Last Rites

Seven

Evan knew about wakes. His father-born and raised a Protestant in the midst of the Republic-a shining light, as he liked to put it, in the morass of that Catholic bog-had seen to it that the family kept the tradition alive wherever they happened to settle in England. Port Sunlight, Wolverhampton, Chester-le-Street, Wandsworth. Oh, not the weeping and wailing kind, four generations of toothless women in black, caterwauling like cats in heat; and not the fiddle tune and whiskey free-for-all that ended in fisticuffs and tears. No, what Evan’s father advocated was a dignified coming together, serious not somber, never drunken but certainly not teetotal; a chance for all those mourning the deceased to recollect, remember, spin their favorite stories, raise their glasses in a dignified toast to the recently departed. It was how it had been when Evan’s father had passed on three years before, sideswiped by a lorry plowing down the motorway in heavy rain, his father having pulled over to help someone who’d broken down and kneeling too near the edge of the hard shoulder, struggling to free the nuts on the rear wheel.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Wesley said, the two of them standing off to the one side, himself and Evan; Preston, his right arm secured again to Wesley’s left, making the party up to three. Preston with his back turned toward the pair of them, as if the conversation they were heatedly engaged in was about somebody else and not himself.

“You know the instructions,” Wesley was saying. “Straight up and back.”

“Escort the prisoner to his mother’s funeral and return him safely forthwith.”

“Exactly.”

“So what’s your problem?” Evan asked.

Preston was watching Lorraine and Derek as they stood outside the chapel, talking to the vicar, doubtless thanking him. Lorraine conscious her brother was looking in her direction and not responding, trying not to, back in control of herself now, allowing just the single glance. Sandra and Sean watching him, too; fascinated, afraid to come too close. This man who was the uncle they’d never seen. Who’d killed their grandad. Killed him. It didn’t seem possible.

When Preston took a half-pace toward Sandra and smiled, she turned away, head down, pushing Sean in front of her.

“My problem is …” Wesley began, at pains to spell it out, as much for the prisoner as for Evan “… there’s nothing there about taking him off to some bloody reception.”

“Wake.”

“What?”

“It’s a wake.”

“Whatever you want to call it, it’s none of our concern.”

Evan shaking his head, feeling his temper rising, but keeping it all under control. “Think of it this way, Wesley, the funeral, it’s in two parts, right? The first, here at the crematorium, the second back at the house.”

“Bollocks,” Wesley said. “You’re talking bollocks.”

“Well, then, Wesley …” Evan moving close now, lowering his voice. “I don’t give a monkey’s what you think, we’re taking him anyway. So either you come with us or find something else to keep you occupied. Sit in the back of the car, maybe, and floss your teeth?”

The two reception rooms on the ground floor were separated by a pair of stripped-pine doors set into a wide arch, and these had been fastened back, allowing people to move freely between them. Glasses, borrowed from the off license, Derek and Sean had arranged on the low shelf unit, bottles alongside them-white wine, Lorraine had thought, along with some soda water in case anyone cared to make themselves a spritzer; orange juice, quite a few beers, cans of Coke and Fanta for the kids; no spirits, not in the middle of the day. The food, Sandra helping, Lorraine had set out on a long table near the French windows, which were open out into the garden.

It was one of those early summer days that had started off bright and fresh, then threatened to cloud over as it wore on; any breeze had dropped and now it was becoming decidedly muggy. Even though she’d taken off her suit jacket, Lorraine could feel her blouse sticking to her when she moved.

Preston’s handcuffs had been removed as soon as they had arrived at the house and one or two people had come over to him, made a few remarks about his loss, then hurried away again, never pausing long enough for conversation. Sandra bravely brought over a plate of sausage rolls and held it out to him, avoiding his eyes; the moment he had taken one, she spun away, his thank you strangely gentle to her ears. Young Sean spent an age hovering, daring himself to ask questions that, in the end, remained unasked.

Lorraine aside, it was only Derek’s sister, Maureen, who seemed at all comfortable in Michael’s presence, leaning back against the wall after offering him a cigarette and encouraging him to tell her what it was like inside, being locked away like that with no, you know, women-Maureen flirting with him almost, that was how it seemed.

“Clock that?” Wesley said, nodding toward where Preston and Maureen were standing, Maureen laughing a little now, arching back her neck.

Evan nodded. He’d seen women like that before, visiting days, some bloke’s reputation as a hard nut getting their hormones all in a tizzy.

“Keep that up,” Wesley said, “get more’n she’s bargained for.”

Evan wandered across the room and fetched a couple more sandwiches. “You know your name?” he said. “Wesley.”

“What about it?”

“I was thinking, are you named after Wesley Snipes or what?”

“Christ, man,” Wesley exclaimed with a laugh. “You know how old I’d have to be to have been named after him? How long you think that guy’s been around, huh? White Men Can’t Jump. Nobody heard of him before that.” He shook his head and laughed. “Wesley Snipes, my black arse!”

“So then, who?” Evan asked, unfazed.

“You know Wes Hall?”

Evan shook his head.

“Cricketer. Fast bowler, man. The best. Wes Hall and Charlie Griffiths. Played for the West Indies a long time back. Wes, he’s from Barbados. Like my old man.” Wesley laughed again. “These guys today, you think they quick, well, you slow to get your head out the way when Wes Hall bowl you a bouncer, wave your head goodbye.”

Evan standing there, staring at him, eyes becoming glazed.

“You into cricket, Evan, or what?”

“Bunch of grown men standing round for days trying to hit a small red ball, that’s what my dad used to say.”

“Never mind your dad for once, it’s you I’m asking. You appreciate the finer points of the game or not?”

“Not.”

“Missing a lot, man. Grand game, cricket. Sport of kings.”

Evan thought that was horse racing, but he saw no sense in arguing.

“Where’s he gone?” Wesley said suddenly, pushing himself away from the wall.

“What? Who?”

“Preston, he’s not there any more.”

Evan staring at the spot where their prisoner had been moments before; no Maureen, no Michael Preston, just an empty glass on the floor.

He hadn’t gone past them into the garden, they were sure of that; they checked the kitchen, then doubled back along the hallway, heading for the stairs. The first two doors were open, the kids’ bedrooms, the third was locked. Evan hammered upon it with his fist. “Preston? You in there?”

“Yes, course I’m in here.”

“Open the door.”

“I can’t.”

“Open up now.”

There was a shuffle of movement, followed by the small click of the bolt being pulled back and the door opened to reveal Preston standing there, underpants hoisted back up, but trousers still midway up his thighs, shirt flapping down.

“What’s all the fuss about? I didn’t know I had to ask permission to take a crap. Or maybe you just want to wipe my behind?”

Grim-faced, Evan closed the door firmly in Preston’s face, far from appreciating the amusement in the man’s eyes.

When he emerged five minutes later, Preston had recombed his hair and was smelling of somebody else’s cologne. Evan was still standing outside the door, more or less to attention, Wesley sitting on the top stair, nursing a can of Coke and wishing it were Carlsberg.

“Thought I was doing a runner,” Preston said.

“You were told to stay downstairs, within sight.”

“Call of nature.”

“I don’t care.”

“So okay, won’t happen again.”

“I know.” Evan held out the cuffs and moved toward him.

“Look,” Preston said. “There’s a favor I got to ask.”

“Forget it. No more favors.”

“My sister, I just want to talk to her.”

“You’ve been talking to her.”

“No, alone.”

Evan shook his head. “You heard what I said.”

“Come on,” Preston said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You got family of your own, right? Close. How’d you feel in my shoes?” He stared at Evan until Evan dropped his shoulders in a shrug.

“Be quick,” Evan said, glancing along the landing. “In there, the bedroom. Ten minutes, tops. And remember, there’ll be one of us out here, the other down in the garden-just in case you have a mind to do a Peter Pan.”

“Okay,” Preston said. “Thanks.”

Evan stepped away. “You’re wasting precious time,” he said.

Five minutes later, Sean dogging his heels, Derek wandered over to where Wesley was standing in the garden, eyes flicking from time to time toward the bedroom window.

“You’ll be on your way soon, I dare say,” Derek said.

“Yeh. Just as soon as they’re through.”

“Through with what?”

“Preston and your wife, making their fond farewells upstairs.”

Derek followed the direction of Wesley’s gaze. “You stay here,” he said to Sean. “Stay here and don’t move.”

“Dad …”

“Just stay.”

On the upstairs landing, Evan moved to intercept him, but he was too slow. Three paces and Derek pushed the bedroom door all the way back so hard it rebounded from the edge of the dressing table with a hollow crack. Michael was sitting on the edge of the double bed, head bowed forward; Lorraine standing close in front of him, hand resting on his shoulder.

“What the hell’s all this?”

Lorraine turned toward him. “Michael and I were just talking.”

It had been silent in the room: neither she nor Michael had been saying a thing.

When Michael slowly moved his head away and sat back, Lorraine left her hand where it was. “Don’t close the door, Derek,” Lorraine said. “It’s not allowed. Just leave it ajar, the way it was. All right?”

Flushed, Derek turned on his heel and pushed past Evan, taking the stairs two at a time. His sister Maureen was in the hallway with Sandra, but he swept on past, not speaking, pausing only to grab his car keys before slamming through the front door.

They were twenty miles shy of Leicester, heading south, the signs for East Midlands Airport just coming into view.

“Today,” Preston said, surprising both Evan and Wesley by initiating a conversation. “You were both pretty decent. I hope you don’t end up getting into trouble ’cause of what you did.”

“Thanks,” Evan said, with a slight turn of the head. “It’ll be okay.”

“Yeh,” said Wesley grudgingly. “No problem.” And he felt a sudden sensation, burning and sharp, along his arm.

Wesley’s shout of surprise and pain merged with another from the front of the car, as Preston pressed the open edge of the razor-blade tight against the artery at the side of Evan’s neck. They veered abruptly into the outside lane and drivers, cruising in excess of eighty, sounded their horns and flashed their lights in warning. “I’ve just sliced your mate’s wrist,” Preston said. “Get him to a hospital fast and he’ll be okay. You too.” As yet, the blade had barely broken the surface of Evan’s skin. “Now pull over on the hard shoulder. Do it now, don’t even think.”

“I don’t know,” Evan said aloud, as much to himself as anyone else.

Blood was spooling over Wesley’s fingers as he gripped his wrist. “Evan,” he said, “for Christ’s sake, do what he says.”

Evan started to swing in without indicating and almost brushed the side of a cattle lorry thundering off to Harwich and the Hook of Holland.

“Take it steady,” Preston said, the hand holding the razor blade not wavering in the slightest. “Right, pull over. Over now.” Before the car had stopped, he was holding his cuffed wrist out toward Wesley, the razor blade still fast against Evan’s neck. “Unlock this.”

Though the blood made it difficult to keep a grip on the key, Wesley did as he was told.

“Right,” Preston said. “Now the car keys. Give them to me. Now!”

For a long time, Evan would remember what he saw in the mirror as he passed back the keys, the resolution bright and certain in Michael Preston’s eyes. And moments later, Preston was running away from them, fast, across a field of rape.