After He Died E-Book

Michael Malone

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 489

Beschreibung

When a strange woman slips a note into grieving widow Paula's pocket at her husband's funeral, everything suggests that he was not all that he seemed … A devastatingly moving, explosive psychological thriller from the international bestselling author of A Suitable Lie. 'Disturbing but compulsive … I loved it' Martina Cole 'Bristling with unease, this is domestic noir at its very darkest, twisting the marriage thriller into a new and troubling shape' Eva Dolan 'Vivid, visceral and compulsive' Ian Rankin _________________ You need to know who your husband really was… When Paula Gadd's husband of almost thirty years dies, just days away from the seventh anniversary of their son, Christopher's death, her world falls apart. Grieving and bereft, she is stunned when a young woman approaches her at the funeral service, and slips something into her pocket. A note suggesting that Paula's husband was not all that he seemed… When the two women eventually meet, a series of revelations challenges everything Paula thought she knew, and it becomes immediately clear that both women's lives are in very real danger. Both a dark, twisty slice of domestic noir and taut, explosive psychological thriller, After He Died is also a chilling reminder that the people we trust the most can harbour the deadliest secrets… _________________ Praise for Michael J. Malone 'Gripping and suspenseful fare that reinforces Malone's renown for producing psychological thrillers' Herald Scotland 'It's a tough high-wire act, balancing believability with surprise, but the author pulls it off with aplomb. Excellent stuff' Doug Johnstone, The Big Issue 'Michael J Malone has portrayed this beautifully and managed to get the balance just right … A well-paced, excellent read' Promoting Crime 'After He Died is a fantastic read packed with engaging characters and a compelling narrative' CrimeSquad 'An explosive tale, one that takes hold, bites, and doesn't let go' LoveReading 'A stark, gripping storyline' Scots 'A fine, page-turning thriller' Daily Mail 'Original, engrossing and scary' The Times 'Brilliantly creepy' Daily Record 'Genuinely shocking' Crime by the Book 'Delightfully disturbing' Chapter in My Life 'Michael Malone has a way of telling a story that just leaves you more than a little disturbed yet breathless with admiration' Live & Deadly 'Enthralling, wonderful, intense, full of suspense and twists that had my head in a spin! Crime Book Junkie 'Michael J. Malone is quickly making his way up my list of favourite authors' Always Trust in Books

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR MICHAEL J. MALONE

‘A stark, gripping storyline’ Scotsman

‘A fine, page-turning psychological thriller’ Daily Mail

‘A beautifully written tale, original, engrossing and scary’ Marcel Berlins, The Times

‘A complex and multi-layered story – perfect for a wintry night’ Sunday Mirror

‘The story twists and feints, pulling us along with it at every turn’ Alastair Mabbott, Herald Scotland

‘This is a story that is much more powerful in the reading than could be conveyed in any review written about it’ Undiscovered Scotland

‘Brilliantly creepy, with a dash of Glasgow humour, I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. A spine-tingling treat’ Lisa Gray, Daily Record

‘Michael’s novel is vivid, visceral and compulsive’ Ian Rankin

‘Hard-hitting noir that is also emotionally intelligent and engaging’ Caro Ramsay

‘Twists and turns designed to keep the heart pumping’ Russel D. McLean

‘Malone perfectly balances storytelling with a brutal commentary on a dysfunctional relationship’ Sarah Ward

‘A dark and unnerving psychological thriller that draws you deep into the lives of the characters and refuses to let go. This is a brilliantly written book; I could not put it down’ Caroline Mitchell

‘A chilling tale of the unexpected that journeys right into the dark heart of domesticity’ Marnie Riches

‘A tightly wound page-turner with real emotional punch’ Rod Reynolds

‘His incredible skill with language and prose remains, and his talent for characterisation really comes to the fore, creating a story that I won’t forget in a hurry. Malone is a massive talent…’ Luca Veste

‘A disturbing and realistic portrayal of domestic noir with a twist. The humour and emotion laced within the darkness was just the right mix for a shocking yet compelling read’ Mel Sherratt

‘Malone’s effortless writing style confirms him as a sharp new voice in crime fiction’ Anya Lipska

‘The plot is layered and intriguing, my attention never once wandered; it scared the heck out of me in places and kept me reading into the early hours. Overall it was an intense, emotive and beautifully honed piece of “gritty crime” fiction’ Liz Loves Books

‘A slick thriller with a killer punch’ Douglas Skelton

‘Funny and brutal, heartfelt and compelling. Highly recommended’ Craig Robertson

‘Tough, funny, dark and so in your face it hurts’ Ken Bruen

‘Malone writes beautifully’ Chris Ewan

‘Wow! What an emotionally powerful read’ K. E. Cole

‘Highly recommended’ Thomas Enger

‘It’s difficult, unnerving, unputdownable, and simultaneously impossibly sad and also hopeful’ Richard Fernandez

‘An intriguing tale with a haunting, Gothic quality that compels you to keep reading till the end’ Howard Linskey

‘Unexpected and beautiful, the novel has all the gothic elements of classics like Rebecca, and the all the poetry and page-turning trickery you’d expect from Michael Malone’ Louise Beech

‘Utterly brilliant! Scary, captivating and beautifully written’ Emma Clapperton

‘An unsettling and upsetting story that kept me enthralled, horrified and quite often, in tears. Dark, disturbing and peppered with his trademark humour’ S.J.I Holliday

‘Unsettling, thought-provoking, and absolutely riveting’ Love Reading

‘Malone drives a compelling narrative with a plot that will twist your stomach and have you on the edge of your seat’ Live and Deadly

‘Malone has a superb talent for building up the narrative so subtly and carefully that it is only when you reach the end the reader realises that they have read a book which has completely blown their mind’ Segnalibro

‘Have you ever read a book that made you question your beliefs? Pulled at your emotions until you felt stripped bare and exposed? … That is THIS book!!’ Crime Book Junkie

‘Undoubtedly absorbing and will get under your skin from the very first blow. It is stunning’ Woman Reads Books

‘A book that will leave you on the edge of your seat and take you on an emotional journey, gripped with worry, anger, tension and relief’ Off The Shelf Books

‘Dark, powerful and highly emotive’ Bibliophile Book Club

‘A fascinating book to read, chilling, difficult to put down and at times difficult to read’ Steph’s Book Blog

‘Interesting, gripping and so real that you will not be able to put it down’ Blog Loving

‘The wow factor had me completely wrapped up in a twisted, addictive story of how one action can cause a life to spiral out of control, with severe consequences’ Reviewed the Book

‘This is a story of survival, in the toughest conditions. A domestic horror story’ Northern Crime

‘Malone’s perfectly written prose is both profound and insightful’ Postcard Reviews

‘I couldn’t put this down, was frantically page-turning and I feel thoroughly drained now after reading this!’ Mrs Blogg’s Books

‘This is a novel full of twists, tension and gut-wrenching emotion’ Chillers, Killers and Thrillers

‘This was a really emotional read on so many levels’ The Book Trail

‘One of the finest novels within the domestic genre’ The Misstery

‘It was brutal and compelling. It was outstanding. This is a book that will stay with me for a very long time and one you certainly won’t want to miss’ Ampersand Book Reviews

‘Michael has written an evocative, dark and emotional novel that also works as a compelling psychological thriller’ Bloomin’ Brilliant Books

‘It will wrench your heart, challenge your perceptions, turn you upside down, inside out and spit you out, a mangled wreck, on the other side’ Chapter in my Life

‘What a story. Beautiful, like a string of fascinating words given new a meaning when put together. Skilled, like the sharp blade of a razor. Riveting, like an obsessive puzzle with missing pieces’ Chocolate ‘n’ Waffles

‘Fantastic characters, a gloriously mysterious house and a delightfully twisty plot. Highly recommended’ Espresso Coco

‘One of the better novels of this type that I have read this year’ Steph’s Book Blog

‘An extraordinary story with a magical gothic setting in today’s reality. An outstanding supernatural and psychological masterpiece. Just wow!’ Books From Dusk Till Dawn

‘All those topics wrapped up in one beautiful creeptastic package’ The Pages in Between

‘This novel rocked the gothic vibe very well … the ending was amazing, in the most twisted and shocking way!’ Keeper of Pages

‘Well-developed and intentionally plotted – resulting in genuinely shocking and satisfying plot twists and sustained suspense from the book’s first page to its last’ Crime By the Book

‘Michael J. Malone has created a haunting psychological thriller with so many interesting characters that you will ask for more!’ Varietats

‘A very original psychological thriller and one I would urge anyone and everyone to read just because it’s such a powerful and beautifully haunting novel’ The Book Review Café

‘Malone had me hooked from the first page to the last in this exquisitely woven story of the past meeting the present’ Emma the Little Bookworm

‘An easy read that I sprinted through – just because it’s so darn good – with page after page bringing a magnetic welcoming’ Page Turner’s Nook

‘Equally haunting and frightening’ Ronnie Turner

‘Michael J. Malone took me on a journey, he filled my head with the unimaginable and made it come alive’ It’s All about the Books

‘A creepy and atmospheric tale’ The Crime Novel Reader

‘It’s a psychological thriller mixed with a gothic horror and I loved every single page of it’ The Book Magnet

‘With writing that is almost poetic in nature, this is a beautifully written book that keeps readers guessing throughout’ The Quiet Knitter

‘A fresh, remarkable read!’ Novel Gossip

‘A satisfyingly, chillingly, haunting and delightfully disturbing read, don’t miss it!’ Chapter in My Life

‘The author truly shows off his diversity and displays a remarkable talent for storytelling’ Novel Deelights

‘A cracking read that combines a real mystery with a genuinely touching and emotionally affecting story’ Mumbling About

After He Died

MICHAEL J MALONE

Contents

Title Page1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 AcknowledgementsAbout the Author Copyright

1

Through a medicated fog, Paula Gadd looked along the line of mourners waiting to greet her. It took her last scrap of energy not to tell them all to leave. Someone gripped her hand. A woman she didn’t recognise; her face a twist of assumed empathy.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ the woman said.

Paula looked from the woman’s surprisingly strong hand to the powdered lines around her mouth, caught a wave of her sickly perfume and managed a question:

‘Who are you again?’

The woman gave a small nod, as if acknowledging that Paula’s grief was making her momentarily senile, then moved on. The words Minister for Business nudged at her mind. Thomas knew all kinds of important people.

Thomas, her dead husband.

She was way too young to be a widow, wasn’t she?

When she first met him he was Tommy, but his drive for success meant a return to the name on his birth certificate. You can’t be informal, apparently, when you’re aiming for the big bucks.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ the next person said. A man in a black suit. All these men in black suits were merging into one. Except, the bulb shape at the end of this guy’s nose was threaded with veins; Paula couldn’t take her eyes off them, following the lines as a blue one crossed a pink one.

Must be the drugs the doctor had given her, she thought. To be fair, the only way she could handle this service was through a haze. She took a breath in through her nose, as if sniffing for a reminder of the name of the drug printed on the small bottle. Whatever it was, she was immensely grateful.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she aped the man. He cocked his head like a dog might, unsure he had heard what he had heard.

‘I can only imagine what you are going through, dear.’ His smile was limp, questioning: Don’t you know who I am?

She was already onto the next person, her hand reaching out, but her mind now retreating from the line of people, all of them keen to demonstrate their support in her time of grief. All of them leaning on ceremony yet shying away from reality, grateful they weren’t in her shoes. At this thought she looked down at her feet.

Size three Louboutins.

She had had a great time choosing them. Never thought that when she was handing over her credit card they’d be on her feet at Thomas’s funeral.

Next in line was a couple in their seventies who looked like they’d been eating nothing but watery soup for the last thirty years – their faces stripped down to nothing but skin and sinew. And they looked so alike. Were they brother and sister? ‘Thomas will be missed,’ said the man.

‘First you lose your only son,’ said the woman. ‘How can one person take all that grief…?’ She was silenced by a look from her husband. Paula decided they must be married. Who else but a spouse would look at you that way?

Already, she missed that way of looking. That knowing.

She ignored the comment from the woman. Pushed it to the back of her mind. That was seven years ago. Almost to the day.

That grief she wore like an old friend. A welcome reminder that Christopher had been in her life. This one was a new wound. Fresh. Gaping. A pain that plucked the air from her lungs.

Anyway, who were all these people? she wondered. And who decided we should line up like this at the end of a funeral service? Whoever they were, they were sick in the head. Without the chemicals soothing the barb and bite of her loss, this would have been enough to send her to the nearest psychiatric ward.

She’d always seen herself as part of a couple. A pair. Her identity was wrapped up in that idea. She loved being married. That it was Thomas was mostly a good thing, but the state of marriage was what really gave her satisfaction.

Even after thirty years she loved saying to salesmen, ‘I’ll have to speak to my husband first.’

Now she was in the singular.

Flying solo.

Well, not flying so much as drifting.

Adrift.

And heavy with regret that in the latter years she hadn’t made more of an effort.

One more person and she was at the end of the line. Thank the good Lord, the line was running out of the sympathetic and suitably morose.

A young woman stepped forwards. Wide-brimmed hat, large sunglasses, thin nose, plump lips. A chin that almost came to a point. She offered an embrace. Confused, Paula leaned into it, finding that suddenly, surprisingly, human contact was needed. The woman, a girl really, touched her lips to the side of Paula’s face.

The woman spoke in a whisper and Paula felt something being slid into the pocket of her jacket. What did she say? Paula heard her clearly, but the words were so out of context in the situation that she struggled to make sense of them.

She looked down to her pocket as if she was trying to work out what had just happened. She raised her eyes to question the girl, but she was already walking away as if desperate not to be stopped. Through the throng all Paula could see was a back view of her black hat and a fan of long, straight, blonde hair across her shoulders.

‘Who…’ she turned to the man at her side, her husband’s elder brother, Bill.

‘That was tough, eh?’ he asked, his hand light on her arm, his smile distorting his face. Then he turned away without waiting for her answer. Which figured. She’d always felt that Bill had little interest in her, and just over thirty years of knowing each other – twenty-nine of them in a marriage with his brother – had done nothing to soften that feeling. He must be pleased, Paula thought. At last he had a reason to ignore her.

Oh, get over yourself, Paula. Thomas always said she read way too much into things. The man was grieving as well, wasn’t he?

The woman’s voice echoed in her mind, but through the medication she couldn’t make sense of her words – their incongruity. People were here to tell her how much they loved and admired Thomas, surely?

She craned her neck and looked around the milling mourners for the hat and the blonde hair, but she saw no sign of them. It was probably some young woman who had a fancy for Thomas – he was a handsome man after all and he did attract lots of admiring glances. As far as she was aware he never did anything to encourage them, though.

Whatever his faults, he was a one-woman man … wasn’t he?

Her knees gave, just a little, but she managed to right herself, managed not to fall to the floor in a heap. A wave of bone-aching loss crashed down on her and she allowed her hand to drop away from the pocket. If it was a note, she should simply crumple it up and throw it away, unread. Whatever it was, it was surely just a cruel joke.

Thomas. My Thomas. She recalled the moment – was it really just a few breaths ago when the curtains slid shut, hiding his…? She couldn’t bring herself to even think the word coffin.

She turned again to try and find the young woman. There was no sign of her, but her words repeated in Paula’s mind.

‘You need to know who your husband really was.’

2

Father Joe, Thomas’s younger brother, took her by the elbow.

‘We need to go, Paula. The car’s waiting.’

Again, she saw the curtains closing, imagined the fires lighting up, flames engulfing the coffin, and a sob burst from her mouth, for a moment clearing the drug mist in her mind. She stumbled, but Joe was there, helped her gather strength.

She looked into Joe’s face, searching for signs of Thomas; saw them in the cast of his eyes, the line of his nose. But where his brother could, in recent times anyway, be withdrawn, she only ever sensed warmth from Joe; an openness to living and life.

‘Waste of a good man,’ she said, leaning into him.

‘Yes. Far too young to be taken,’ Joe answered.

‘I’m talking about you, Father Joe.’

Joe snorted. This was an old conversation. ‘By serving God I try to make lots of people happy.’ And that was an old response.

‘You and your organised religion,’ she sighed, but she was aware she was dissembling. Perhaps if she focussed on something else, someone else, even for a moment, it would take away some of this pain.

‘C’mon,’ Joe said and pulled her into his side in half a hug. ‘Sometime next week, I’ll bring over a bottle of gin, we’ll watch the sunset from your rooftop garden and we’ll debate life in all its flavours.’

‘Rooftop garden,’ Paula said dismissively. ‘It’s a balcony with some potted plants.’

‘That was always a surprise to me. How Tommy took to gardening,’ Joe said with a sad smile.

‘Helped him to think,’ Paula said. ‘It was a release from all the decisions he had to make every day.’ Then the stray thought: who would make all those decisions now?

The funeral ‘purvey’ was being held at a city-centre hotel; a big shiny tribute to ambition at the side of the M8 as it shot through the city.

‘Hate this place,’ said Paula as the limousine drew up at the hotel entrance.

‘Why choose it then?’ asked Joe.

Paula shrugged. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

‘Think they might have vol-au-vents?’ he asked, a smile laced through the question. He was remembering family get-togethers and his late mother’s cooking. Pride of place at every supper was taken by vol-au-vents with creamy chicken. The rest of the world moved on to olives and Italian cold cuts, but old Mrs Gadd persisted with her vol-au-vents.

‘God, I hope so,’ said Paula, thankful for Joe’s presence and his sense of humour. His experience was showing. He’d be going through this on a weekly basis, attending the funerals of his flock, doing his God’s representative-on-earth thing. She looked out of her side of the car, towards the hotel. Steeling herself.

‘Let’s go,’ said Joe, placing a hand on hers. ‘You’ll be fine.’

Inside, and up the wide staircase the suite set aside for their reception was already full. At the far side of the room it was ceiling-to-floor smoked glass and a number of small round tables were positioned around the space. They were all about chest height and held platters of edibles, like a series of islands. An archipelago of snacks, Paula heard in her mind, and it was Thomas’s voice, coloured with his trademark sarcasm.

With a stab low in her gut she turned back to face the door, as if it had really been him who’d spoken. As if he was about to enter, walk over to her with that big smile of his and start a wry monologue on the faults of everyone in the room.

The thing was, when he did behave like that people loved it. Folk gravitated to him, caught up in his glamour.

Paula could have laid bets on the first thing a stranger might say to him.

‘Haven’t I seen you before?’

He had that look. Success, and a confident air that intrigued.

‘You sure I haven’t seen you on TV?’ they would ask, and Thomas would smile, laugh and shake his head, delighted at the response.

It’s all smoke and mirrors, honey, he would tell her. People see what they want to see. I have a mirror for a face, and I trail smoke out of my arse. If he was actually here, he’d be surrounded by men and women, each of them wanting a moment with him, like he could offer some sort of benediction.

Wondering who she could talk to safely, Paula scanned the food and with a weak smile noted that there were, indeed, no vol-au-vents.

A hand on her shoulder, a chirrup in her ear. It was Daphne. Big brother Bill’s wife.

‘Paula. How are you, hen?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know, as bad as you’d expect,’ said Paula.

Paula looked at Daphne. She was in a black trouser suit and a pink blouse, of a quality she’d never seen her wear before. Usually Daphne’s clothes looked like she’d thrown them on without giving it much thought. Paula recalled a time she’d offered to take Daphne shopping but was rebuffed. Her sister-in-law clearly didn’t want her charity, which she understood, but Paula’s view was that if you can’t share your wealth with family, what was the point in having it? Yes, distance had grown between the brothers, but she was keen that the women should show the men how families behaved.

‘Such a shock, hen. Such a shock,’ Daphne said.

‘Aye,’ said Paula, as if it wasn’t the ninetieth time Daphne had said that to her in the last few days. ‘Here. You should try those sausage rolls. They’re delicious.’ As she spoke she tried to remember where the distance between the men had come from. It seemed so stupid now, in the event of Thomas’s death.

‘Anything we can do for you, Paula…’ Bill came over to stand beside his wife. He looked like he meant it.

‘Thanks, Bill,’ she said, knowing the offer wasn’t genuine.

It was after Christopher was killed, she remembered – that was when Bill and Thomas had grown apart. That was when they’d all grown apart. She coughed back rising emotion. Now wasn’t the time for such introspection.

‘When’s the will being read?’ Bill asked, pushing his specs back up into position. She looked at him properly, for the first time that day. He’d grown a beard and suited it. He hadn’t been immune to the Gadd family handsome gene, but his tendency to look at the world as if it had let him down badly, gave his good looks an unpleasant slant.

‘I … I’m not sure, Bill. I haven’t spoken to the lawyer about that yet.’

Bill raised his right eyebrow. ‘I don’t imagine my brother would have left us anything…’ There was a tightness in his expression that made Paula think big brother Bill was praying that this was indeed what would happen. ‘But I just wanted to say that whatever the will says, we won’t be contesting it.’

‘Well, that’s … okay then,’ Paula replied and edged away from him. What was that about? Won’t be contesting? Contesting what? She’d been Thomas’s wife for nearly thirty years. Whatever was coming her way, she deserved.

Bill turned to the food, shrugged at Daphne as if to say, I’m trying, before he picked up a plate. Paula looked at her sister-in-law and read the impact of several decades in a menial job: school cleaner. Bill was a floor manager in a men’s clothing store and Paula realised early on in her marriage that he was threatened by Thomas’s success. He was the eldest brother, took his role seriously and didn’t take the fact well that middle brother, Thomas, had won all the prizes.

If all the money was the prize you were after.

In the early days of that success, Paula had tried to share some of the symbols of it with Daphne – shoes, jewellery, gadgets – and, before Daphne put on all the weight, clothes. But Bill had made her return everything, saying they didn’t need any of their charity.

Paula felt a grumble in her stomach. That was a novelty. She hadn’t felt any hunger since the news first came through. Since the two young plods showed up at her front door, with their hats in their hands. Out of the blur of words coming from their mouths she had heard heart attack and restaurant. Followed by dead on arrival.

She debated now having anything to eat. Considered that it might not be hunger, but thirst she was feeling. And made for the bar at the other side of the room.

The barman smiled. He looked about nineteen, but filled his white shirt nicely across the shoulders.

‘You look like you could do with a drink,’ he said.

‘The widow,’ she said waving a hand in front of her black suit, then realising that her attempt at humour was inappropriate, she fought the heat of a blush.

She sat on a stool and placed her handbag on the bar. ‘Sorry, son,’ she said. ‘And yes, I could do with a drink.’

‘What would you like, madam?’

She read his name badge.

‘Sam, I’d love a G&T. Heavy on the gin with just a smidge of tonic.’

‘A large gin and tonic it is,’ Sam said with a hint of a smile and turned away from her to make her drink. As she watched him work she couldn’t help but compare him to Christopher. Would they have made friends if they had met? she wondered. Christopher was probably only a few years older than him when he died. Twenty-five. She held her hand to her belly as if it could contain the gut-punch of grief at all that lost potential.

This was something she did on an almost daily basis; placing Christopher into the lives of the people she encountered. Of course, it couldn’t be healthy, but she was powerless against the compulsion.

When the drink arrived, she gave Sam a small nod of thanks, swivelled in her seat, placed her back against the bar and surveyed the gathering. It’s me, she wanted to shout. I’m the widow. Why are you all avoiding me? Grief isn’t contagious. If Thomas was here they’d all be flocking around. Magnetised by his energy.

After a few drinks and more than a few clichéd expressions of support from the more conscientious ‘grievers’, she eased herself off her stool and made her way to the ladies.

In the toilet, she made straight for a cubicle, locked the door, and took a seat.

She’d noticed a couple just beyond the entrance to the toilets. The woman had leaned in to the man. Head on his shoulder. And he’d taken a moment from reading whatever was on his phone to kiss the top of her head. A casual intimacy. It looked like the phone was the distraction, not his partner.

It had been a long time since she and Thomas had communicated like that.

It would be nice to feel his strong arms around her tonight in bed, a thought that brought on a crushing guilt. She could have been a better wife, and now she’d never be able to make things better.

Then the tears fell.

And felt like they would never stop.

Once they had subsided, she made for the sink, tossed her handbag to the side and sluiced her face with cold water. Then, she patted it dry and examined herself in the mirror.

Her eyes weren’t too puffy. A little bit of make-up and no one would notice.

Once she finished touching up her mascara and dabbed some concealer onto the bags under her eyes, she rooted around her handbag, searching for her pills. Her mini-breakdown in the toilet suggested that the drugs were losing their effect.

She held the small, brown, white-capped bottle in her hand and gave it a little shake as she debated whether or not to take more. The worst of the day was over, surely? And she hated the way they’d made her feel; at a remove from everything and everyone.

The toilet door opened and she heard the clacking of a pair of high heels against the tiled floor. She looked up to see that it was Daphne.

She gave her a little smile. ‘Had a wee greet?’ Daphne asked.

Paula turned to face the mirror with her fingertips pressed against the skin under her eyes. ‘That obvious?’

‘You’ve looked better, hen.’

Paula smiled at Daphne’s uncharacteristic honesty. She usually kept her opinions to herself.

‘Why did we never get on?’ Paula asked her.

‘Sorry?’ Daphne walked towards the sinks, her gait that of the mildly pissed.

‘We married the two brothers who could marry. I’ve no siblings and yours are all boys. We could have been like sisters to each other,’ Paula explained.

Daphne looked at Paula. Her expression one of disbelief.

‘You really don’t know, do you?’

‘Know what?’ Paula asked, mystified. Just how pissed was Daphne? Usually a Bacardi and lemonade was her limit. She must have been hitting the whisky for a change.

Daphne held her gaze for a moment as if trying to read her. Shook her head. ‘Nothing, hen,’ she said, turned away to face the mirror and fished in her handbag for her lipstick.

‘What?’ Paula felt a surge of irritation. She didn’t have the strength to fight it. ‘God, I tried to help you as much as I could. You always were jealous of me and Thomas.’

‘Jealous?’ Daphne laughed. The sound held no humour. She swallowed and crossed her arms as if that might help her contain what she had been about to say.

But Paula knew what was on her mind. The same argument that would come up over every family get-together. Some people just wouldn’t respect the fact that hard work reaped rewards; and that not every success had a trail of bodies behind it.

But before Paula could respond, Daphne spoke again. ‘Time to wake up, Paula. The big man’s gone. God knows what he was up to before he died…’ She sniffed. ‘…But I’m betting a few chickens are about to come home to roost.’

With that, Daphne gathered her things and left. The door closed behind her with a solid thud.

Paula fled from the reception, only managing to breathe once she got outside the hotel. She stood just beyond the door, bent over, taking great gasps as if she had just ran a marathon.

She straightened her back and paced back and forth. Thought of Daphne’s twisted expression and her certainty as she threw the words at her like poisoned darts. Thought of Bill and his assertion that however Thomas had drawn up his will, there would be no contest.

To hell with them, thought Paula. Throughout her entire marriage, at every family occasion, Bill would sniff when he saw her, as if he caught the scent of a dog turd and was trying to work out who’d dragged it in on the bottom of their shoe. And Daphne had taken his lead, just staying on the right side of not being downright rude.

She turned to her right and saw the smoker’s area – a covered gazebo with two potted ferns on either side of the entrance. There was one man inside; his eyes squinted behind an exhalation of smoke when he saw her enter.

‘Got any spare?’ she asked.

‘Sure, no bother, darling,’ he replied.

As he pulled a packet from one pocket and a lighter from the other, Paula studied him: bald, clean-shaven, late-fifties. His suit jacket was unbuttoned and his white shirt was just a tad too tight across his belly. She didn’t recognise him, which didn’t mean he hadn’t been at Thomas’s funeral reception; she barely knew any of her husband’s friends – she corrected that: associates.

‘Here on business?’ she asked, as she took a cigarette from him. And as she did so their hands touched. A split second of connection. Human skin on hers. A moment of appreciation. A moment of awkwardness. He was a total stranger. She hid her momentary discomfort in the mechanics of lighting her cigarette.

‘No,’ he replied. Here we go, she thought. But he surprised her. ‘I’m at a wedding.’

‘Oh, right,’ she said, grateful that he hadn’t known Thomas. She held the cigarette between her lips, and took a deep breath. Coughed. Coughed some more.

‘Been a while?’ the man asked, the skin around his eyes crinkled in a smile.

‘I’ve not had a cigarette in twenty years.’ She inhaled again. This one settled better in her lungs and she felt the nicotine hit. She held the cigarette up in front of her face and looked at it as if wondering why she’d ever stopped.

‘Hard day?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Funeral.’

‘Somebody close?’

‘Husband.’

‘Shit.’ He took a hit from his cigarette. Exhaled. ‘Life can be a right bastard, eh?’

Later, when she got home, she would run through the conversation that followed and wonder at her ability to tell a total stranger everything. Well, not everything. She told him she’d met Thomas when she was sixteen. In a nightclub. She’d just started a new job as a secretary and was splashing her first wage. Thomas was a scruffy eighteen-year-old student. She remembered him sizing her up then nervously asking her for a dance. They quickly moved to smooching and had been together ever since.

‘Romance of the century, eh?’ Paula said with a faint smile. ‘No drama. He saw. He conquered. They lived happily ever after.’

‘How long were you married for?’ the man asked.

‘Our thirtieth anniversary is coming up in a couple of months. What should I get for that one? Pearls?’

‘Thirty years? Really?’ He looked at her with the expression that said, You’re in your late forties? Wow.

She was used to it; but to be fair, she worked for it. Ate clean, barely drank, didn’t smoke – usually – and exercised almost every day. So, yeah, she was used to that little look. But normally she would shrug it off. Other people’s opinions weren’t usually important to her. But, unaccountably, this stranger’s approval gave her a little frisson of pleasure.

‘Kids?’ he asked.

Paula nodded. Probed at the wound, like she might push her tongue into a mouth ulcer. Felt a flare of pain, a momentary fatigue in her core, but that was fine. It was a reminder. Her Chris had lived. And, boy, how he had lived. Energy enough for five people. A mind that could grapple with any idea and an innocence that life was yet to quell – and then he died. But she couldn’t tell this stranger that he too was dead. The poor guy had just come out here for a cigarette, not to have her woes heaped upon him.

‘That’s what it’s all about, eh? Family.’ The man said. ‘I’m sure they’ll be a great comfort to you.’

Paula just smiled. And thought of Daphne’s expression in the toilet, envy wrapped up in her snarl, and her words, carefully chosen to wound:

God knows what he was up to before he died.

3

Thankfully, the taxi driver was silent as he drove her home to her townhouse in the west of the city.

Just as he parked the car, her phone rang. She really didn’t want to speak to anyone, so with a sigh she fished it out of her handbag. But she didn’t recognise the number on the screen. Could it be someone who couldn’t make the funeral offering their condolences?

‘Hello?’

There was nothing. But the connection was still live.

‘Hello?’ she repeated.

What was that? Breathing?

‘Can I help you?’

Nothing.

‘For goodness sake,’ she said as she disconnected the call.

‘Something wrong, missus?’ asked the driver over his shoulder.

‘Third time this week,’ she said absently, as she read the taxi meter and fumbled through her purse for the correct money.

Getting out of the taxi, she tried to ignore the alarm bell ringing faintly in the back of her mind. She had enough to worry about; she didn’t need to fret over a few prank calls.

After he drove away, she stood on the front step, the key in her hand, reluctant to enter her own home. The house Thomas worked towards – dreamed of – reached above her into a night sky turned featureless by electric light. His monument to success.

Cold and as welcoming as a mausoleum.

Somehow, miraculously, she slept. Only for an hour or so, but still, better than nothing. When she woke up, the room was in darkness and she imagined Thomas beside her, on his back, hands on his chest, his breath a soft gurgle in his throat.

She tried to assess what time it was. A slice of streetlight showed through a gap in her curtains. It would probably be nearly time for him to get up and get ready for work.

After Christopher’s death, work – the business – had become the channel for Thomas’s grief. While she’d thrown herself into charity work, he’d spent hour upon hour working on deals. And to be fair it worked, and he was soon expanding into bigger premises and sites in London and Manchester.

Sure, she suspected that there were some dodgy dealings going on; who grows quite so rapidly in such a short space of time without blurring the lines a little? But she trusted Thomas not to get into anything too tricky. And if she was honest, she had allowed the riches it brought her to blinker her. She had developed a tremendous ability to buy stuff – and then, when she was bloated with all kinds of nothing, she would sell it and raise cash for charity.

The money continued to flood in. They moved to a bigger house in the city. Then an even bigger one.

All of this room – she looked around herself – a tangible representation of the emotional space that had grown between them.

She twisted on the bed and faced his side. She reached a hand out and stroked the sheet where he only recently lay. Imagined her hand resting on his naked hip; the skin there smooth and hairless in contrast to the matting of hair that covered almost everywhere else.

Once again, an image of her son popped into her head. The ache of missing him ever present.

Enough, she thought. Sat up and kicked her feet off the bed. She was being morose.

She got to her feet, picked a silk dressing gown from a chair at the side of the bed, drew it around herself and went through to the spare bedroom, where Thomas sometimes slept when he came in late from a business meeting. He always said he didn’t want to disturb her, which was fine. He would only reek of cigarettes and whisky. Fumble at her as if prompted by memories of better times, and then turn onto his back and snore like a road drill was stuck in his throat. She sat on a small leather armchair that was tucked into a corner, looked over at the pristine, empty bed, and felt a shock to see that her husband wasn’t there. He wasn’t working late. He was never going to work late again.

Grief sucked the air from her lungs. She gasped with the pain of it. How had she managed to get through the funeral?

How was she going to get through the rest of her life?

Pulling her knees to her chest she thought about the day. All those people, and how many of them did she really know? How many of them really knew Thomas?

Then, from somewhere, an image of the young woman in the wide-brimmed hat. Her brief hug as she slipped something into her pocket.

She had been so caught up in the day she hadn’t even bothered to check what the girl had given her.

Her jacket. She’d just allowed it to fall to the floor in the hall. Since when had she become so careless about her belongings? The suit had cost her more than four hundred pounds and she’d let it fall to the floor like a rag…

She got to her feet, walked down the stairs and along the hall. There was enough of a glow from the street outside for her to see what she was doing without switching on the hall light.

There, a black slump of cashmere on the carpet. She bent forwards and picked it up. Patted it down to locate the pocket then slid her hand inside and pulled out the small envelope. Tucking her jacket under her left arm, she examined the contents.

It was a small piece of unlined paper, the upper edge ragged as if it had been torn out of a notebook. And there in careful, feminine, curled handwriting, three short sentences. Sentences that could have the power to change her life.

Your husband was not the man you thought he was. Call this number. You need to know the truth.

4

It was a warm, sunny day when they brought baby Christopher home from the hospital. Despite the warmth, she’d put him in a padded blue suit that was several sizes too big, his pudgy pink face almost lost in the cushion of it.

They were terrified: this tiny human was completely reliant on them and they had no clue what to do. Thomas only admitted this later. At the time he projected confidence. It’s a baby, he said. Millions are born every year. If other people can manage, so can we.

She was weepy, her body adjusting to the trauma and the blessing of childbirth, while her mind fought to come to terms with the enormity of it all. This was her baby. What if she got it all wrong?

Christopher started wailing the minute they walked in the door. Paula tried to shush him, placing a hand on the down that covered his soft skull. Already she’d forgotten everything the nurses had shown her.

‘The wee soul’s probably roasting inside that suit,’ Thomas said with a calm that caught her in a contradiction – she felt simultaneously soothed by it, and worried. Thomas was already showing capability here; could she match it?

‘And he’s probably needing a wee feed, honey. You up for it?’

‘But…’ She’d fed him several times already, but in the hospital with a capable and caring nurse on hand.

‘C’mon up to his bedroom…’ And Thomas gently took her hand. With the other he was holding the baby in his car seat as if it was something he’d been doing every day for the last year.

They’d bought a huge wing-backed chair especially for the nursery. In the latter days of her pregnancy Paula had fantasised about spending dreamy afternoons there, feeding her child, a radio playing Mozart or something in the background – she’d read an article that said the sound of it could raise a child’s IQ.

Now they were going to do it for real. ‘What if…?’

Thomas stretched over and kissed her. ‘You’re going to be the best mother this little boy could ever dream of,’ he smiled. ‘I have no doubt in my mind of that, Mrs Gadd.’

With trembling legs she allowed herself to be guided up to the room and onto the chair. She settled herself on the inflated ring Thomas had jokingly bought her – In case you need stitches, honey, he’d said. Now she was hugely grateful for that moment of thoughtfulness. Thomas made for the changing table, lifted Christopher – still wailing – onto it and took him out of his padded suit.

As if any sudden movement might break something, Thomas cradled their son in the crook of his arm and made his way across the room to where Paula sat on the chair.

‘Ready, honey?’ he asked, and looked pointedly down at the front of her blouse.

‘Oh. Right.’ She looked up at him; at their red-faced child in his arms.

‘If you just…’ He motioned with his free hand. Following his instruction, she unbuttoned her blouse and fidgeted with her nursing bra to allow her child access to her milk.

Then he handed the baby down to her and … it was as if she’d been doing this all her life. Christopher’s hot little mouth tugging at her nipple, drinking furiously. She felt a tingling trickle as the milk flowed, and a sudden calm. Thomas crouched at her feet looking up, watching them both in wonderment, his cheeks wet with tears.

Your husband was not the man you thought he was.

Exhausted, Paula fell to the floor, her mind unable to grasp what she had just read. Her husband; the man she was with for three decades was up to … what? A young, pretty woman had given her this. Was Thomas having an affair?

Nonsense. She threw the note away from her.

Thomas was a lot of things, but a philanderer? Sure, they’d grown apart the last few years, but he was always truthful with her, or so it felt. Her Thomas? Having an affair?

The ground tilted.

But why else would that young woman go to all that trouble? Attending his funeral, slipping a note into her pocket? She tried to think of all the things those three sentences might be about, but that was all she could come up with. They’d been having an affair. That was it, surely. And then her mind began to run away from her. Perhaps she’d had a child with him?

She could see a desperate mother going through those actions at a funeral if it meant getting something for her offspring.

If only the drugs weren’t cloaking everything in a heavy veil, she might be able to make sense of all of this.

In a few hours the sun would rise and the streetlights would be switched off. People would go about their day, locked into the hamster wheels of their own thoughts. Mindless people working for stuff they didn’t really need but wanted with a desire that was unholy, probably viewing everything through the lens of a smartphone, because only then could it exist.

And how much she wanted to be one of them. Not to have this ache.

Nobody does anything real anymore, she thought. Strength is nothing more than a display: an act. Nobody wants to be vulnerable. Nobody wants you to be vulnerable. Your son and husband die and nobody really cares. The world shifts but stays the same and your home, your anchor, isn’t where you left it.

She was still there, back against the wall, buttocks numb and cold from the wooden floor, hours later when the light shifted from artificial to natural. The world was waking up to another day and she was here, weak, exhausted, and unsure of whom and what to grieve for.

At some point Paula made it through to the sofa in her front living room. There she curled up on the soft leather, bolstered by a small mountain of fat cushions and was feeling herself drift into something approaching sleep when there was a knock at the door.

She groaned. Felt the weight of her fatigue. She considered answering it but ignored the impulse and turned to face the back of the sofa, pulling her knees up to her chest.

The knock sounded again. Firm and loud. The caller was obviously confident that she would grant them entry.

She heard the squeak of the small brass hinge of the letter box and a male voice.

‘Paula? Sorry, doll. It’s only me.’

Kevin Farrell. Her husband’s business partner.

She sat up. Groaned again. He was the last person she wanted to see, but he was always coming round, and she was sure he’d persist until she answered the door.

Fixing her robe, she mustered up the energy to get to her feet and pad through to the hall.

‘Paula?’ Farrell’s voice sounded from the letter box.

She paused before answering, looking in the hall mirror to check if she was decent. She was about to fluff up her hair, then thought: to hell with it, the widow does not care. She pulled the door open.

‘Hey, Paula,’ Farrell said, his eyes roaming. Enough of his reaction leaked into his expression, just momentarily, for Paula to see that he read the state she was in and felt sorry for her. ‘How are you today, sweetheart?’

‘Mmmm…’ was all she could manage. She’d always found his attempts at being sociable cloying – so false in their sweetness that she could barely resist running her tongue over her teeth. He’d gone to school with Thomas, but she never could quite work out how he and her husband were friends.

His face was full and round like a football, the skin dotted with acne scars. His hair was already almost white and, regardless of how new his suit might be, he always managed to make it look like he’d just come off a twenty-hour flight.

‘The kettle on?’ he asked. ‘Thought you might like some company.’ He held up a small brown bag. ‘Got some croissants from that posh place down Hyndland Road. I thought you might want a late breakfast.’ He took a step inside the door and Paula felt a flare of irritation at his presumption. Then gave in. She didn’t have the energy to back it up. Besides, although it was the last thing she wanted, she supposed company would be good for her.

The note she’d been reading the previous night still lay on the floor. She bent down and picked it up before he could get a look at it.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Just some kind of flyer,’ she said as she tucked it into the pocket of her dressing gown.

‘Always someone trying to sell something, eh?’ He brushed past her and she trailed after him like a pup in its new home.

In the kitchen Kevin said, ‘Ah, right, you guys got that new coffee machine. Cool.’ He walked towards it. ‘Easy to work, is it?’ He pushed at a button and the machine whirred into life.

Paula pushed past him, lifted a mug from a cupboard and placed it in front of the spout. ‘Here, let’s not drown the kitchen in coffee.’

She looked at him. Squinted at a recollection. ‘You weren’t at the funeral yesterday, Kevin. How come?’ She handed him the filled mug, not bothering to ask about milk. Today he would have to take it how he got it.

‘Shit excuse, I know…’ He accepted the mug and took a sip. Then he placed it back on the worktop surface before holding both of his hands out, palms up. It occurred to Paula that he looked as if he really didn’t care how she might feel about his answer. ‘I’m allergic. Hate funerals. I’ve never been to one. Not even my mother’s.’ Then he gave her a smile that had a whiff of apology pushed through it.

Paula often wondered if Kevin had tried to learn how to behave with other people from a book. He clearly didn’t really care if Paula was upset that he hadn’t been there.

‘’Sides, I said cheerio to Tommy in my own way.’ There. A flash of sadness. A suggestion that there was a little more to this man than had met her eyes over the years.

‘I’m sure you did,’ said Paula, and caught Kevin glancing at the opening of her robe. ‘What do you want, Kevin?’ She pulled her robe tight and held it at the throat. ‘I barely resemble a human this morning.’

‘Just wanted to see how my wee pal was doing. Offer you my support. I’m happy to listen if you want to talk…’ His face formed an expression of sympathy, like a stranger had just taken possession of his brain for a moment.

‘Jesus, Kevin, did you just google how to behave around the bereaved? I prefer it when you do your remote-human thing.’

‘That’s harsh.’ He looked offended, and Paula felt a rush of conscience.

‘Please get to the point, Kev. Why are you really here?’

‘A man can’t check on his friend’s widow?’ He held his arms out. But it was there. Paula’s mind wasn’t too addled by grief that she couldn’t see there was something other than Thomas’s death that was bothering him. There was a tightness in his face, an edge to his apparent concern, and he shuffled from one foot to the other.

She put her hand in her pocket, felt the corner of the note and considered showing it to him. But she quickly decided against that. Perhaps his evident nervousness was transmitting itself to her.

‘Mind if I ask you something, Kev?’ She needed to ask, even though she was pretty sure he wouldn’t tell her.

‘Sure. Anything.’ His expression was open, but there was an underlying apprehension in his tone. Farrell might be grieving, in his own way, but there was something else there.

‘Was Thomas having an affair?’

5

Kevin took a big slug of coffee, as if it was his first drink of the day. He put the drink down on the work surface and tapped the brown bag containing the croissants. ‘Remember to eat,’ he said and walked out of the kitchen.

Paula followed him, thinking: What the hell? That was it? Why bother visiting?

Farrell reached the door, pulled it open and turned to her before stepping outside. ‘Put any thoughts of Tommy having an affair out of your head, Paula. He didn’t have it in him.’ Then, obviously trying to look as if the question had just popped into his head, ‘Had any visitors this morning?’

‘Visitors?’ Paula repeated and gave a small laugh. ‘Nobody really knows what to say to a widow.’

He turned to her and opened his mouth as if to say something else. Then his head slumped as if he’d lost whatever battle was going on his mind. ‘I’ll give you a couple of days,’ he said, turned and left.

She shut the door behind him and leaned against the cool of the wood.

A couple of days for what? Why had Kevin even bothered to show up here? She reviewed his behaviour from the moment she’d opened the door to him. It was as if he’d come to ask her something and then backed off before he did.

Her head throbbed. She turned, leaned forwards, placing her palms over her cheeks, and rested her forehead on the wood. She’d heard Kevin assert that Thomas wouldn’t have had an affair with a sense of relief. But then, there was that note. What would drive a woman to do something like that? Who would hijack a funeral, for God’s sake?

But why was she so quick to wonder about Thomas’s fidelity? Yes, they’d drifted apart since Christopher died, but why would her mind instantly go there? She searched her memory for indications that Thomas might have been unfaithful over the years and came up with nothing. There were lots of time away with work, but no lipstick on his collar, no lingering perfumes on his return. She crossed her arms as if warding off any uncomfortable facts that might back up her new suspicions.

The door vibrated against her head as someone on the other side knocked.

Who could it be now? Had Kevin come back already? Her pulse was a throb at the side of her throat and she registered the worry that was now thrumming through her body.

She reached for the handle and pulled the door open, aware as she did so that her robe was gaping again.

‘Hi Paula,’ it was Father Joe. ‘Have I…’ He had the good taste not to look as Paula hastily fixed herself. ‘Have I called at a bad time?’

She closed her eyes. Shook her head.

‘Go away,’ she said.

‘But you said to come over,’ Joe said. Was that a slight slur in his voice? Paula wondered. ‘And I bring gifts.’ He held up a bottle that was already half empty. ‘Or, should I say, gift. But you’ve tonic in the house, right?’

‘You’re drunk,’ Paula said, and realised as soon as the words were out of her mouth that they were redundant. It was as obvious as the dog collar around his neck.

‘It’s not every day your big brother dies.’ Joe brought the bottle into his chest and cradled it there like it was something beyond precious. ‘So, a wee drink the day after his funeral is only to be expected. In fact, some would suggest I would be a callous human being if I didn’t get rat-arsed, down-in-the-gutter drunk.’

Paula looked at the bottle. It was a Tanquerey Number 10. She stepped back and he moved inside.

They hugged, her head on his shoulder, the skin of her forehead warmed by the heat of his neck and chin.

‘Why’s it so bloody hard, Paula?’ he asked, and she could feel the deep rumble of his voice against her cheek. His arms round her back felt so solid, she didn’t want to move.

Eventually, he took a step back. With false cheer he said, ‘This gin isn’t going to drink itself you know.’

‘Does it go with croissants?’ asked Paula, trying to give him a smile.

‘What?’

‘Must be almost noon and I still haven’t had my breakfast.’

‘And?’ As if having breakfast on a day like this made any sense.

Paula gave up any effort at an explanation, and instead said, ‘Long story.’ She walked back to the kitchen.

Once there she turned to him. ‘You know where the balcony is. Give me a chance to have a quick shower. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.’