Читать книгу The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4 - Jessie Keane - Страница 28

Like most, Annie Bailey hated funerals. It was bad enough when a person was old and frail, death wasn’t so hard then. A bit of a mercy, really. But when it was the death of a young man, and a death so bloody and vicious, then you started to say to yourself: if there’s a God, why did he let something like this happen?

When she got up on Friday morning and took a bath and styled her hair, she thought of Eddie. Eddie as she had last seen him, bloody and broken on the bed in Darren’s room. As she dressed she tried to get a grip. Think of happier times, she told herself.

She thought of dancing with Eddie at Max’s and Ruthie’s wedding. It was no good. She remembered not Eddie’s tipsy laughter but the tight misery gripping her throat and chest on that day. Max ignoring her. Ruthie, who should have been so happy, looking distraught and confused. When she’d got home that night, it had been a mercy to lock herself up in her room, alone. Even then there had been no real relief. All she could think about was Max and Ruthie in bed together. All she could feel in her bruised, aching heart was it should have been me.

She put on her neat black suit with the cream piping and gold buttons. It was a Chanel rip-off, elegant and understated, one of Celia’s selections.

‘A Madam may have to mix with whores but she doesn’t have to look like one,’ Celia had always told her. ‘The right clothes give a woman authority.’

Annie looked in the mirror and knew that Celia was correct. She put on the black pillbox hat she’d bought specially, and black stockings, black court shoes. Her dark hair she tucked up in a neat chignon. She picked up her bag and went downstairs. Darren was making tea and toast.

‘Want some?’ he asked as she came into the kitchen.

Annie shook her head. ‘I’d throw it straight back up.’

Darren looked her up and down. ‘You look great. I’ll come with you if you want, you know that.’

‘No, I’m best on my own,’ said Annie.

Christ, that would really put the cat among the pigeons. Darren, the male prossie Eddie had been attacked with, turning up at a Carter funeral.

‘Are you sure you should go?’ asked Darren.

‘Celia would go,’ said Annie flatly, and was relieved to hear the taxi tooting away outside. She didn’t want time enough to talk herself out of this. It wouldn’t take much to make her bottle it altogether. But she owed it to Celia to at least show up and pay her respects. Dig deep and stand alone, she told herself.

‘Take over, Darren,’ said Annie, and left.

The streets all around the cemetery were thronged with people turning out to show respect to the Carters. Annie paid the taxi driver, told him to come back in an hour, and decided to walk the rest of the way. She caught snatches of the conversation of other mourners.

‘See, ’flu can be nasty. Carry you off in a minute.’

‘Our Gillian had it last winter, she was fucked. Too weak to lift a finger.’

‘And he was so young.’

‘Yeah, but never strong.’

‘Just goes to show.’

So that was the story. Eddie Carter had died of complications brought on by influenza. She went into the church. It was already nearly full, and she was pleased about that. She tucked herself away at the back, glad to be lost among the crowds.

Annie thought that organ music was the most depressing thing in the world. All around her people were talking in whispers, scared to appear disrespectful by raising their voices in a place of worship. She looked up at the stained-glass window. Angels were clustered around Christ on the cross. Candles glimmered on the altar. It was pretty and serene in here. When she thought of how Eddie had died, it pained her to look at any of it.

There was a rustle of louder whispering now. The hearse had arrived. The music changed, swelling with Saul’s Dead March. There was movement and lowered voices from the porch, then the coffin came, beautifully draped in white lilies, borne aloft by six men. She saw Jonjo Carter and Gary Tooley, Jimmy Bond and Steven Taylor, Jackie Tulliver – and Max.

Annie felt her heart kick violently in her chest. She hadn’t seen him since he’d chucked her out of his car. Christ, such a lot had happened since then! She’d changed. She could see that he’d changed, too. He’d lost weight. His face was sharper, his dark skin almost pale. Every pulse in her body seemed to have speeded up. She quickly looked away from him, it hurt too much.

All her stupid unvoiced hopes for this day had proved worthless. She had almost convinced herself that his power over her would be gone, that she would look at him and not feel what she had always felt. She didn’t know what this was – love or lust? More like a fucking obsession. Whatever it was, she had to get rid of it.

Then the six grim-faced men were moving slowly on up the aisle. They stopped in front of the altar and placed the coffin carefully on the dais. The music stopped. The vicar told everyone to be seated. Annie sat numb throughout the readings then stood up to mouth the words of hymns. She lost track of time, it was like a waking nightmare, but at last the coffin was coming back down for the interment. This time she didn’t look at Max. But she saw Ruthie and Mum following on behind the coffin.

Mum looked fucking awful, but then she always did. Black drained her, made her look scrawnier and pastier than ever. But Ruthie was a shock. She was so skinny now, and her expensive dress hung on her like a rag. Where had Annie’s plump, warm-featured sister gone? Ruthie looked like a mannequin, painfully thin and cold.

It was better outside in the air, even if the wind cut like a knife near the grave. Queenie’s headstone was huge and elaborate, a tribute from Max and Jonjo and Eddie. Now Eddie was joining her, to lie beside her for eternity. The many mourners, Annie among them, stood back and let the close family cluster around the grave. The vicar was saying the ancient, soothing words. Ruthie was crying and dabbing at her eyes. Connie put her arm around her and Annie felt her guts clench in sympathy. Jonjo was a big, bulky presence, standing with head bowed beside a rigidly upright Max.

Annie allowed herself to look at him again. One look, one last guilty moment of pleasure before she stopped this silliness once and for all. She stared at his face. The hooked nose, the dark hair being tossed by the wind, the steely blue eyes that raised and now looked – oh God – straight into hers. Annie’s breath caught with the shock of it. Their eyes locked for a long time, then Max looked down at the grave again.

‘It’s a fucking shame,’ someone was saying behind her. ‘Not that long since the old lady went, and now the boy.’

Then it was over. Thank God, thought Annie. She rushed out of the cemetery gates to the waiting taxi. She didn’t look at Max Carter again. She didn’t dare.