Heathen/Nemesis

‘What do you mean?’ the agent asked, looking a little puzzled.

‘I mean about his work, his character. What he did in his spare time. How much did you know about what he thought?’

Connelly looked bemused.

‘Would you say you knew him, Martin? Knew him as a person, not just as a client?’

‘That’s a strange question, Donna. I don’t see what you’re driving at.’

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted as Julie arrived with a tray of coffee cups, milk and sugar. She set it down and poured cups for Donna and Connelly, saying she had some things to unpack. ‘I’ll leave you to talk.’ She smiled at Connelly. ‘It was good to meet you.’ Again she disappeared and Donna heard her footsteps on the stairs.

Connelly dropped sugar cubes into his cup and stirred gently.

‘What do you mean, did I know Chris?’ he asked.

‘You were pretty close, weren’t you? I mean, he must have told you things. About himself, about his work, about me.’

‘Donna, I was his agent, not his bloody confessor. If my clients want to tell me their problems, that’s up to them. I care about them, and I like to think it’s not just on a professional level.’

‘Did Chris tell you his problems?’

‘What kind of problems?’ Connelly said, taken aback by her questions. ‘What made you think he had any? If he had, you’d know more about them than me. You were his wife.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten, Martin,’ she said acidly. ‘But there might have been things he told you that he couldn’t tell me.’

Connelly shook his head.

‘Did he tell you he was having an affair?’ she demanded.

The agent looked at her evenly.

‘What makes you think he was?’ he wanted to know. ‘And even if he was, which I doubt, what makes you so sure he’d tell me?’

‘You said you were close to your clients. He couldn’t very well tell me, could he?’

‘What gives you the idea he was having an affair, for Christ’s sake? He loved you. Why would he want to screw around with other women?’

‘Does your professionalism run to protecting him when he’s dead, Martin?’

‘Donna, I know you’re going through a bad time, I understand that. But this is shit.’ There was a hint of anger in Connelly’s voice. ‘Chris wasn’t having an affair and if he was, he didn’t say anything to me about it. You’re on about that crap in the paper about him being found in the car with a woman, aren’t you?’

‘He was found in the car with a woman.’

‘That doesn’t mean she was his mistress. Jesus Christ, Donna. Think about it logically.’

‘I don’t know what to think any more, Martin,’ she hissed. ‘But I’ll tell you this, if you’re keeping quiet just because you think it’s saving me hurt then you may as well tell me what you know. I couldn’t suffer any more than I’m suffering now.’

‘Just listen to what you’re saying, Donna,’ Connelly told her, trying to keep his voice even. ‘Your husband is dead and all you can think about is whether or not he was having a fucking affair.’

An uneasy silence descended.

Donna rested her head on her hand, her eyes averted. Connelly kept his gaze on her. When he sipped at his coffee again it was cold. He put the cup back on the tray and got to his feet, taking a step towards her.

‘He never said anything to me, Donna, believe me. I know as much as you.’ He wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder but resisted the temptation. ‘If I knew anything I’d tell you.’

‘Would you, Martin?’ she said, eyeing him challengingly.

‘I’d better go,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll let you get on.’

She got to her feet and they walked to the front door where she paused on the step and pecked him on the cheek.

‘Don’t forget,’ he said. ‘If you need anything, just let me know.’

She nodded and watched as he walked to the waiting Porsche and slid behind the steering wheel. He started the engine and waved, watching her disappear back inside the house. Connelly pulled away, the house falling away behind him.

On the landing, hidden by the curtains, Julie Craig also watched the agent leave.

Fourteen

They had done all they could that day. The two women had risen early and begun the tasks which needed completion. Now, as night began to creep across the sky, they sat in the dining-room eating, occasionally glancing at each other and smiling.

Donna, wearing make-up for the first time in two days, looked pale and tired still but she also looked a little stronger.

There had been tears when they’d called at the hospital that morning to pick up Chris’s belongings but Julie had expected that.

His clothes were now upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms, the blood-spattered garments laid out on one of the beds until they could be washed. It was as if Donna needed to keep looking at them; despite Julie’s entreaties, she had returned regularly to the room that day to view the torn clothing.

Next to his clothes lay his wallet and his cheque book, similarly splashed with blood.

After the hospital they had travelled to the undertaker. He’d been helpful and sympathetic in his practised way, a fat, middle-aged man with too much hair that looked as if it had been dropped onto his head from a great height. He asked the relevant questions:

‘Open coffin?’

‘Cremation or burial?’

‘How much did she want to spend?’

The enquiries had begun to blur into one another; Donna had left feeling that she was no longer in control of events. The undertaker would arrange everything, he assured her. She need have no worries. As she and Julie had left another group of people had entered, doubtless to be asked the same questions. Death had become like a conveyor belt, it seemed.

From the undertaker’s they travelled to a florist’s and ordered the flowers.

There were catalogues full of suitable wreaths and arrangements. Wreaths for all occasions. Donna noticed, with acute poignancy, that one page was devoted to ‘The Death of a Child’. How terrible, she thought, for parents to be confronted by that particular ordeal.

Everything appeared ready now; there was just the funeral to come. The time Donna dreaded most. The awful finality of it all. At the moment, she knew the body of her dead husband lay in the Chapel of Rest. Once it was laid in the earth then it was as if he was to be wiped from her consciousness, not just her mind. All she had to look forward to now were memories.

Memories and pain.

And anger.

Donna pushed her plate away from her and sat back in her chair, exhaling deeply.

‘You okay?’ Julie asked.

‘I feel so tired,’ Donna told her. She smiled wanly at her sister. ‘I’m sorry, Julie.’

‘Go and have a nap, I’ll take care of this,’ Julie said, waving a hand over the dirty plates and glasses. ‘Go on. I’ll bring you a cup of tea up in a while.’

Donna thanked her and walked away from the table, touching Julie’s shoulder as she went.

The younger woman smiled and kept on smiling as she heard her sister’s footfalls on the stairs. The steps groaned protestingly as she made her way to the bedroom. Julie continued eating, looking first at her watch then at