When my shaking hand has settled, I return the way I came. By the time I get to Hendo’s, the photographer has gone. It’s such an enormous site that the idea of it being anything other than what it is now seems incomprehensible. Blackpool has the Tower, London has the Eye and we have Hendo’s. I stop and stare for a little while. It feels impossible that it could be something that isn’t a sprawling factory.
I blink away the wistful thoughts, telling myself it’s the booze. Then, instead of returning to Dad’s, I take the turn for Holly’s and follow the route towards her house. As soon as I get onto her street, I see what the man in the shop was talking about. It was only yesterday that Jo was standing outside Stephen’s house shouting at him about being the one who hit Ethan. Whether it was that, or the news of his car showing up in the quarry, someone has made some serious assumptions.
The word ‘murderor’ has been spray-painted across his front door, and, in place of the glass in the window at the side, a wooden board is pinned into the frame.
Before I can move, the front door opens and Stephen emerges. He spots me straight away on the other side of the road and I’m frozen.
‘Happy now?’ he calls.
I only have two options – disappear or cross the road and talk to him. I’m certainly not having a shouted conversation, so opt for the latter and shimmy between a pair of cars to join him outside his house.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say.
‘Bit late now,’ he replies – though he doesn’t sound as angry as I expected.
‘Did the police—?’
‘Already been.’ He talks over me. ‘I’m not expecting much. None of the neighbours have been round, so it won’t be a surprise when none of them have seen or heard anything.’ He looks up to the houses around and shouts, ‘Yeah, I’m talking about you lot.’ He lowers his voice when he focuses back on me. ‘Cowards waited until we’d gone out. Weren’t brave enough to try it while I was in.’ He sighs and looks back to the house. ‘Sorry for shouting. I know it wasn’t your fault. You tell your friend I know it’s not her, either. She’s got enough going on with her kid in hospital and everything.’
We turn at the sound of footsteps. Holly has appeared and stands awkwardly, looking between us. She must have been watching from her window and focuses on the graffiti.
Her arms are folded, but she uncrosses them slowly and focuses on Stephen. ‘I can send Rob over if you need a hand getting rid of that,’ she says.
Stephen lets out a surprised-sounding ‘oh’, before he straightens himself. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t want to spend his summer holiday scrubbing my front door. I’ve got a company who specialises in this coming over anyway. Should be here in an hour or so.’ He pauses and then adds: ‘I don’t suppose you heard anything, did you? It happened last night.’
Holly shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’
Stephen glimpses sideways towards me, offering a momentary and silent told you so.
‘No matter,’ he says. ‘No real harm done.’
It’s quite the change from a few minutes before when it felt like he was ready for a fight, or certainly in the mood to shout at someone. I think he might’ve simply wanted someone to listen to him.
Holly turns to me. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘I haven’t got long,’ I reply. ‘I’ve got a funeral to get to.’
Twenty-Six
Damien, the funeral director, welcomes me into the reception with a solemn bow. He’s in a suit that’s even smarter than the other day, with a dark tie and glimmering black shoes. I don’t blame him as he looks me up and down, taking in my loose, cream trousers and vest with a dark cardigan. Covering up this much on a hot day is enough of a sacrifice.
Despite the look, he says nothing about my outfit.
‘Everything’s ready at the back,’ he says.
He starts to lead me through the carpeted area but then stops.
‘I know you mentioned changing the music. I hope this is acceptable. There are other options, or you could choose something yourself. I have Spotify.’
I’d not even noticed the music, but, rather than the suicide-inducing piano melody from before, it’s some sort of Boyzoney, Westlifey nonsense that is not only hated by me but would have been utterly detested by my father.
‘It’s perfect,’ I say.
I make a move towards the room at the back, but Damien touches me on the shoulder gently. ‘There’s a couple more things,’ he says. ‘I know you said flowers weren’t really his thing, but I have a friend at the florist and she had a wreath that had been paid for and not picked up. It was going to go to waste. It’s in there at the moment, but I can get rid of it if you prefer…?’
‘I genuinely do not care what you do with it.’
There’s a part of me determined to break him and get even a small reaction – but he’s stoic.
‘I think I’ll leave it in there,’ Damien says. ‘The next thing is the coffin and whether you’d like it open or closed. I know you weren’t keen on a viewing the other day, but this will be the last opportunity.’
‘You can padlock the lid closed if you want.’
‘You’d prefer it shut?’
‘I’d prefer it in the ground.’
Another short nod, but there’s still nothing approaching anything other than a professional response.
‘The final thing is whether you’d like to speak. I know that you previously said—’
‘You can do the talking.’
‘Not a problem.’ He straightens his suit and then steps to the side. ‘I’ll go and sort out closing the casket. If you wait here, I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
When he leaves, I take a seat in the arc of chairs that is near the entranceway. I swig from my bottle and enjoy the gentle burn of the liquid. I’m under the air-conditioning vent and the chilled breeze leaves me shivering. Another drink sees to that.
I look up when the door goes and Helena shuffles in. She’s dressed in a black skirt-suit that I suspect has been making too many appearances in recent times. I expect her to close the door, but she holds it open and Chris and then Kirsty appear, each wearing black. There was no indication they’d be here when I saw Chris earlier and it’s hard to hide my surprise.
When they’re all inside, Helena comes across to me and clenches my hands in between her own. ‘I thought I’d get some support down here for you, love.’
I peer up to Chris, who’s shifting uncomfortably in his suit. Kirsty is silently fuming, like she accidentally shredded a winning lottery ticket.
‘Thanks,’ I say as she releases my hands. ‘I wasn’t expecting you all.’
‘I lived next door to Dennis for all these years. Wouldn’t be right if I let him pass without paying my respects.’
Damien chooses that moment to reappear from the back room. ‘Everything’s ready,’ he says, with a thin smile.
I glance up to the clock above him, which reads ten minutes to four.
‘You go in,’ I say, talking to Helena. ‘I’m going to wait out here for a little longer. I’ll be in at four.’
Helena doesn’t see anything wrong with this and shuffles across the reception, disappearing into the back room with her son and daughter-in-law steps behind. Chris stops in the doorway for a moment, turning and narrowing his eyes slightly as he takes me in. I suspect it’s not only my outfit he’s querying.
Damien stands close with his hands behind his back. ‘I’ll wait in the back for you,’ he says. ‘Give you a few minutes here to compose yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
He disappears and I continue sitting and waiting, counting down the seconds.
At four minutes to the hour, the door sounds again and four men shuffle in. They are all in suits but have maintained an air of scruffiness with varying degrees of untucked shirts, trousers that are too short, and small holes in the suits themselves.
All four are still better dressed than me, of course.
They turn, looking where to go, before o
ne of them says, ‘Are you sure it’s here?’
Another pulls a newspaper cutting from his pocket and scans it. ‘That’s what it says.’
‘Through there,’ I say, pointing towards the back room.
The group look down towards me and move collectively in the direction I indicated, before one of them stops and turns. He’s likely in his late-sixties, unshaven, with a blotchy red nose and cheeks.
‘You’re not little Abigail, are you?’
‘Not so little any more.’
He looks me up and down, silently querying my outfit. I have no idea who he is, though assume he’s some sort of drinking buddy.
‘Yer dad didn’t think you’d come,’ he says.
‘I guess he bet his house on it.’
The man narrows his eyes slightly, not getting it. ‘He missed yer.’
‘I bet he did.’
‘Talked about yer loads.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That you’d gone to London and were doing well for yerself. He was right proud.’
He stands, waiting for a response – but I don’t know what to say. The truth is that Dad had little idea how I was getting on away from here. We spoke with enormous infrequency and met even less often. I suspect his pride was closer to guilt.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say, though I still have no idea who the men are.
They seem to accept this and head through to the back room.
Three minutes to four.
Two minutes.
The Boyzone or Westlife track changes to something equally offensive, which I take as a cue to push myself up. When I get into the back room, heads turn – though it’s only Helena, Chris, Kirsty, the four men, and Damien.
The casket is on a plinth towards the back of the room. It’s light brown, with brass handles. Probably expensive, though I suppose it was my father’s final expense. I wonder if he knew that, were it left to anyone else – especially me – he’d have been in a cardboard box.
The wreath is resting on top of the coffin, while the rest of the room is decorated with neutral colours and low-lighting. The dreadful music continues to play as I take the seat at the back, closest to the exit.
Damien moves across until he’s standing on a step, close to the coffin. He glances up towards the clock and then thanks everyone for coming.
The next few minutes are a blur. Damien bangs on about the circle of life and a whole bunch of other stuff that probably doesn’t come from The Lion King. I tune out more or less immediately. There’s a Bible reading and it’s as he finishes that I pull myself to my feet.
‘I do want to say something.’
Damien was mid-sentence, but he stops himself and nods in my direction.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘For anyone who doesn’t know, this is Dennis’s daughter, Abi Coyle.’
I head to the step at the front, tightly clutching my bottle. As I turn to take in the room, the door opens and a young woman pokes her head inside. I figure she’s in the wrong place but, after a brief look inside, she continues into the room and sets herself down in the seat where I’d been sitting previously. The unexpected presence throws me temporarily because she’s so young. At a guess, she’s fifteen or sixteen, with chestnut hair tied into a ponytail, plus a black dress and thick glasses. It looks as if she’s come for a funeral – though I can’t imagine any way in which she knew my father.
After she’s settled, I realise everyone is understandably looking to me. I clear my throat and then wonder why I stood in the first place.
‘Dad was many things,’ I start, although, even part way through the sentence, I’m not sure where it’s going. ‘Many things to many people. He liked drinking and football and racing. He was an Elwood man in every sense of what that means.’
I risk a glance towards the small number of people in the room and see that everyone’s eyes are on me. I have no idea what I’m doing or why I’m doing it.
‘He was always there for his neighbours,’ I say. ‘A constant. An acceptable face in an acceptable area. He played football when he was younger. He ran. He liked Springsteen and Elvis and Pink Floyd. His favourite film was A Clockwork Orange… or it was the last time I ever really knew him.’
The girl I don’t know is watching me eagerly, hanging on the words. I want to ask who she is.
‘We weren’t close,’ I say. ‘I’ve not seen him in eight years. The last time was at a service station. It was Christmas and it was raining. He told me he’d lost his coat and he was shivering underneath four jumpers. We had a Burger King… well, he did. I bought it. I nicked a couple of his chips and then we went in opposite directions. He was drunk but had driven down the motorway anyway.’
I stop and take a breath, then have a drink from my bottle. The foreign vodka is as harsh as an Arctic winter and I can’t stop myself from coughing down the final drops. I ignore the guests and continue.
‘There’s only one time I ever remember him having something to say that was worthwhile. He came home drunk one night, like every night, I suppose. My mum had walked out a day before and I didn’t know if she was coming back. He didn’t know either – but he punched me to the floor and then kicked me in the face.’
I push my hair to the side, running a finger along the scar.
‘He did this – and then he broke my jaw for good measure. I woke up in the bathroom. I was cradling the bowl, like a mother with a newborn. There was blood and vomit on the floor and this smell like nothing I’d ever known before. The worst of everything. Literal hell. It was maybe three or four in the morning and the sun was starting to come up. He’d sobered up a little and he started to cry when he saw me. He told me to leave the house, to get the hell out of Elwood because, if I stayed, he’d never be able to stop. And then, in that instance at least – and perhaps for the first time ever – I did exactly what I was told.’
I have another drink from my bottle and then use it to salute the few people in attendance, as if offering a toast.
‘This one’s for you, Dad. I’m off to the pub.’
Twenty-Seven
I skip the Wetherspoon’s and head for the grotty old man’s pub on one of the back streets away from the High Street. This is definitely more Dad’s scene, with the faded sports photographs on the wall, the blackened ceiling and the flat, warm ale being served in dimpled glasses with handles.
I’m the only woman here. There are a handful of old men scattered around the various seats, plus two lads on the fruit machines, who either look very young for their age or are getting away with something they shouldn’t.
I order a vodka and Coke from the barman.
‘You can’t have outside drinks in here,’ he says, nodding at the bottle in my hand. I’m so used to carrying it that I’d forgotten it was with me.
‘It’s water,’ I say, holding it up.
He gives me a crooked, knowing look but doesn’t add anything. He’s around my age and I wonder if I know him from school.
I settle myself in a corner alcove, close to a quiz machine. Nobody from the funeral followed me here, not that I particularly expected them to. It wasn’t about them. There are TVs on the walls around the room showing cricket, although the sound is muted and nobody seems to be watching.
The first drink is gone in one and then I press back into the booth so the barman can’t see as I sip from my bottle. The sun shines through the grimy window and I start to feel sleepy. If it wasn’t the fact I’d likely be thrown out, I could nap here.
I thought getting the funeral out of the way would lift some sort of burden. I’d end up feeling freer and happier but, in truth, I don’t think anything has changed. Dad was dead before and he’s dead now. My tantrum next to his coffin made no impact on that, or him.
I head to the bar and order another drink, then ask the barman to switch a twenty into pound coins. Back in my corner, I feed the first coin into the quiz machine, although I quickly realise I don’t know as much as I thought.
As I’m l
osing my money, a pair of men slot into the booth closest to mine, each nestling a pint of amber.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ the first man says. He’s probably in his fifties and, judging by his accent, local.
‘I don’t have to use your name,’ the other says. ‘It would be up to you.’
‘Bit late with us sitting in a pub, isn’t it? Anyone can see us.’
‘True – but perhaps it’s best if we do use your name? People who read the piece will understand what you’re going through. There’ll be employers who might be able to help.’
I sneak a sideways glance and realise I know one of the men. The guy with a local accent is Kevin, a lad with whom I went to school. We were never friends, but it’s not like we were enemies. He was one of those kids who actually seemed to enjoy learning, which instantly set him apart from most of the rest of our year. I don’t recognise the other guy – but he pushes his phone towards the centre of the table, face up.
‘I’m going to record this, if it’s all right,’ he says.
Kevin shrugs and slumps into his seat, looking defeated. ‘Fine.’
‘How long have you been at Hendo’s?’
‘Twenty-one years.’
‘And you found out three months ago that you’re going to be made redundant?’
‘Exactly. My boss didn’t know – or that’s what he said. I got a letter in the post, saying I was being given three months’ notice but that I could leave right away with pay.’ Kevin sighs. ‘I have no idea what I’m going to do now. There aren’t those types of jobs around here. What is there to do? Go and work at the McDonald’s on the ring road? Or the KFC?’
The Child Across the Street: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 14
