Last Rites

Three

Convinced she’d be unable to sleep, Lorraine had gone off almost the moment her head had touched the pillow. She’d not woken till Derek brushed her shoulder with his fingers, so that when she blinked her eyes, there he was, standing over her, smiling down.

“Hello, sleepy head.”

“Whatever time is it?”

“Quarter past eight.”

“What? It’s never.” Throwing back the bedclothes, she sat up. “I’ve overlaid, what happened to the alarm? Why ever didn’t you wake me?”

“Thought a lay-in would do you good.”

Lorraine pushed past him, reaching for the dressing gown that hung behind the door.

“You don’t have to rush. There’s bags of time.” He followed her along the landing, only stopping when she turned at the bathroom door.

“Well?” Lorraine said.

“Well what?”

“D’you think I could have some privacy or what?”

Derek stepped back and she closed the door and slid the bolt, sat on the toilet with her head toward her knees. She was being unfair to him, she knew.

These last weeks, he had been wonderful. Looking after the children, fetching and carrying, fixing meals, shopping, Lorraine at the hospital all hours while her mother had lingered on. And then, suddenly, when it was over and Lorraine, despite all warnings, went numb, he had stepped in to handle the arrangements for the funeral, the crematorium, flowers, everything.

She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror, not liking what she saw. There was a packet of Neurofen in the cabinet and she took two, swallowing them down with water. She could hear the children’s voices from downstairs, then Derek’s, warning them to be quiet.

They were anxious, she knew: Sandra, who was eleven, fretful about sitting in the car on the way to the chapel with everyone staring, worrying over what she had to do during the service, what she would wear; Sean, nine, wanted to know why his best friend couldn’t come with him, what there would be to eat afterward, what happened to his nan’s body when the coffin rolled back along the platform and into the flames. That’s what happens, isn’t it, Mum? Nan gets burned in the flames.

Derek had driven them to his sister’s yesterday, to help take their mind off things. Which meant, of course, that Maureen would spoil them as usual.

Maureen was nice enough, Lorraine thought, if a little over fond of herself; a little, well, overflashy. She was several years older than Lorraine and with no kids of her own; she earned a good living, managing her own place selling second-hand designer clothing, enough to afford a cleaning lady three times a week, wax and manicure once a month, and, of course, a mobile phone. Sometimes, Lorraine caught herself wondering if she were jealous of Maureen’s money, her apparent freedom, before deciding that no, she was not.

When Lorraine appeared in the kitchen some thirty minutes later, she was wearing the black suit she’d bought at Richards for the opening of Maureen’s shop, black tights, shoes with a low heel. She went straight to the stove and lifted the kettle, tested the weight of it for water, and carried it over to the sink.

“I’ll do that,” Derek said, half out of his seat.

“No need.”

“Toast?”

“No, thanks.” She caught herself, the angry snap in her tone, and smiled, relenting. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Yes, I’d love some toast, that’d be great.”

Sean came running in from the other room, Sandra chasing him, the pair of them skidding to an untidy halt just this side of the kitchen table.

“Now then, you two,” Derek said, “behave.”

“It’s Sandra, she was punching me.”

“I was not.”

“Just because I wouldn’t let her …”

“Hey!” Derek said. “Hey! Settle down now. I don’t want to hear it. That’s enough.”

“Is that for us, Dad?” Sean said, looking at where Derek was starting to butter the toast.

“Mum,” Sandra said. “Will Uncle Michael be there? At the funeral?”

A glance, quick and awkward, passed between Derek and Lorraine.

“I’m not sure, lovey,” Lorraine said. “I expect so. I hope so. Now why don’t you both run along?”

“Yes, go on, the pair of you.” Derek waved the knife in the direction of the door. “Get yourselves back in the other room and let us have a bit of peace.”

“Oh, Dad …”

“And see you’re careful with those clothes. You don’t want to be getting in a mess now, we’ll be leaving soon.”

“Mum …” Sandra said, eyes widening. “This top, is it okay?”

Lorraine had been looking at her daughter, not so far off twelve now and springing up, starting to fill out. Sandra had put on her bottle-green skirt, wearing it for a change with the waistband not rolled up, her almost new shiny blue sandals, the light-gray CK sweatshirt she’d bought in the market with her own pocket money. Sean was wearing black jeans, trainers, a clean white Umbro T-shirt with a blue band around the collar and along the sleeves. He looked as though he’d borrowed some of his sister’s gel before combing his hair.

“Perfect,” Lorraine said. “You look really perfect. I’m proud of you.”

Sean tried to pinch his sister’s arm as they squeezed back through the door and Sandra settled him with a quick kick to the shins.

“Remember what I said now,” Derek called after them and turned toward Lorraine with the plate of buttered toast, Lorraine standing there with tears rolling down her face.

Derek touched her arm lightly on his way to the sink. “I’m still not sure, you know. How good an idea it is. Michael.” Lorraine dabbed at her eyes. “She was his mother.” “Yes,” Derek said. “Like your dad was his father, I suppose?”

The motorway traffic was slow, slower than usual Evan thought, even allowing for the fact they were scarcely out of London. In truth, they were barely a mile from the North Circular Road. “Will you look at that?” he said, angling his head round toward Wesley, who was sitting, indifferent, cuffed to their prisoner in the back seat.

Wesley grunted something, not really paying attention. He was busy working out his money, how much he could realistically say was left after seeing to his bills each month, making calculations in his head. Just the other night in the pub, Jane had been getting on to him again, how paying out two different lots of rent for two separate flats, each the size of a postage stamp, didn’t make sense. Not any more. What with him sleeping over at her place three or four nights a week and Jane staying with him weekends when he wasn’t pulling duty at the prison. But even pooling all their income, Wesley worried, getting the kind of place Jane was talking about wasn’t going to be easy; a maisonette, maybe, something in one of those old houses that had been divided up round Camberwell, Coldharbour Lane, Brixton Hill.

“See what I mean?” Evan said again.

“What?”

“All those cars, nose to tail. See how many just got one person in. Not a single passenger. One car, one driver. You imagine doing that, in and out every day, morning and evening. Crazy. A nightmare.”

“Yes,” said Wesley. “Right.” Hoping that was enough to shut Evan up; not a bad bloke, he supposed, but Jesus, wasn’t he one to rattle on? Even if they could find somewhere to rent, Wesley thought, that wasn’t really what Jane was after. In reality, her reality, he knew that she was thinking five per cent down payment, she was thinking mortgage, she was thinking the whole ninety minutes plus penalties after extra time.

“How about you, Preston?” Evan asked, nodding his head backward in the direction of the prisoner. “Traffic-you got any thoughts on that?”

From the way Preston continued to sit, staring blankly through the car window, one arm folded across his lap, the other, the one that was attached to Wesley, resting by his side, Evan supposed he had not.

Twelve years into the man’s sentence, Wesley was thinking, at least another twelve to go, he didn’t see the overall transport situation as being high on the list of the man’s concerns.

Evan Donaghy, at twenty-seven, three years in the Prison Service only, and Wesley Wilson, two years his senior, but with one year’s less experience, the pair of them detailed to escort Michael Preston, convicted of first-degree murder for the killing of his father, Matthew, in 1986 and currently serving a life sentence, to the funeral of his mother, Deirdre, there and back in the day, the prison governor grudgingly agreeing to the visit on compassionate grounds.