Chapter 44
Ian Ventham is having an early night. He sets his alarm for five a.m. Tomorrow is the big day. He puts on his blackout goggles and his noise-canceling headphones and happily drifts off.
Ron shuts his eyes. He liked it the other day, the police coming to see them, and he liked shouting at Ventham in the meeting.
In truth he misses the limelight a bit. He misses people listening when he talks.
Put him on Question Time. They wouldn’t dare.
He’d tell them a thing or two. Thump the table, blame the Tories, raise the roof, like in the good old days.
Or would he? Maybe not. He’s drifting now.
Maybe they’d see through him; maybe his tricks were yesterday’s tricks?
He has certainly lost a yard of pace. What if they asked about Syria?
Is it Syria? Libya? What if Dimbleby looks him in the eye and says, “Mr. Ritchie, tell us what you saw”?
But that was the copper, wasn’t it? And it’s Fiona Bruce now, isn’t it?
He likes Fiona Bruce. Who killed Tony Curran, though?
Ventham. Typical Blairite. Unless he was missing something. Was he missing something?
Across the path, Ibrahim is learning the countries of the world, just to keep his left brain ticking over. He is letting his right brain get on with the job of thinking about who killed Tony Curran. Somewhere between Denmark and Djibouti, he falls asleep.
In her three-bed in Larkin, the one with the decking, Elizabeth cannot sleep. She is getting used to that these days.
Her arm is around her Stephen in the darkness. Can he feel it? Does Penny hear her? Have they both already disappeared? Or are they only real for as long as she chooses to believe they’re real? Elizabeth clings on a little tighter, and holds on to the day for as long as she is able.
Bernard Cottle is online. His daughter, Sudhi, had bought him an iPad last Christmas.
He had asked for slippers, but Sudhi hadn’t considered slippers a proper present, so he’d had to buy himself some in Fairhaven in the sales.
He hadn’t known how to use the iPad, but Joyce had told him not to be so silly, and had taken it out of the drawer and shown him.
By his side, Bernard has a large glass of whisky, and the last slice of Joyce’s coffee and walnut cake.
A pale blue glow illuminates his face as he looks at the plans for the Woodlands for what must be the hundredth time.
One by one, the lights of the village switch off. The only remaining illumination comes from behind the thick hospital blinds of Willows. The business of dying keeps different hours than the business of living.