by Claire Allan
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it was just a matter of them . . . you know . . . preparing his body.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ Stella says, rubbing her
girlfriend’s arm. ‘Don’t let it upset you, anyway. At least we have a bit more time to get things organised here.’
‘True enough,’ Ciara says, her eyes darting around the house
as if she is seeing it for the first time, even though we’d all
been here for most of the night.
Stella speaks next. ‘Where should we start?’ she asks, taking
off her coat and hanging it at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m not
familiar with all your traditions over here, so just tell me what
to do and I’ll do it.’
Stella is very practical by nature. No nonsense. I’m glad
to have her around. Ciara gives her a small smile. It lasts just
a moment or two before she turns to look at me with a
more serious face. Her expression reminds me of how she
looked when we first met – full of teenage angst and intran-
sigence.
‘Well, Heidi, what do you suggest?’
I don’t know what to do any more than Stella does, if truth
be told. I avoid death rituals. I saw enough of them as a child
that I blanked them out. I stare, unspeaking, at her.
‘Well, where do you want to have him laid out?’ Alex asks,
stepping close to me and taking my hand. ‘Do you think the
front living room would be best? If so, I’ll start clearing the
furniture.’
I could kiss him for taking charge. Stella is not the only
person who can help in a crisis.
‘That’s fine with me,’ Ciara says.
‘Grand. I’ll get started on that, then,’ Alex replies.
‘You can’t do that on your own,’ I say. ‘I’ll help.’
‘How about I help Alex?’ Stella asks. ‘I’m sure you and Ciara
have enough to be doing elsewhere.’
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Ciara and I look at each other, neither of us sure what else we should be doing at all but sure that whatever it is, we don’t
want to be doing it together.
‘That would be great.’ Alex speaks for me again.
It isn’t lost on me that both Alex and Stella are talking slowly,
as if giving instructions to truculent toddlers. There is an air of broken eggshells all around us and we’re all being careful not
to tread them further into the ground.
‘Mum has the refreshments under control,’ Ciara says. ‘She
knows a caterer and wants to help.’
Ciara’s mum, Marie, has always been kind to me. Unlike her
daughter, she doesn’t seem to hold me partially responsible for
her husband leaving her. I’m glad of her offer of help.
‘And she has been talking to Kathleen about the funeral,’
Ciara continues. ‘Kathleen has very definite ideas about what
she wants. I imagine it doesn’t matter to you that much,’ she
says. ‘Besides, it will free you up to call the estate agent and
get the house on the market. Do you want to do that now, or
is it time enough until he’s actually buried? It might get a little awkward showing people around and seeing a coffin in the
living room.’
I’m not sure which is my most overriding emotion: shame,
embarrassment or anger.
‘Sweetheart,’ I hear Stella say gently.
Alex is quiet. Ciara stands and stares at me waiting for an
answer. She’s not letting me get away with it. She wants to
break me down just like her father did.
But I won’t let her. I’m not a child any more. I won’t apol-
ogise or cower.
‘After the funeral is fine,’ I say, my voice steady.
Ciara glares at me, waiting for more maybe. But she won’t
get it. Not about the house, anyway. I slip into organisation
mode, trying to remember all the things we did twenty years
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ago when it was my mother’s turn to be laid out in the front room. Of course I was so young then, my memories are hazy
at best.
‘I think maybe we should be closing curtains. Find somewhere
to place the candles from the undertaker. Do people still cover
all the mirrors?’
Seeing that she’s not getting a rise out of me, Ciara shrugs.
‘I’m not sure. I’ll check.’
She takes her phone from her pocket and starts to search for
‘wake traditions’.
‘It seems a lot of it is up to us,’ she says. ‘But maybe we
should go and look in his room,’ she adds. ‘Strip the bed,
open the window at least and air it out. See what medica-
tions need to be dropped off at the chemist. Then we can
close the curtains again. Or the blinds at least. I think we
maybe should cover the mirror in the room he’ll be in,’ she
says.
I don’t really want to go into that room again, but I’m deter-
mined not to show any weakness in front of Ciara.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘That seems a good place to start.’
‘Will you two be okay?’ Stella asks.
She’s keeping her voice light, but I know both she and Alex
must be scared we will tear lumps out of each other given the
chance. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course. It had become
physical on occasion when we were younger. Ciara had been
stubborn and I had been angry, and grew angrier every day
until I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
‘We will,’ Ciara says. ‘We can do this together,’ she says gently
to me. Her sudden change in demeanour – the shift from bitchy
to supportive – is so fast that I feel wrong-footed.
Ciara crosses the hall and takes my hand in hers. I have to
resist the urge to pull away. I have to stay in control and not
be manipulated by her rapid mood swing.
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I let her lead the way up the stairs, not pulling my hand away. I can play her game.
His room is dark. No one has opened the curtains; the light
has been switched off. It smells of stale air with a faint under-
current of something medical; disinfectant perhaps. I find myself
standing for a minute or so just inside the doorway. Ciara has
let go of my hand and she walks in and briskly pulls the curtains
apart, the stream of light showing the dust motes in full flight.
This was where it all ended. It feels more real now than
when the paramedic told me he was very sorry for my troubles.
Or when the priest prayed over Joe’s body, or when the doctor
made it all official.
That had been much less of a momentous declaration than
it should have been. A life over, acknowledged with a shake of
a head and a scrawled signature on some paper.
My lungs struggle to suck in the stale air of the room and
I feel a weight of something akin to grief hit me directly in
the centre of my chest for the first time. It’s a physical sensation that I have not expected. It
makes me feel as unsettled as Ciara’s mood swings.
I half walk, half stumble to the bed, where I sit down and
close my eyes, trying to find my breath.
I feel the mattress dip beside me. Ciara is sitting down.
‘It’s so strange, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘After all these years . . .’
Her words hang in the air. I don’t know what to say to her.
How to respond.
Slowly, as my breathing returns to normal, I open my eyes.
The room looks different in the light. Dated. I can’t remember
the last time he had the painters in here. If ever. There’s a fine layer of dust on the chest of drawers. The mirror on the front
of the wardrobe is smeared and smudged. Should I have cleaned
for him? Or cleaned more? Should Ciara have?
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An indentation in the shape of his head still exists on the pillow his head was resting on. The sheets are pulled back. His
bedside table is less dusty, but it is cluttered. A glass of water, half empty, a straw poking from the top of it. A couple of boxes
of tablets, which I lift and set on the chest of drawers. I’ll put them in a plastic bag shortly. Some loose change and a box of
tissues. Some crumpled and discarded. His reading glasses,
unfolded, the arms pointing upwards. A packet of Werther’s
Original, three discarded wrappers from the sweets he had eaten.
I pick up the detritus, drop it in the bin. I open the drawer on
his bedside locker and slip the sweets and the change in. I’m
not sure why I do this. He won’t be coming back for them
later. A leather-bound diary, burgundy, and a pen are among
the scarce contents of his drawer.
I feel wrong doing it, but not wrong enough to stop. Sitting
on the edge of the bed, I open the diary, my heart contracting
as I see the familiar loops and swirls of his handwriting. It’s this year’s diary. There aren’t that many entries completed, but I see
that he has dutifully filled in his contact information.
‘What’s that?’ Ciara asks from across the room.
‘His diary,’ I say.
‘Well, I don’t think you should be looking at it,’ she says.
The harsh tone is back in her voice. I’m more familiar with
this version of Ciara than with the Ciara who held my hand
walking up the stairs.
In three or four steps she crosses the room and snatches it
from my hands.
‘He deserves his privacy, you know,’ she says. ‘Even if he’s
gone.’
I mutter an apology, feel shame burn at my face.
Ciara walks back to the other side of the room, opens the
wardrobe with the smudged mirrors and places the diary high
on a shelf. She closes the door with a rattle and turns the
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bronze key in the lock, which she then puts in the pocket of her dress. The message is loud and clear. I have overstepped the
mark.
‘Ciara? Heidi?’ I hear Stella’s voice from downstairs before I
have the time to react.
We walk to the landing, look down the stairs.
There are two police officers standing in the hall, looking
directly up at us.
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Chapter Twenty-Five
Heidi
Now
‘Can we help you, Officer?’ Ciara asks.
‘Perhaps if we can have a sit down we could chat,’ a tall man,
his face solemn, says. ‘I’m Detective Inspector David Bradley,
and this is my colleague Detective Constable Eve King, from
Strand Road police station.’
My heart thumps.
‘Has someone been hurt, Officer?’ Stella asks.
My stomach lurches.
‘This is in relation to Mr McKee,’ he says. ‘And really it might
be better if we sit down.’
Ciara leads the way into the living room. The furniture has
been pushed against the walls, some dining chairs lined against
the window. Space has been cleared by the far wall for a coffin.
For his coffin. So that mourners can file in and pay their respects, leave a Mass card, say a prayer, look at his body, embalmed and
laid out looking like a waxwork of the man he was.
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I perch on one of the dining chairs, leave the soft seats for DI Bradley and DC King. Alex hovers beside me before sitting
down. Ciara and Stella hold hands and sit on the sofa.
‘If you could let us know what this is about,’ Ciara speaks,
‘because we’re expecting to hear from the undertakers and we
want the house ready for the return of my father’s remains.’
DI Bradley takes a breath and looks at each of us. ‘I’m afraid
there will be a further delay to the release of your father’s
remains. Following discussions with Mr Steele, the undertaker
tasked with making all funeral arrangements, and Dr Sweeney,
your family physician, we have decided that in this case there
is cause for a postmortem examination to be taken.’
My heart races.
‘But why? He was ill. The doctor said it was one of those
things. This is ridiculous,’ Ciara says, anger evident in her tone.
DI Bradley pauses for a moment, as if he is checking that
Ciara’s rage is spent, then speaks. ‘While preparing your father’s remains, there were some marks to his body that warrant extra
investigation. I should stress, at this time, this is a formality. It’s our duty, and the duty of the coroner, to investigate anything
that may explain your father’s sudden death.’
‘He had terminal cancer. He was recovering from major
surgery. That’s what caused his sudden death. Dr Sweeney said
so.’ Ciara is on her feet, dragging her fingers through her hair.
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ DI Bradley said gently. ‘However,
it’s policy in cases such as these.’
‘What kind of marks?’ I ask. All eyes turn to me. ‘You say
Mr Steele found marks, what were they? What does he think
may have caused them?’
‘I don’t have that particular information at hand, and it
would be remiss of me to say anything more until after the
postmortem. Any findings will be for the coroner to determine.
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We appreciate this must be very distressing for you all,’ DI Bradley says.
Ciara snorts. ‘Well that’s okay, then,’ she snaps. ‘Take my father and carve him up all you want. It’s okay as long as you appreciate how difficult it is for us.’
‘Sweetheart,’ Stella says gently.
Trying to smooth the waters again, I imagine.
Ciara’s face crumples at the softness of her tone and Stella
pulls her girlfriend into a hug while DI Bradley and his colleague watch. I’m sure they are used to this. To seeing grief – raw and
angry – in front of them. I wonder how many times they’ve
had conversations as distressing as these before.
I hea
r Alex speak next. He is standing in the doorway looking
pale and tired and worn out. ‘Is there a suggestion of foul play?’
he asks.
All eyes are on him, Ciara even breaking from her embrace
with Stella to watch, as he speaks.
DI Bradley shifts in his seat. ‘As I’ve said, it wouldn’t be
appropriate for me to comment at this stage, but we are looking
at all lines of inquiry.’
‘So that’s a yes,’ Ciara says. ‘Jesus Christ. This is ridiculous.’
The woman who had been introduced to us as DC Eve
King clears her throat. ‘We’ll keep you informed every step
of the way. Should a family member wish to come to Belfast
with us while the postmortem is carried out, this can be
facilitated.’
I’m aware I’m not openly reacting to any of this. That I am
sitting here numb, listening. I’m trying to take it all in. Foul
play? Really? What must they think of me?
‘For our records, would you mind if we asked a few ques-
tions?’ DC King asks.
Ciara throws her hands to the air as if she can’t believe what
is happening.
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I mutter a quick, ‘We’ll do what we can to help,’ knowing that it wouldn’t really matter if we minded.
She takes a pen and notepad from her pocket. It feels so
serious, so formal.
‘Can I ask who was in the house last night with Mr McKee
at the time of his death?’
‘We’ve been through this already,’ Ciara says, but there is less
fight in her now. She is sagging and sits down on one of the
armchairs, her head in her hands.
‘All of us,’ I say. ‘That’s me, Heidi Lewis. My husband, Alex
Lewis. Ciara, and Stella Brown, Ciara’s partner.’
‘My aunt, Kathleen Douglas, was here, too,’ Ciara says. ‘My
father’s sister.’
‘And where is she now?’ DC King asks.
‘Staying with a friend. She was very distressed. Dr Sweeney
gave her some tablets to help her sleep.’
The policewoman nods. ‘And it was you, Mr Lewis, who
discovered that Mr McKee had died?’
Alex nods. ‘I went to check on him just after eleven and I
noticed he didn’t appear to be breathing. I checked his pulse
but he was gone.’
‘And who was the last person to talk to Mr McKee?’
I shrug. It’s hard to know. We’d all been making our way up
