Epitaph (16 page)

Gina Hacket sat on the end of the bed staring at the array of stuffed animals propped on the pillows there.

The teddy bears, the pandas, the dogs and the cats all gazed back blankly with their beady, blind eyes. Gina could see her own reflection in the blank glass orbs.

More stuffed animals and dolls stared down at her from the shelves on the wall beside her. On the floor near the bed there were more toys, board games and even some furniture from a doll’s house. Gina bent and picked up the tiny table and chair and crossed the room to the doll’s house itself where she gently placed the furniture inside, her hand shaking slightly. She moved back to the bed, this time sitting among the stuffed animals. Gina reached out and picked up the smallest of them.

It was a little Dalmatian. No more than four inches high.

Laura’s favourite.

As Gina held it before her she began to cry softly, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping on to her jeans.

She gently kissed the little stuffed dog.

Dummy dog, they had called it. Laura had christened it herself because, when she’d finally given up her dummy, she’d been bought the little animal as a reward. It had taken the place of her dummy so she had called it dummy dog. Gina felt more tears rolling down her cheeks and, when she held the dog close to her face, she could smell her daughter on it.

How she wished she could have held her in her arms now. She would have given her soul to be able just to look at Laura again. To see her smiling face and hear her laugh, but she knew only too well that joy was now to be denied to her for ever. For the rest of her life. The realisation brought fresh tears but Gina made no attempt to brush them away.

She got to her feet and crossed to the white chest of drawers close to the bed. Sliding the top drawer open, she pulled out a pink T-shirt and opened it up to display the design on the front. It was a cat with a top hat and the legend beneath proclaimed: COOL CAT.

Gina kissed it and held it against her lips, inhaling. Breathing in the scent of her child.

She took a step back and found the bed once more, seating herself on it and digging in the pocket of her jacket for a tissue. Finding one, she dabbed at her nose and sat motionless in the gloom of the bedroom.

Outside, she heard the floorboards creak and the door opened slightly. She looked up to see her husband standing there. He was holding a steaming mug in his hand and he advanced slowly into the room, almost apologetic that he had intruded upon her grief.

‘I brought this up,’ he said, holding the mug out before him as if it were some kind of offering. ‘I thought you might want it.’

Gina let out a deep breath.

‘We always think that things can be made better with a cup of tea, don’t we?’ she said, smiling.

Frank Hacket sat next to her on the bed and set the mug down on the bedside table.

‘I just thought you might like one,’ he went on softly ‘I made one for myself.’ He shrugged.

She nodded appreciatively.

‘And did it help?’ Gina wanted to know.

Frank shook his head almost imperceptibly.

‘Can’t hurt though, can it?’ he whispered.

He watched as she reached for the mug and took a sip.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, surrounded by the paraphernalia of their daughter’s life. A life that was now over. Taken.

‘I just kept thinking that it was so unfair,’ he said quietly. ‘What the hell had she ever done to deserve that? What had we done to deserve it?’

‘They say everything happens for a reason. God knows why this had to happen.’

‘If He does I wish He’d tell us.’

Frank wiped a tear from his own cheek and sucked in an almost painful breath.

‘I thought the police were very nice,’ he added almost conversationally. ‘It must be hard for them too, having to give people that kind of news. Having to go with them to the identification.’

Gina nodded.

They sat in silence for a little longer.

‘People will have to be told,’ Gina said finally, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘About Laura. About what’s happened.’

Frank nodded.

‘Not now,’ he murmured.

‘Arrangements will have to be made, Frank.’

‘It’ll all be taken care of.’

Gina took another sip of her tea.

‘Who’s going to tell your mum and dad and mine?’ she wanted to know. ‘You never think about things like that, do you?’

‘I told you, it’ll be taken care of,’ he said, tenderly taking the cup from her when he saw her hands shaking and some of the hot drink dripping down the sides of the receptacle.

Gina held the little stuffed Dalmatian in one hand, reluctant to let it go.

‘What are we going to do without her?’ she asked and the tears came again.

Frank put his arm around her and drew her closer, feeling her body racking as she sobbed.

He didn’t answer.

He
had
no answer.

‘Did my daughter cry when you raped her?’

The voice echoed inside the box once again and, despite the question it asked, one part of his tortured mind was glad to hear it. At least he knew he wasn’t alone. As long as the voice was asking questions he had a chance, he told himself.

The voice repeated the question.

For a moment, Paul thought about ignoring it. There seemed little purpose in arguing with the owner of the voice. What was the point? Whatever he said he wouldn’t be believed so he was beginning to question the sense of pleading his innocence any longer. However, he knew that his only hope of surviving lay in his ability to convince his captor that he was telling the truth. He sucked in as deep a breath as he dared and lay there motionless for a moment longer.

All his working life he had specialised in advertising. Basically selling people things they really didn’t need. That
was the single purpose of advertising and now he knew that those skills he’d honed for so long were the only weapon he had against whoever had imprisoned him below ground. He had to sell himself. Sell the belief that he was innocent and cause the owner of the voice to believe him.

This is your last chance. Maybe if those fuckers where you used to work could see you now they might even think about rehiring you. What do you think?

Paul managed to silence the internal voice for a moment, giving himself time to think.

If he told his captor what they wanted to hear he was doomed. If he continued to plead his innocence then he was still lost.

Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.

‘Come on, think,’ he murmured to himself, aware that whoever had put him in this box could hear his words.

‘I asked you a question,’ the voice persisted. ‘Did my daughter cry when you raped her?’

‘What makes you ask that?’ he enquired.

‘I heard you crying just now. It made me wonder.’

‘Do you blame me for crying?’

‘No. But why are you crying? Because you’re sorry for what you did to my daughter or are you just feeling sorry for yourself?’

‘I think it’s a reasonable reaction considering the situation, don’t you?’

There was a moment’s silence then the voice returned.

‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ it said.

‘What difference is it going to make if I tell you or not? It’s not going to bring your daughter back, is it? It isn’t
going to make you feel any better. Didn’t the police give you details about the way she died?’

‘Not much. They didn’t think there was any need. But I insisted.’

‘Why put yourself through that?’

That’s good. A little empathy. Catch them off guard.

‘I remember when my dad died,’ Paul continued. ‘I couldn’t even bring myself to look at his body in the chapel of rest. My mum wanted me to but I just couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘What good would it have done? It wouldn’t have brought him back to life, would it? And he couldn’t hear me saying goodbye or how much I’d loved him. I wanted to remember him when he was alive, not when he was embalmed in a coffin.’

‘What did he die of?’

‘He had a stroke. He’d been ill for a while. I felt so helpless looking at him in his hospital bed. It was like he was just waiting for the end.’

‘Did he wake up after the stroke?’

‘No, he never regained consciousness. My mum stayed beside his bed from the time they took him into hospital until the day he died. Six days. I thought she was going to die, too. I remember thinking that I could lose both my parents in the space of a week.’

‘Why did you think she was going to die? Was she ill?’

‘No, but you know sometimes when one half of a married couple dies the other one follows pretty quick. It’s like they can’t survive without each other. And they were very close.’

‘But she didn’t die?’

‘No.’

There was another long pause.

Paul licked his lips.

Well done. If you can make them think about you more as a person then they might find it harder to let you die. Keep going.

‘I visited my daughter in the chapel of rest,’ the voice said finally. ‘Of course, they’d used make-up to cover the worst injuries. I remember thinking that she looked like a little doll with her face all covered in powder. It wasn’t right that a child of her age should have powder on. Then again, it wasn’t right that she was dead to begin with. But that’s your fault, isn’t it?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Paul said wearily.

‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ the voice went on.

‘Which one?’

‘The one about whether she cried when you raped her. You must be able to remember.’

‘If you let me out of here and we talked face to face I’d remember a lot more. Lying in a coffin six feet below the ground isn’t a great aid to memory.’

There was defiance in his voice that he couldn’t suppress.

Fuck it. Why should you? Don’t keep your feelings to yourself. You might not be around for much longer to use them. Get everything off your chest.

‘So where do you think we should talk?’ the voice enquired.

‘I don’t mind. Anywhere. You take me where you like,’ Paul offered.

Had he sowed a seed of doubt in his captor’s mind?

‘I’ll tell you everything I can,’ he continued. ‘But not
while I’m in here. I’m running short of oxygen. That affects memory.’

Does it really? Nice touch.

Paul waited nervously for the response.

‘You’ve got enough oxygen to last you another hour,’ the voice told him flatly.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘By the time you were put into the coffin.’

‘And how did you get me in here in the first place? Or, more to the point, how did you get me out of my flat without anyone seeing? It’s impossible. Someone would have seen you. People around me know my friends. They would have seen you. They’ll be wondering where I am. Someone’s probably called the police. They’ll be looking for me.’

‘No one saw you and even if the police are looking for you they won’t find you. How will they know where to look? They’re not just going to think that you’re in a graveyard somewhere and start searching for newly dug earth, are they? Who’s going to think that someone who’s gone missing is buried alive?’

‘But they’ll come looking for me.’

‘They won’t find you. Not before you’ve told me what I want to hear.’

‘If you let me out I won’t press charges. Just let me out and walk away. I don’t even have to see your face.’

Paul heard a sound coming into the coffin that he couldn’t identify at first. Only after a moment did he realise that it was laughter.

‘You’re trying to bargain with me,’ the voice said. ‘You arrogant bastard. You think you can get me to let you out on your terms.’

‘I was just suggesting.’

The voice cut him short.

‘Shut up,’ it rasped. ‘You get out of that coffin when I decide you’re telling me the truth. That’s the only con -sideration. And you’d better start talking now.’

Gina Hacket didn’t know how many times she’d counted the sympathy cards. It might have been nine. It might have been ten. It didn’t really matter.

There were twenty-eight of them. From relatives and friends and neighbours and there were even six from complete strangers who had been touched by their situation. It had been the same at the cemetery. There had been bouquets and wreaths from friends, family and neighbours, naturally, but there had also been a number simply left at the cemetery gates as a mark of respect. Some had names on the cards, others didn’t. The smell of so many flowers had made Gina a little nauseous but she still appreciated the gesture.

The sympathy cards were displayed all around the living room of the Hackets’ house. They stood there like silent apologies, some of them on the speakers of the stereo, others on the bookcase and the rest all propped up where they could be seen. Gina had wanted those who had come to the house after the funeral earlier that day to see them. She wanted people to know how loved Laura had been.

She and Frank had been pleased to see so many of Laura’s little friends at the funeral although she doubted that they actually realised the full enormity of the ceremony they were witnessing, just as they probably didn’t realise the true meaning of the words that the vicar had spoken so expertly over the grave.

They would have understood the tears and the sobs, though.

Standing there at the graveside with their parents, most of them in their school uniforms, they had all behaved immaculately. A number of them had cried, too, especially when the coffin appeared.

It had taken all of Gina’s remaining self-control to prevent herself grabbing at the tiny white coffin as it was carried to the grave. She didn’t want it lowered into the ground. She didn’t want her only child to be hidden from her beneath six feet of mud and earth. She wanted her back but she knew that was not to be.

Now she got slowly to her feet and wandered through to the kitchen where her husband was washing the last few plates in the sink. He set each dripping piece of crockery on the drainer carefully then wiped his hands on a tea towel and prepared to dry the waiting plates.

‘Leave them,’ Gina said quietly, sitting down at the kitchen table.

‘There’s only a couple left,’ Frank said softly. ‘Otherwise they’ve got to be done in the morning.’

‘Does it really matter, Frank? I mean, what else have you got to do in the morning?’

He considered the question for a moment then nodded and replaced the tea towel on its hook next to the back door.

‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked, filling the kettle.

‘I’ll have a brandy if we’ve got any left,’ she told him.

‘Do you think that’s a good idea, Gina?’

‘I think it’s the best idea I’ve had all day. I think it would be an even better idea if you joined me.’

Frank hesitated for a moment then he crossed to the cupboard behind her and removed a bottle of Hennessy and two glasses that he set down on the table in front of Gina. He poured each of them a measure then pushed one glass towards his wife. She took it and swallowed the contents in one, the alcohol burning its way to her stomach.

She looked at Frank and saw something close to recrimination in his eyes but he didn’t speak and, when she pushed the empty glass towards him he refilled it immediately.

‘How many’s it going to take?’ he asked quietly.

‘To stop what I’m feeling now?’ she wanted to know. ‘A lot more than two.’ She took a sip from the glass. ‘What about you, Frank? What’s it going to take to make you feel better?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I feel numb. I can’t think of any other word to describe it. It’s like there’s a big hole inside me. A big black hole. I feel as if I’m walking around with a crash helmet on. I hear things, smell things and see things a fraction of a second later than everyone else. I don’t feel as if I’m part of this world any more. When we were in the funeral car on the way back from the cemetery this afternoon it was as if nothing outside was real. I didn’t belong to that world. Do you know what I mean?’

Gina nodded.

‘Anyone in our place would feel the same way,’ she offered. ‘I appreciated people coming to the funeral, and the things they said were thoughtful, but I didn’t want to speak to any of them really. I just wanted to be here, away from everyone else.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘The vicar said something about celebrating Laura’s life rather than mourning her death. How are we supposed to do that? She hadn’t had a life. Eight years isn’t a life. It’s nothing.’

A note of anger had crept into Gina’s tone. ‘He stood there talking about how his God was taking care of her now when it should be us taking care of her. She should be here with us. What kind of God allows an eight-year-old to be raped and murdered?’

Frank had no answer. He merely sat gazing blankly at the brandy bottle.

They sat in silence for a long time then Frank reached out and touched her hand.

‘When I looked at those other parents today, standing there with their kids, I hated them,’ Gina said softly. ‘I hated them because I envied them so much. They’ll get to see their kids grow up. We won’t, Frank.’

‘I know that,’ he admitted, taking a sip of his own drink. ‘But it’s not their fault. We shouldn’t blame them for what happened.’

‘I don’t blame them, I’m just saying, it’s hard not to hate them just a little bit.’ She held up her thumb and index finger, the digits about an inch apart. ‘While we sit here tonight, they’ll be tucking their kids up in bed, kissing them goodnight and thinking about how they’ll be seeing them again in the morning, but we won’t do that again. We’ll never do that again.’

Frank bowed his head slightly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He waited a moment then poured himself another brandy. It seemed the right thing to do. It seemed the only thing to do. He wanted to get drunk. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. The last time he’d surrendered himself to the oblivion of inebriation. That option seemed highly desirable at the moment.

Frank prepared to take a sip from his refilled glass. He paused and raised it in salute, glancing at a school photograph of Laura that stood on the window ledge nearby. The image smiled back happily at him.

‘Here’s to Laura,’ he said. ‘Our little girl.’

The words faded as he stifled a sob, clearing his throat.

Gina leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, wiping a tear from his face.

‘You don’t have to be strong all the time, Frank,’ she told him. ‘Not any more.’

He looked at her and saw his own devastation mirrored in her expression.

They both put down their glasses and held each other. And they wept uncontrollably.