White Bodies(65)
“How come he’ll be sleeping? Won’t he wake up?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have given him something that ensures that he won’t wake.”
“What—Rohypnol?”
“That’s my business. But take it from me, he’ll be knocked out. . . .”
Then she told me to stand by and wait for her to send me an address, a date and a time. “I’ll post them to you. Read them, and destroy them, then act.” She gave me two keys, one to the front door of her building, the other to the flat.
“I’m going now, Callie. You must stay focused. Obviously, don’t tell anyone about this—not a soul.”
“Scarlet . . . Before you go . . . Can I know your real name? It would make me feel better.”
“No. Of course not.”
She left and I noticed that she walked elegantly, with poise—walking slightly hips-first, like models do. Maybe she hadn’t been lying about that after all. I sat on the bench, figuring out what to do next. A light rain filled the air, and walkers on the heath put up umbrellas, pulled up hoods, and I drew my parka around me. Then I walked back down to the bus stop thinking I must track down Luke Stone. It was critical now.
? ? ?
At home, I ignored the dirty dishes and mugs in my sink, and microwaved myself a hot chocolate. Then I put Luke Stone Manchester into my search engine and came up with an eleven-year-old schoolboy who’d received a bravery award for rescuing a dog from a canal, and a retired soldier who’d served in Afghanistan. Obviously the wrong Lukes, so I looked at the Hollybank website—and found profiles of several senior members of staff—but nothing for Luke Stone. Facebook was also a dead end—the Luke Stones were all the wrong sort. It occurred to me then that maybe Scarlet had given me a false name—after all, my instructions were clear, I was supposed to go to her flat and inject the sleeping man. I didn’t need to know his name.
36
Felix’s funeral was on a cold Friday in October, the air sharp and fresh, even though the sun was casting a gentle light on St. Gregory’s church, on the graveyard of crooked headstones and the ground swell of copper-colored leaves. I arrived early, and to pass the time I revisited the graves of Emily Jane Goode and Henry Watson and Ernest Norwood Richardson, then sat on the broken bench by the stone wall, thinking that I’d slip into the back of the church later, hoping that nobody would notice me.
Felix’s international colleagues arrived in small solemn groups—women in black coats, thin stockinged legs, heels; men in dark suits. I saw Paige Mooney, this time with Robbie on her arm, and Kimberley Dwyer, and Mum (who didn’t spot me). No sign, yet, of Lucas or Alana or Erik, and no sign of Tilda. But I saw Liam enter the church, and hoped that I might speak to him after the service. I thought about how calming it would be, how soothing, to confess everything, and to follow his advice. I was so adrift, and he was a psychiatrist now.
I found myself following him into the church but not to the pew. Instead I stood at the back, leaning against the wall, sinking into the shadow. The coffin was already in place, centrally in the aisle, with a huge arrangement of white lilies on the top, like a ridiculous, frothy hat; and at the side of the altar, on a wooden stand, a massive photograph of Felix was smiling inanely at the congregation, the same glossy photograph that had appeared in the press and on websites when he died. Dazed, I looked at the backs of people’s heads, and realized that I was looking for Scarlet; I half thought that she’d be unable to stay away, that she’d want to engage with the death she caused. But I couldn’t see her, and I closed my eyes, actually praying for Felix to rest in peace, to be forgiven his sins. When I opened them again, I saw Francesca Moroni coming into the church, crouching slightly as she slipped into a pew. She was exceptionally beautiful, her mass of brown hair falling across her shoulders, dark eyes gazing at the coffin as she knelt down, clasping her hands together in front of her face, and I wished I could examine her thoughts and emotions. Was she grieving the love of her life? Or was escape from Felix her salvation?
I thought about moving from my position at the back wall, towards Francesca. But then I was distracted because Tilda arrived, walking slowly down the aisle, acknowledging no one, taking her place at the front, between the coffin and the photo. She was holding herself still, reverentially—and I struggled to know what was going on inside her head. I couldn’t tell whether she was as distressed as she’d been on the day Felix died, or whether her true feeling was one of relief that she could now abandon her terrible flirtation with death, her sick game—goading and taunting Felix until he snapped. I looked at the back of her head, her fair hair falling from a tasteful black hat that Felix would have approved of, and I saw only her exterior—the actress playing her part.
Erik and Alana arrived next, Alana clutching Erik’s arm, almost falling into him, her steps weak and faltering. Behind them, Lucas walked sedately like a guard, ready to catch his mother if she fell. They sat next to Tilda, and I wondered if they’d reach out to her. But they didn’t; they simply nodded, very slightly. My heart burned in my chest. My sister and her suffering deserved recognition, not cruel disdain. Lucas was different, though—he reached across his parents to squeeze her hand.
We sang “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” and all the time I was deeply aware of the way Erik and Alana held themselves, resolutely angled away from Tilda and towards their dead son. I suppose they blamed her. Maybe they blamed England too, and hedge funds in Mayfair—all the people and places that had taken Felix away. At one point Lucas went up onto the altar to read from the Bible, and it was hard not to cry as we heard his voice wavering and recovering and wavering again, while Alana buried her face in Erik’s unconsoling arm. The service wasn’t long, and afterwards the immediate family went to the crematorium. I’d asked Tilda whether she wanted me to come, and she said no, so I didn’t get to see the final moments before Felix went up in flames.