Then, without another word, he moved swiftly off in the opposite direction to the cortège. She watched for a while as he wound his way through the onlookers. His head was down, his shoulders hunched. She felt a pang of pity. For all his apparent bitterness, it still wasn’t right that a son should be absent from his own mother’s funeral.
Iris wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered. It was cold and she didn’t have her coat. A chill wind cut through her thin blouse, boring into her bones. Time to go back in before she caught pneumonia. Time to start the dreary process of clearing up. She had been hoping for some help from Toby, but he was nowhere to be seen. Had he gone to St Mark’s? Perhaps he was hoping for an invitation to the gathering afterwards.
As Iris headed back inside, she experienced a peculiar pricking on the back of her neck.
Frowning, she turned and instinctively looked across the road. A small, wiry man, in his late sixties or maybe even older, was staring straight at her. Despite his age, his eyes were sharp and sly. It was not a casual or even vaguely leery kind of look. It was nothing short of confrontational. Even when she returned his gaze, he didn’t look away. It was as if he wanted her to know he was there, wanted her to feel uncomfortable.
For a few seconds their eyes remained locked and then he suddenly ducked his head and disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Four
Alice Avery put on her green scrubs, her apron and a pair of thin latex gloves. She looked in the mirror and patted her stomach, aware of the extra weight she had accumulated since turning forty. Her face had grown plumper too and she pulled in her cheeks for a second, trying to recapture the more sculpted contours of her youth.
To avoid the crowds, Alice had used the back door and made her way down the old stone staircase to the basement of Tobias Grand & Sons. It was only here, in these cool sterile rooms, that she could truly relax. This was her territory, both familiar and comforting. She could not say for certain exactly when or why the world had become such a threatening place, she could only remember the frantic beating of her twenty-three-year-old heart as she walked through the hospital ward and her growing dread of having to deal with the demands of yet another living, breathing patient.
It was not that she disliked people - on the contrary, she had always had a burning desire to help them - but she somehow lacked the means to connect. Efficiency, she could do, hard work was second nature to her, but that other necessary element, the ability to communicate, was missing from her personality. Her briskness, matched with her natural reserve, had the unfortunate effect of conveying a certain lack of compassion. Which was why, after numerous discussions with Sister Lewis, she had eventually been forced to accept that nursing was not for her. Although dismayed at the time, feeling herself a failure, she was grateful now for the well-intentioned advice that had propelled her into an occupation where she was both satisfied and happy.
Well, she had been happy until a week ago. And of course she still was in many ways, more so perhaps than she had been for years. But she was scared too. She knew that what she had done was wrong, that it went against everything she believed in. And if anyone found out . . .
A shudder ran through her.
Alice quickly turned her attention to the job in hand. She had to stay calm, to try and put it behind her. The cadaver had already been taken from the refrigerated unit and laid on the table. It was a male in his late sixties who had died suddenly from a heart attack. She was glad of that. Not that he had died, obviously, but that he hadn’t been the victim of a car crash or some other disfiguring incident that might involve a large amount of complicated restructuring. A run of sleepless nights hadn’t done much for her concentration. The more straightforward things were today, the better.
Sometimes she worked with the radio on, but this morning she wasn’t in the mood. After she had checked for evidence of a pacemaker - the guys at the crematorium didn’t need any explosive surprises - she got on with the cleaning. Alice was not the type of person who could completely disassociate herself from the corpse she was working on. Although she viewed the body as a shell or a skin that had been shed, and thus felt no particular feelings for it, she respected the soul it had once contained. She also couldn’t help musing on what their life might have been like. Had the person been popular, successful or had they struggled like her? Had they loved, been loved? She searched for evidence of their history in the flesh and bones that were laid in front of her. She studied their nails and hair, their scars and imperfections.
As she massaged the limbs, working out the rigor mortis, Alice was already constructing in her head an image of the kind of life Joseph Bayle may have led. He had been a thickset man, jowly, with rough hands and knuckles. Not a white collar worker, that was for sure. His nose had been broken more than once and a fading anchor tattoo decorated his left bicep. He was a man who had travelled widely perhaps, but had chosen to return to the East End. Maybe he had lived in one of the little two-up, two-down terraces that were widespread in the area. There would probably be a widow, children and grandchildren too.
Alice made the necessary incision in the carotid artery and began the process of injecting the formaldehyde, watching as the fluid began to spread through the vascular system, plumping out the tissue. Soon the body would achieve a healthier colour.
People were either revolted or intrigued by what she did, usually a combination of the two. Back in the days when she’d still attended dinner parties - the few friends she had were always trying to matchmake, to fix her up with another ‘sad and single’ - the revelation that she was an embalmer had more often than not stunned her prospective suitor into silence. Had she told them she was a nurse, their reaction would have been quite different. That profession was acceptable, praiseworthy, even downright sexy in most men’s eyes. But working with the dead was just creepy. Most of the guys she’d met were too busy worrying about where her hands had been earlier to even think about getting to know her better.
But none of that mattered now. After nine long years of celibacy, Alice finally had someone in her life again. She smiled as she picked up the trocar, a long metal tube with sharp blades at one end and a point for attaching a hose at the other. After putting the hose in place she connected it to an aspirator, a device for creating suction. Alice pierced the abdomen just above the navel and skilfully punctured each of the major organs in turn, keeping the instrument in place long enough for their fluids to be drained.
S
he thought of him gently touching her, caressing her. Of his lips lightly brushing against the nape of her neck, of his hands roaming down to cup her breasts, to touch her stomach, and then his legs sweetly forcing hers apart. No one had ever touched her quite like that before or whispered such seductive words. The kind of words she should have been disgusted by, but . . .
After death, the contents of the organs began to decompose, creating a build-up of gases and bacteria. All kinds of smells, including bile and urine, could emanate from the corpse. Once the draining process was complete, Alice connected the trocar to a bottle of cavity fluid. This was another important stage of the process. It was essential to cleanse the body as thoroughly as possible. Inserting the trocar again, she waited as the fluid flowed into the body, providing a fresher smell and quickly firming up the tissue.
When this was done, Alice carefully sutured the hole where the trocar had been inserted and checked her watch. Just over an hour and a half since she’d begun. All she had left to do now was the cosmetics, the part of her job as important as anything that had gone before. For those who came to view the body, what they saw in that time would leave a lasting impression. Which was why it was not just important but essential for her to make Joseph Bayle look as peaceful as possible. And why she had to keep her mind on the job.
Was it wrong to feel so thrilled, so excited by him? The breath caught in her throat. She already felt like she knew every inch of his body. As if he’d been seared on to her skin, burnt into every inch of her flesh, he was as much a part of her as her own beating heart.
