‘This is unbelievable!’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is. I just can’t believe you’d do this, Roy.’
‘Darling, listen! This is bullshit, complete and utter bullshit! I can explain!’
‘Great. I am all ears. Explain!’
Then, suddenly she gripped her abdomen and screamed out in pain, all the colour draining from her face. ‘Roy, oh my God, oh my God!’
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The obituary in the
GRACE. Noah Jack
On July 2nd. Died tragically shortly after birth. Much loved son of Roy and Cleo. Private funeral for family only.
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Roy Grace had tears in his eyes as he watched Cleo cradling their son, in her bed in the maternity ward of the Royal Sussex County Hospital. The baby’s pink face was all scrunched up, his eyes were closed, his lips formed a tiny rosebud. Thin tufts of wavy fair hair lay across his head. He was dressed in a pale blue V-neck cotton top, embroidered with a mouse wearing striped shorts.
It was incredible, he thought, unable to take his eyes off him. His son. Their child. He breathed in the sweet smells of freshly washed skin and baby powder. Looked at Cleo, tresses of her hair lying across the shoulders of her nightdress, her face filled with so much love and care.
Then his phone rang. As he answered it, he stepped away from the bed and went out into the corridor. It was Glenn Branson.
‘I’m so sorry, mate, we’re all gutted.’
‘Gutted? What’s happened?’
‘Well, you know – I thought the baby was doing fine – then we saw it in the
‘Hang on a sec, saw
There was a moment of awkward silence. ‘Well – the obit, right?’
‘Obituary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s died?’
There was another silence. ‘Your baby, right? Noah Jack Grace?’
‘What? Are you serious?’
‘Got it on my desk right in front of me. Everyone’s in tears here.’
‘Glenn, there’s been a mistake. We had a horrendous couple of days. Noah was born with breathing difficulties – wet lung syndrome, they called it. They weren’t sure if he was going to make it.’
‘Yeah, you told me. But, you know, you said he was getting stronger.’
‘He was all intubated and wired up in an incubator at first – neither of us was allowed to touch him. But he’s fine now, Cleo’s holding him; hopefully we can take him home soon.’
‘So who the hell screwed up with the obituary?’ Glenn asked.
‘I can’t believe this. You’re sure?’
‘I’ve got it in front of me in black and white.’
‘Shit. I’m going straight down to the shop to get one. I don’t think anyone’s screwed up. Obituaries don’t get put in by mistake,’ Grace said grimly. Inside, he was shaking.
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Freedom for Amis Smallbone, among other things, meant being able to enjoy some of life’s simple pleasures. One of them had always been sitting at a table under the Arches on the seafront, right by the beach, staring out at the sea and the Palace Pier and the passing totty.
By night, this area was rich pickings for the network of drug dealers he once controlled, but on a fine summer morning it was mostly tourists promenading along, enjoying the views, the beach, the bars, cafes, shops and other seaside attractions.
And there were few things he enjoyed more than his first coffee of the day with the
With his cigarette in his mouth, smoke curling up between his eyes, he flicked through the pages, aware he still had years to catch up on in this town. He saw an interview with the Chief Constable talking about cuts he was having to make and read the piece with little sympathy. There was talk of a new hospital. A bunch of drug dealers in Crawley, a couple of whom he knew, had been arrested in a raid the police had been working on for ten months.
His eyes widened a little and he read this story carefully. Could be a business opportunity had opened up there. Then he reached one of the pages that always interested him the most. YOUR ANNOUNCEMENTS.
He went straight to the DEATHS, and scanned down the column. He never ever missed this column, because he liked to know who he had outlived, and who he didn’t have to worry about any more.
But today there was a very special entry.
She liked Gatwick Airport; it was much more convenient for Brighton than Heathrow and easyJet had direct flights to Munich.
Holding hands with her ten-year-old son, after security she walked into the duty-free shopping area. Immediately the boy dragged her into Dixons, where she bought him an upgrade for his latest computer gaming machine, which made him happy.
The one good thing that had happened in the past decade was her careful investing of her windfall inheritance from her aunt, enabling her to escape from her relationship with the increasingly insane control freak Hans-Jurgen. She was now a wealthy woman. Well, wealth was all relative, but she had enough to buy the house, if she decided, and to buy things for her son without having to consider the cost.
Emerging from Dixons, she made straight for the WH Smith news and bookstore.
‘Just want to get some papers, in case they don’t have them on the plane.’ Then in German she asked her son if he would like something to read on the flight to Munich.
He shrugged indifferently, engrossed in the instructions on the game upgrade.
Straight away, she grabbed a copy of the
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