by Mark White
‘Sam…don-’
‘Why didn’t he kill me, Sarah?’ Sam interjected. ‘It was just as much my fault as anyone else’s. Maybe I drove him to it?’
‘No, Sam. None of this is your fault. You were caught in the middle, that’s all. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. If I hadn’t cheated on you…if…’ She began to cry, gentle weeping quickly turning into an unstoppable stream of tears as it all became too much for her. ‘I shouldn’t have done it, Sam,’ she sobbed, covering her face with her hands. ‘I should never have betrayed you like that. I risked all that we had…our marriage…our son…our future. For what? What could be more important than us? And now look what’s happened. Three people are dead and you’re sitting there telling me it’s your fault! Don’t you see, Sam? Don’t you see how innocent you are in all of this? You had nothing to do with it!’
‘Sarah-’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping her eyes with a napkin, ‘but every time you say it’s your fault I want to grab you by the throat and strangle you. What if the shoe was on the other foot and you’d been having the affair? Do you honestly think I would have forgiven you so easily?’
‘Probably not, no.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t. I would have kicked you out of the house and told you never to come back.’
‘You might think that, but you wouldn’t.’
‘No, Sam, I bloody well would.’
‘Well it’s a good job that I’m not you, isn’t it?’ Sam said, standing up and carrying his empty cup and plate over to the sink. ‘Anyway,’ he said, returning to his seat, ‘you haven’t answered my question. Why did Tom kill himself and not me? At the very least, you would have thought he would have shot me first before turning the gun on himself.’
Sarah sighed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, moving around to his side of the table. ‘I’ve been asking myself that same question all night. You’re right; it doesn’t make any sense.’
‘You know what he said to me before he killed himself? He said that killing me would be too lenient. Too easy.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘How the hell am I supposed to know? He’d obviously lost his mind by that point. I guess the prospect of blowing your brains out can do that to you.’
‘Maybe, but it’s still pretty damn weird.’
‘I know.’
Sarah shuffled her chair closer to Sam and draped an arm over his shoulder. ‘Whatever state of mind Tom was in, I’m just pleased he killed himself and not you. Things are bad enough as they are, but I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. And Max would never get over it. Thank God he spared you.’
Sam managed a weak smile as he looked at her. ‘God? Do you think it had something to do with Him?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Sam shook his head and retrieved a box of Diazepam from his dressing gown pocket. ‘You thank God if you want to. As for me,’ he said, waving the Diazepam in the air for effect, ‘I think I’d rather put my faith in these.’
CHAPTER TEN
The following morning, Sarah took Sam’s breakfast to him in bed. He’d dozed on and off throughout the night and most of the previous afternoon; the medication playing havoc with his sleeping patterns. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind was filled with blurred visions of what took place in Lloyd’s Hotel. Thankfully his memory remained hazy from the Diazepam, with the exception of one particular image that refused to dissipate; that of Tom Jackson grinning at him with his eyes rolled so far back into his head that only the whites were showing. It wasn’t so much that Sam was frightened by the image, (although neither was he overly enamoured by it), but rather that it wasn’t natural for someone to look that way. It had been the same outside Chapman’s that morning when Tom had attacked him: to the average bystander it was Tom Jackson, but to Sam it was someone else...someone completely different.
‘Morning, Mr Sleepyhead,’ Sarah said, placing the tray of tea and toast on the bedside table. ‘I thought you could use something to eat. You haven’t had anything since lunchtime yesterday.’
‘Has it really been that long?’ Sam asked, groaning as he hauled himself up into a sitting position and reached for his cup. ‘Everything’s just a blur.’
‘It’s going to take some time before you’re back to normal. Until then, you’re under strict doctor’s orders to stay in bed.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Sam said, taking a sip of tea. ‘Although I’ll need to call the office to let them know what’s happening.’
‘There’s no need. I’ve already spoken to them.’
‘Have you?’
‘Uh-huh. As you can probably imagine, there’s a lot going on there right now. I told them that all things considered you were doing okay, and that I’ll keep them informed of your progress. They said they’d send someone round to see how you’re doing when things have died down. I guess they’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. Losing Holdsworth is about as serious as it gets. Aside from the fact that he was a brilliant chief exec, he was responsible for bringing in most of the business. The sharks from the other agencies will be circling our clients at the same time as they’re sending their condolences. Jesus Christ…I still can’t believe I’m talking about Holdsworth in the past tense. And Gabby…I don’t know why, but it’s Gabby I feel most sorry for. She was just starting out in life. She was so young. Her family must be devastated.’
‘They will be.’
‘She was a nice girl,’ Sam said, setting aside his plate of uneaten toast and staring out of the window. ‘And smart too. She had real potential. It’s so fucked up, Sarah. I can’t get my head around it.’
‘Give it time. Here,’ she said, passing the plate of toast back to him. ‘You need to eat something. You need to get your strength back.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You have to try. I’m not going anywhere until you’ve at least eaten one slice.’
‘Alright, alright, I’ll do my best.’
‘Good boy. Oh, by the way, Gracie called round to see you last night.’
Whatever appetite Sam might have been unable to muster to appease his wife suddenly vanished and he pushed his food away without taking so much as a bite. ‘Gracie? What did she want?’
‘She wanted to see you.’
‘See me? Why?’
‘I don’t know. She said she needed to speak to you about something. She wouldn’t say what. She probably just wanted to see how you were.’
Sam felt the blood drain from his face as he remembered the conversation he’d had with Gracie the other day about his father and sister. He recalled how, in a rare moment of weakness, he’d confided in her about his past, only for the demented old hag to turn around and suggest that his father had come back from the grave to haunt him. He had opened his heart to that woman, and instead of showing sympathy and understanding, she’d reacted by pushing him to accept her unnatural beliefs about spirits and ghosts. As far as Sam was concerned, he never wanted to see that crazy bitch again.
‘I don’t want to talk to her,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m serious, Sarah. She’s not all there.’
‘What on earth are you talking ab-’
‘You don’t want to know. Just trust me, okay? You’re not to open the front door to her again, is that clear? And I don’t want her looking after Max anymore either. She’s not who she seems. She can’t be trusted.’
It took everything in Sarah’s power to stop herself from losing her temper. Gracie may have been many things, but untrustworthy was certainly not one of them. She could only assume it was the medication talking.
She was about to tell him that he was talking nonsense when the doorbell rang.
‘Who do you think that is?’ Sam asked.
‘How the bloody hell would I know? Gracie’s the mind reader, not me.’
‘Cheap shot,’ Sam said, reaching for his pills.
‘You deserve it for spouting such rubbish about the woman who’s spent the last ten years caring for our son.’ With a parting scowl to reinforce her disappointment in him, she stood up and headed downstairs to answer the door. Sam watched after her, sympathetic to her reaction but adamant that he was right about Gracie.
He reached across for the TV control and switched it on, flicking through the news channels. Even though nearly two days had passed since the shooting, he was expecting there to be at least some residual interest in what had happened. He shook his head despondently, surprised to discover that the world had moved on to pastures new in such a short space of time. He switched off the TV and slid under the covers. He doubted that he’d be able to forget what happened that night as quickly as the media evidently had.
Five minutes later, as he drifted once again towards unconsciousness, Sarah wandered back into the bedroom and stood at the end of the bed.
‘Sarah?’ Sam whispered, forcing himself awake. She stared back at him nervously, fidgeting like a guilty schoolgirl. Sam frowned. He knew immediately that something was wrong.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, yawning and shuffling back into an upright sitting position. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I wish I had,’ she replied, taking a deep breath before continuing. ‘You’re not going to believe who that was at the door.’
‘Go on.’
‘It was Jane,’ she said, her heart thumping in her chest as she spoke. ‘Tom’s Jane.’
Sam’s eyes widened as his brain struggled to process the information. ‘Jane…Jane Jackson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus Christ! What was she doing here? What did she want?’
Sarah walked around the bed and sat down. Taking his hand in hers, she said: ‘They’re burying Tom the day after tomorrow.’
Sam’s head sank to his chest. Hearing her say that sounded so surreal. In spite of all that had happened – in spite of how everything had turned out - there had been a time when he and Tom had been close friends. Okay, towards the end Tom had revealed himself for the unstable coward that he was, but he hadn’t always been like that…he hadn’t always been the deceitful, malicious bastard that people would remember him for.
‘I see,’ Sam said. ‘I’m surprised at her coming all the way over here to tell us that in person. I’m surprised she felt the need to tell us at all.’
‘That’s only part of the reason she called round.’
‘What else did she want?’
‘She wants us to go to his funeral. Both of us.’
‘You are joking, aren’t you? For Christ’s sake, Sarah, tell me you’re not being serious.’
‘I’m not joking, Sam.’
‘But…but how? Why…after everything that’s happened?’
‘I don’t know. My only guess is that Tom never told Jane about me and him. Either that or she’s a very good liar. You know what he’s like – was like - he was highly adept at hiding the truth. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jane never found out about any of his affairs. She probably didn’t even find out about him losing his job until after he killed himself.’
Sam closed his eyes and sighed, struggling to stay awake under the medication. ‘You could be right. Anyway, what did you tell her? About going to the funeral, I mean.’
‘I said I’d talk to you about it, but that I didn’t think it was likely given what’s happened.’
‘Didn’t think it was likely?! Do you really think I want to go to the funeral of the man who had an affair with my wife, fired me from my job, attacked me outside of work and then ended up shooting my boss and my new assistant six feet from my fucking face? Are you sure you’re not the one who needs medication?’
‘Hey!’ she said, rounding on him. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, okay? I’m merely passing on what she said. There’s no need to bite my head off.’
‘Alright, alright…I’m sorry.’ His eyelids grew heavier, to the point where he was no longer able to keep them open. ‘It’s just that…it’s just that…’
‘Shush,’ she said, pulling the duvet cover up to his neckline. ‘Get some rest and we’ll talk about it later.’
‘Okay,’ he whispered, drifting towards unconsciousness. ‘But no more visitors. No Gracie, no Jane, no nosy well-wishers. I just want to be left alone. I just want to sleep.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nine uninterrupted hours went by before Sam woke up to find that his head was refreshingly clear and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. He leaned over and checked the alarm clock on his bedside table: 5.00pm.
He randomly selected a Diazepam from its packet and washed it down with a swig of tepid water, grimacing at the stale taste but grateful nonetheless for the soothing effect of the water on his bone dry throat. Summoning every ounce of strength in his body, he peeled back the duvet cover and swung his legs out of bed, sliding his feet into his slippers before tentatively standing up and reaching for his dressing gown from the back of a chair by the window. Breathing deeply, he attempted a brief routine of stretches, only to find that his body wasn’t anywhere near as willing as his mind. Ignoring the discomfort, he limped across to the bedroom door and headed downstairs for something to eat.
He wasn’t expecting to find Sarah standing behind the ironing board in the kitchen, working her way through a huge pile of freshly-dried clothes. She jumped when she saw him, surprised to see him up and about.
‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’ she asked, resuming her ironing.
‘My mother used to say that you die in bed if you stay in it long enough,’ he replied, crossing the kitchen and giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Besides, I’m starving. My belly feels like my throat’s been cut.’
‘I hate that expression,’ she said, brushing him away.
‘I know. Why do you think I said it?’
‘Sit down and I’ll fetch you something,’ she said, switching off the iron and folding up the ironing board. ‘What do you fancy?’
‘Mmm…now there’s a question,’ he said, winking at her.
‘No chance, mister. You’re supposed to be ill, remember?’
‘In that case, how about some cheese on toast?’
‘That I can do,’ she replied, turning on the grill and heading to the breadbin. ‘One slice or two?’
‘How about we start with three and see how we get on?’
‘Three?’
‘Honestly, Sarah, I could eat a scabby horse.’
‘I guess it’s a good sign that your appetite’s back.’
‘Certainly is.’
‘What about the rest of you?’ she said, slicing some cheese onto a plate. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not great, but a damn sight better than yesterday. I’ve slept like a baby all day, and this time I didn’t dream of anything.’
‘That’s a relief. Have you taken your Diazepam?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Five minutes ago.’
‘Good. The doctor said to keep taking them, even if you start feeling better.’
‘I know. I will. Listen, I’ve been thinking some more about Jane, about what she said.’
Sarah stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. ‘I can tell you right now, we’re not going to Tom’s funeral.’
Sam sighed. ‘Just…just hear me out, will you?’
‘No, Tom, I won’t. It’s non-negotiable.’
‘I think we should go,’ Sam said, ignoring her. ‘I think we need closure.’
‘He’s dead, Sam. How much more closure do you want?’
‘It’s the right thing to do,’ he persisted. ‘If nothing else, I think we owe it to Jane. She was innocent in all this, and besides, I can’t see there being many people there, can you?’
‘I’m not going just to make up the bloody numbers!’
‘Please,’ Sam said, rubbing his forehead as he felt the beginnings of a headache. ‘I understand why you don’t want to go, but I’d like you to come with me. If not for Tom or Jane, then for me.�
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Pulling on an oven mit, she slid the tray of cheese-laden bread into the grill and paused to consider her reply. ‘What if going to his funeral has an adverse effect on you?’
Sam laughed and shook his head. ‘Such as?’
‘It’s not funny, Sam. What if seeing him being buried sparks some kind of emotional reaction?’
‘You mean a nervous breakdown?’
‘Maybe…I don’t know. I’m not sure what your psychologist would have to say about it.’
‘I won’t have a nervous breakdown, okay? I know what Tom did, I know how he did it, and I know how the story ended. There aren’t any more surprises to catch me out. All I want is to pay my last respects and do the right thing by Jane. After that, I don’t care what happens. I’ll be able to focus all my attention on putting the past behind me and moving on with my life…with our lives.’
Sarah looked at him. ‘Is that a promise?’
‘I hope so,’ Sam said. ‘It’ll take some time, but I’m willing to do whatever the so-called professionals tell me to do. Medication, therapy, chemical castration…whatever it takes.’
After a long pause, Sarah nodded and sighed. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Against my better judgement, we’ll go to his funeral. We’ll pay our last respects, listen to the priest, watch the murdering bastard being buried, and then we’ll come home and never mention his name again for as long as we live.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
‘It’s not a plan,’ she said, handing him his cheese on toast. ‘It’s a disaster waiting to happen.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The following day and night passed by fairly uneventfully: sleep, pills, sleep, food, pills, sleep; until before he knew it, Sam was looping his black tie around his neck and contemplating whether going to the funeral was really such a good idea. Considering the crimes Tom had committed, it was highly unlikely that there would be a crowd of well-wishers lining the entrance to the church to see him off. Knowing that he would be able to blend in with the crowd would make attending the funeral a far more palatable proposition, but it wouldn’t be so easy to hover inconspicuously at the back of the church when there were only a handful of other people present. Nevertheless, Sam knew that for whatever reason, he had to be there to witness his old friend being buried. Like he’d said to Sarah, it was all to do with closure.
