The Wife Before Me(77)
Hands over her mouth to stifle a scream, Elena leaves the breakfast table and climbs the stairs to her room. Four days since Billy died. She imagines his body stretched in front of the fire that had crackled and sparkled as he revealed a terrible truth to her. She would understand what had happened if his heart had given way after the stress of their conversation? That would make sense but what she had just heard on the radio ruled that out. Foul play is suspected…what does that mean? How soon after she left had the attack taken place? Did Nicholas recognise her as she drove away? No, that would not have been possible, not with the sunglasses and the hoodie. But he had waved, a deliberate gesture of acknowledgement, a mocking salute of recognition.
She needs to compose herself before leaving for another day at the office. Rosemary, who shouts from the hall that she is ready to leave, must not suspect anything is wrong. Elena splashes cold water on her face and runs downstairs.
More details emerge in the evening papers. The alarm had been raised by the owner of the Kilfarran Inn, who noticed the absence of his regular customer. When the guards broke in, they found Billy in a pool of blood, his skull cracked. A burglary that went wrong, they believe. Thugs targeting the elderly, especially those who live in quiet places. Jewellery that once belonged to Jodie has been stolen, also Billy’s wallet.
Forty-Two
In St Malachy’s Church, Elena recognises faces from Kilfarran Village. Sideways glances, unbridled interest; she senses the unease caused by her arrival. On the way to Billy’s funeral she almost changed her mind on two occasions and, now, as she finds a seat among the mourners, she imagines the whispered comments. That’s her? The Ice Pick Stabber. A real nut job, she is. Better not get on the wrong side of her.
The tension rises a notch when, towards the end of the funeral mass, Nicholas stands at the altar and pays tribute to his neighbour. Unaware previously that he was in the church, Elena is stunned to see him, without notes, eulogising Billy’s life. If she leaves now, everyone will know why she is fleeing. She listens to the familiar cadences that once seduced her and is assailed by images that have haunted her since the news of Billy’s death broke. Nicholas returns to his seat on an appreciative round of applause.
In the cemetery, the crowd are sombre, still shocked that a local man could die in such circumstances. No one speaks to Elena or shows that they recognise her. Once again, she is facing Nicholas across the width of an open grave. As always, he stands out from those surrounding him. His flawless skin is lightly tanned from a recent holiday with the children in Spain. His forehead is smooth, a high plane without furrows, guiltless. His eyes compel attention, engender trust, beget love.
She notices a stranger standing behind him. He is losing his hair and has shaved off what remains. Square-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee beard add to his air of gravity. She has no memory of having seen him before, yet there is something about his face that tugs at her memory. He lifts his head and, as if aware that he is under scrutiny, he looks across at Elena and smiles. She looks down quickly. Smiling at strangers in cemeteries has consequences.
When the burial is over, a portly man pumps Nicholas’s hand and slaps his shoulder. Congratulating him on his speech, no doubt. Elena walks away. She has watched the reports on television, listened to a grave-faced detective inspector plead with the public for information from anyone who saw Billy in the lead-up to the time of his death. How long can she hide the truth? How long before the fragile house of cards she had built around herself collapses?
The man who had smiled at her is walking ahead. He slows until she is abreast of him.
‘I’m Mark Patterson,’ he says. ‘Amelia was one of my closest friends.’
Elena remembers him now. A photograph of teenagers, Amelia, Leanne and two boys lounging on grass with them. Mark’s features are unchanged but he had hair then, a pink Mohican.
‘Billy was always kind to us when we were kids,’ he continues. ‘His death was an obscenity.’
‘He was kind to me, too,’ she replies. ‘I hope they find whoever is responsible. They should throw away the key when they lock him up.’
‘I agree.’ When they reach the car park he reaches for her hand and squeezes it. ‘Have courage,’ he says.
Before she can respond, he walks swiftly ahead of her towards his own car. Such a fleeting encounter, almost imagined, yet she is aware of a quickening in her step, a lifting of her heart.
Nicholas is standing beside the orange Citro?n. When he holds out his hand to shake hers, there is a perceptible pause from those who have still to drive away.
‘Get out of my way.’ Elena ignores his gesture and pulls the car keys from her handbag.
‘Why?’ He leans back against the door on the driver’s side, his tall frame relaxed, one foot crossed over the other. ‘Will you stick me with an ice pick if I don’t?’ Once, his laughter was contagious, . Now, when he laughs, it sounds in her ears like breaking glass.
‘You can do better than that with the insults, Nicholas. You’ve done so in the past, usually before you knocked me to the ground.’
No longer laughing, he ignores her comment and smacks his hand off the side of the car. ‘When did Rosemary give you this heap of junk?’
‘If you don’t leave me alone, I’m calling the police and reporting you for harassing me,’ she snaps.