Authors: Shaun Hutson
Heathen/Nemesis (5 page)
‘You need something to help you through this, Donna. They’ll do you good. Our doctor prescribed them for my mum when my dad died.’
‘What are you trying to do, turn me into a junkie?’
‘He’ll probably give you valium, not cocaine.’
Donna managed a smile. She reached out and squeezed Jackie’s hand.
‘Thanks for what you’ve done, Jackie. I appreciate it. I’m sorry if I’ve put you to any trouble ...’
‘Don’t be so stupid. What was I supposed to do this morning, just turn around and walk away? What would you have done if you’d found me the same way?’
‘Exactly what you’ve done. But I’m still grateful.’
She sipped more of the soup, then some of her tea.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Jackie asked quietly.
‘No, not really, but I suppose I’m going to have to eventually. People will have to be told.’ She sighed and rubbed a hand across her face.
‘Chris didn’t have any family, did he?’
Donna shook her head.
‘Neither of us did, but there’s my sister. I’ll have to let Julie know.’
‘It’s all taken care of. I phoned her before I phoned the doctor. She said she’ll be here tomorrow morning. She’s taking time off work.’
Donna looked blankly at Jackie.
‘She’s your sister, Donna; she
should
be with you. You shouldn’t be alone. Not now.’
should
be with you. You shouldn’t be alone. Not now.’
‘Thank you,’ Donna said softly.
‘So, do you want to talk?’
Donna nodded.
‘It was a car crash, somewhere in Central London as far as I know. He was working there for a couple of days, researching a new book. He’d been using the British Museum Library a lot. So he said.’ She repeated the sequence of events which led up to the identification of her husband’s body the previous night.
‘It must have been terrible for you. I’m sorry, Donna.’
‘Jackie ...’
I think he was having an affair.
The words were there but Donna could not bring herself to say them.
‘What?’ Jackie wanted to know.
Donna shook her head.
‘It’s all right,’ she lied. Then, trying to change the subject: ‘Did anyone ring while I was asleep?’
‘Two or three people rang. They wanted to speak to Chris. I just told them he wasn’t available.’ Jackie shrugged. ‘I didn’t think it was my place to tell them the truth. You’re not mad, are you? I suppose if I had done it would have saved you the trouble. Perhaps I should ...’
‘You were right,’ Donna said. ‘As usual.’
It was Jackie’s turn to smile.
‘The police rang,’ she said after a moment or two, the smile fading. ‘They said that you could pick up Chris’s belongings whenever you wanted to. Some bloke called Mackenzie. He said he wanted to speak to you when you felt better.’
‘He was there last night,’ Donna said. Then she frowned. ‘I wonder why they need to speak to me again? I identified Chris.’ She swallowed hard. ‘What more could they want to know?’
Some details about Suzanne Regan, perhaps?
Could you tell us how long your husband had been having an affair, Mrs Ward?
She wiped a tear from her eye and sniffed, pushing the tray away.
‘I can’t eat any more,’ she announced apologetically.
‘There’s some stuff in your fridge, I checked. I’ll warm it up for you later. Chops, that kind of thing.’
‘I can’t eat anything, Jackie, I told you. Anyway, you can’t stay here all the time. Dave gets home at about six, doesn’t he?’
‘Dave is on a training course for a couple of nights in Southampton. I’ve got nothing to rush back for, anyway.’
Are you sure that’s where he is, Jackie? Are you certain he’s not driving around with another woman? Positive he isn’t involved?
That word again.
‘If you want me to stay the night with you I will,’ Jackie said.
‘I appreciate it, really, but I’ve got to face things sooner or later.’
‘It’s only the day after, Donna; be fair to yourself. Don’t try to be
too
strong.’
too
strong.’
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘I’ll stay until the doctor’s been, how’s that?’
Donna smiled and nodded, watching Jackie pick up the tray and head for the door. She heard her footfalls on the stairs and lay down, eyes closed for long moments.
A car crash in Central London. He was working there.
Was he? Was he really working?
On a book or on Suzanne Regan?
Donna opened her eyes, felt the moisture there.
Had it been an affair?
Somehow she had to find out.
Ten
It was about seven-thirty when Jackie finally left. She had tried to encourage Donna to eat something, using a combination of threats and cajolements. The two women had ended up smiling at each other across the kitchen table. Both of them knew that there was no relief in that smile, however; no hint of a respite from the suffering Donna felt.
The doctor had prescribed a mild dosage of Valium, just 2mg, the minimum dose, but Donna was wary of the drug and said she’d only take it if she found she had no option.
Alone in the house now, seated at the kitchen table dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt several sizes too big, she stared at the bottle reproachfully and ran a hand through her hair. She had showered and washed her hair after Jackie had left, standing beneath the spray for more than twenty minutes, as if the powerful jets of water could wash away some of her grief.
She’d sat in the sitting-room and tried to watch television but the images on the screen did not register in her mind. She had flicked aimlessly from channel to channel before switching the set off and turning on the stereo instead. It didn’t seem to matter what she did as long as she didn’t have to put up with the silence. In the kitchen she had switched on the ghetto-blaster, but every tape she selected seemed to bring different memories. If she played one of Chris’s tapes it made her think of him. If she played one of her own then the words she normally sang along to quite happily had added poignancy. He always used to joke with her about her choice of music, telling her the sad love songs she was so fond of would make her depressed. They never had. Until now.
She sat alone and silent in the kitchen, tapping the lid of the valium bottle, wondering if she should take just one.
It
might
help.
might
help.
She shook her head. Tranquillizers helped to alleviate symptoms of stress and suffering; they didn’t remove the cause.
She got to her feet and padded barefoot from the kitchen back towards the stairs, climbing them slowly.
The phone rang again but she ignored it, allowing the message to be taken by the answering machine. The green light was already flashing three times but Donna had no inclination to learn the identity of the callers just yet. As she reached the top of the stairs she heard the click as the machine recorded the latest call and stored it.
The house was silent again as she wandered down the corridor that led off the landing to her husband’s office.
It was cold inside there, colder than the rest of the house, she thought, but realized that this was merely fanciful supposition. She touched the radiator and found it was hot. She switched on the desk lamp and sat down behind the typewriter, running her fingers over the black keys as if it were a musical instrument.
There was a framed picture of her husband on the wall to the left of the desk, from a photo shoot he’d done in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors for the launch of his last book. It showed him standing beside the guillotine, pointing up at the blade and smiling.
Donna stared at the photo, her eyes filling with tears. She fought them back and glanced around at the other things on his desk. It was organised chaos. File trays were marked with white sticky labels, each one supposedly home, according to the legend on the sticker, to various documents.
CONTRACTS
RESEARCH AND NOTES
FAN MAIL
She picked a letter from the top of the tray and glanced at it. It was the usual thing.
‘I enjoyed your books very much. I look forward to the next one. Please can I have a signed photo etc. etc.’
‘I enjoyed your books very much. I look forward to the next one. Please can I have a signed photo etc. etc.’
Ward received a lot of fan mail and was always grateful for it. The readers, he used to tell her, paid their mortgage.
Did they pay for his mistress, too?
Donna slid open one of the drawers and peered in. More notepads, more envelopes. Elastic bands, paper clips, Tipp-Ex.
A letter.
She pulled it out and spread it out on the desk, scanning it through tired eyes.
Dear Suzanne.
Donna stiffened, sucked in a shallow breath.
Suzanne.
One part of her wanted to read the letter; the other part told her not to continue.
‘Dear Suzanne,’ she read aloud. ‘Just a quick note to tell you that everything is taken care of.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I hope you are well and I will see you next Thursday. Love, Chris.’
Love.
Donna closed her eyes for a moment, her body shaking. Then she looked at the letter again. There was no date on it.
See you next Thursday.
She snatched at the letter and balled it up, crushing it between her hands, finally hurling it across the room with a despairing grunt. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. She glared across at the photo of her husband on the wall.
He smiled back at her.
‘You fucking bastard,’ she roared at the photo.
She didn’t know whether her tears were of pain or anger.
And it didn’t really seem to matter any more.
Eleven
Donna hadn’t expected so much coverage in the papers.
She’d thought there would be a mention of her husband’s death in the trade magazines, and perhaps a line or two in one of the nationals, but she was unprepared for what actually appeared.
Three of the tabloids ran two-column stories (one with a photograph) while even
The Times
mentioned Chris’s death. A little ironic, Donna thought, considering how they had lambasted his books when he’d been alive. The coverage provoked a flood of phone calls to the house. She moved around irritably, not picking up the phone, leaving the answering machine to cope with the deluge. Occasionally she would stand beside the machine and listen to see who was on the other end of the line, but by the afternoon she had unplugged all the phones except the one connected to the answerphone in an effort to get some peace.
The Times
mentioned Chris’s death. A little ironic, Donna thought, considering how they had lambasted his books when he’d been alive. The coverage provoked a flood of phone calls to the house. She moved around irritably, not picking up the phone, leaving the answering machine to cope with the deluge. Occasionally she would stand beside the machine and listen to see who was on the other end of the line, but by the afternoon she had unplugged all the phones except the one connected to the answerphone in an effort to get some peace.
She hadn’t slept much the previous night and what rest she’d managed had been fitful. She’d woken twice from a nightmare but had been unable to remember the images that had shocked her into consciousness.
Car crashes, perhaps?
Funerals?
Mistresses?
She didn’t go near Ward’s office that day; she feared what she might find in there. The letter she had discovered had only reinforced her conviction that her husband had been having an affair with Suzanne Regan. What Donna was aware of was how little she had cried since finding the letter. More and more of the emotion she felt was tinged with anger now.
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