Chapter 24
With my phone strapped to my arm and ear buds in, I run in the morning light for miles, my breath forming clouds around me, my fingers glowing red under the cold bite of the air.
The music shields me from passersby who might want to say, Good morning, or, Condolences , keeps me concentrating on making sure my feet touch the ground without tripping and prevents my mind from wandering into the shadows.
I run until sweat pours out of me and I have nothing left to give.
Dereck Marshall – Dereck Death, as Sandy calls him – arrives at eleven.
It’s such a peculiar choice of vocation, a funeral director.
At what age does a person wake up one morning and think, I know what I’m going to do with my life; I’ve found my true calling: I’m going to be a funeral director ?
This is what I’m thinking about as Dereck Death shuffles his glasses on the end of his nose, then pulls out a leather-bound picture book.
The snow-white album looks ironically like a wedding album, only, rather than signifying a new life, Dereck Death’s album represents the end of a story, the finale to the play of life.
He begins some rhetoric about the importance of an eloquent close to one’s time on earth as he flicks the pages from high-gloss, white coffins to a soft, rosewood option, then from black, marble, heart-shaped headstones to grey, angular alternatives.
Perhaps because of the way my dad used to deal with death – professional, detached – I find it easy to be emotionally disconnected from the process of choosing flowers and deciding whether my dad would like a gold or silver plaque on top of his coffin.
The minute detail of how he’ll be buried bears no relation to my dad: his life, the man he was or still is in my memory.
We agree to hold a wake at a hotel close to the church where the service will take place but even as I work through the details, I know I won’t attend.
I have no desire to listen to those who were absent in Dad’s time of need regale a room with stories of how close they were and the good times they shared. They can brag amongst themselves.
After he places his leather book back into his zip-up bag and straightens the legs of his trousers, Dereck Death makes his own way towards the door.
‘I’ve had confirmation now of the postmortem results. Natural causes, so I see no reason why we won’t be able to work to Friday,’ he says.
I know the truth.
‘Scarlett. Scarlett. Dereck is leaving,’ Sandy says.
‘Hmm? Sorry, ah, yes, thank you,’ I say, shaking Dereck’s hand.
‘Are you okay?’ Sandy asks when the door is closed.
‘Yes, of course. Fine. Are you okay?’
She nods once.
‘Would you mind if I go into the office today?’
‘Oh, Scarlett, I know you feel better but I don’t think you’re ready for that.’
‘That’s just it. I feel better today because you took my mind off things last night and I’ve been for a run, made breakfast and spoken to Dereck Death and it all means I can stop thinking about it .
I don’t have time to go over the details of what happened in my head when I’m doing things.
I can’t miss him and I can’t wonder what would’ve happened if I’d never taken that deal.
You could come with me, if you like. We can call into my office briefly then maybe go for coffee, get out of this house? ’
She shakes her head. ‘Just don’t do too much.’
‘I won’t, I promise.’
In my mind, I think the process of getting the Tube to work will be so incredibly normal, it’ll be easy to forget that everything has fundamentally changed.
I take a seat and watch as a man sits opposite me and opens his broadsheet newspaper, spreading it wide so that the boy next to him is forced to lean to one side.
Two girls with northern accents get on a few stops later, pouting and holding their mass of shopping bags from high-street stores.
Things are normal. The problem is, things are so normal, I can’t stand it.
I want to scream to these people, How can you be normal when my dad is dead?
Do you hear me? Dad is dead! I once read somewhere that if a person thinks of having a clear mind, they can eventually manifest it.
Over and over in my head, I repeat the words, Clear mind, clear mind.
My mind is not clear. Turning up the volume on my music, I close my eyes and focus on the lyrics.
At the next stop, the Tube jerks, rocking my body to one side.
People alight and are replaced by others.
A man with a sausage dog on a tan, leather lead.
A businesswoman wearing a navy, checkered suit, holding a briefcase and smelling of sweet, exotic flowers.
Then I see her: a middle-aged woman in knee-high, brown boots and a wrap-over, floral dress beneath her winter coat.
She turns at the doors to face the platform and her bouncing, red curls fall from her back around her shoulder.
She bends to pick up a small, Garfield cartoon suitcase on wheels.
Then, standing by her side and clutching her coat with two hands, I see that familiar little boy from my dreams. The Tube jolts and is moving again.
The boy stares at me, afraid, asking for my help.
At the next stop, I get off and walk the rest of the way to the office under the cover of grey clouds and threatening sky, which makes it too muggy for the scarf around my neck.
The streets are quiet compared to rush hour but the sounds of fast-paced heels tapping the pavement as they make their way to an important engagement and smart-suited men chatting into phones with animated, flailing arms are still present.
There’s always the quiet, studious man or woman wandering with their head in a book or a newspaper, inevitably bumped by an impatient passerby in a hurry to get to their next meeting or to the front of the coffee shop queue for their next caffeine fix.
Paul, the homeless guy who usually keeps a daytime plot outside my office block with his blue sleeping bag, smiles at me as I drop two pound coins into his white cardboard cup. ‘Thanks, Scarlett.’
I’d usually make conversation but today, I’m just not in the mood.
A receptionist in the atrium greets me as I push through the glass doors of the building; she waves me on towards the lifts. Staring in the lift mirror at the bags under my eyes, I ask myself why I’m doing this.
Whispers in the secretarial area begin as soon as I step out of the lift. Margaret almost covers herself in coffee as she splutters the sloshing liquid from her Best Grandma mug.
‘Scarlett! I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’
What she really means is, Don’t you care at all about your father?
‘I’ve got a lot to do,’ I say, biting down on the inside of my cheeks.
Everything in my office looks as it did just days ago yet it’s changed somehow.
As my computer beeps into life, Margaret finally plucks up enough courage to ask if I’d like a coffee.
Almost reluctantly, she asks how I am. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she says quickly but not as quick as the move she makes to leave the office to get me a latte.
Amanda appears at my office door.
‘Hey you,’ she says, her arms already around me, pulling me up from my chair. ‘How’re you doing?’
She doesn’t ask why I’m in the office; she’s just Amanda, perching herself on the end of my desk.
‘Much better for seeing you,’ I confess. ‘Talk to me about anything except my dad, please.’
Her straight face breaks into a pursed-lip smile. ‘Okay. Just let me say, you know where I am and you know I want you to ask for my help if you need it. Whether it’s an ice cream and movie companion, a work bitch to dump stuff on or a shoulder to cry on, okay?’
‘Okay.’ I give her a short, uncomfortable laugh. ‘What’s been happening? Did you have a good weekend?’
‘It was – oh, have you heard about Jack?’ she says excitedly, jumping from the edge of my desk and sending her amber curls bouncing from her shoulders.
Insects crawl over the tiny hairs on my skin beneath my black, fitted dress, causing me to shudder. ‘What about him?’
‘One sec.’ She runs from my office then returns at lightning pace, holding a tabloid newspaper open to page seven.
‘All right, all right, I’m not blind,’ I say, grabbing the paper from her to read.
LOCAL MAN CHARGED WITH SEXUAL ASSAULT
A local man by the name of Jack Arthur Jones was arrested and charged last night after voluntarily confessing to police the names of three female victims he has sexually assaulted.
A lawyer for Jack Jones has informed the press that his client will not be requesting bail and a trial date will be announced in the coming weeks…
‘Can you believe it?’ Amanda squeals. ‘I always thought there was something seedy about him. He never tried anything with you, did he?’
I shake my head and pass the paper back to Amanda.
‘I wonder why he would just hand himself in like that,’ she says, throwing the folded newspaper into the bin at the side of my desk.
‘Guilt, maybe.’ I shrug, feigning nonchalance, but already wondering what part Gregory played in this.
‘A man like that? I doubt it. And three women? I hope he rots in jail.’
I see Gregory’s red knuckles in my mind and hear his words, He’s going to get what’s coming to him. Chills strike my neck and shoulders. I’m grateful for the interruption of Margaret’s tiptoeing kitten heels.
‘One latte,’ she smiles, handing me the warm, cardboard cup. ‘Scarlett, I, well, I?—’
‘It’s okay, Margaret, I’m okay. Thank you.’
Her relief is audible.
‘Oh, Mr Wallace called earlier and asked me to let him know when you were next in the office. He said not to rush you, just when you’re in. Would you like me to tell him you’re here today or should I put him off for you?’