Twenty-five years earlier
We leave in darkness on Monday, the first bus of the day rumbling us through traffic-free streets. Mum is dry-eyed and distant. I have to nudge her alert when we get to the station, then guide us to the right platform, focusing on practical things until we’re on the train and my blood starts to hiss in my ears.
Daylight leaks into the sky as the train rushes through a spectrum of colors, ink to pale amber to blue. My black dress crumples beneath my thighs. Mum fiddles with the armrest, flipping it up and down, and checks her watch and rubs her eyes and, as we chug into Basingstoke, clasps my hand with all the dread I’m trying not to show.
My heart turns over when she tells me we’re heading to Nick’s brother’s house first. We’ve been invited to travel in the proper funeral car with his family. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, Mum was his girlfriend after all, but I still feel like we’re outsiders.
We freeze in unison as we step out of the taxi. The man striding to greet us is so much like Nick. He moves like him; he has the same eyebrows and mouth. When he introduces himself as Richard his voice is similar too. It’s like shaking hands with a ghost.
Richard’s house is big but there isn’t much stuff in it: “minimalist,” Becca would say. I wish there was more clutter to camouflage against. I feel too visible as we stand in the living room and are introduced to Nick’s dad and two cousins. Nick’s dad has the same family resemblance, less striking because he’s older. It’s almost a relief when the two black cars arrive and a flurry of activity distracts me. But then I glance out of the window and am embarrassed by my own jolt of shock.
Of course one of the cars would have a coffin in it. Of course we’d be riding to the funeral with Nick himself. What did I think would happen?
The only other funeral I’ve been to was my grandad’s. That was in a church, with hymns and readings from the Bible. I was only seven but I remember being fascinated by the man playing slow tunes on the organ. Nick’s funeral is in a crematorium surrounded by trees. A small crowd of people gathers outside, but when we get out of the car there’s no rumble of conversation, only silence. The coffin is carried through the middle and we walk behind with our heads low.
During the service I learn more about Nick than I did the whole time he was with my mum. He wanted to join the RAF but his eyesight wasn’t good enough. He used to like boxing when he was younger—I have to clamp my mouth so as not to react to that. His brother does a tribute and his voice wobbles twice. Every anecdote that’s shared and every song that’s played makes me more confused.
And I can’t stop staring at the coffin. I remember thinking that my grandad’s looked small—even to me as a kid. But Nick’s coffin is long and broad, the cherry-dark wood gleaming.
After the service we go back to Richard’s clean, empty house. People loosen their ties, speak a little louder; I pick at a triangular sandwich and feel like my legs won’t hold me up. Eventually I shut myself in the downstairs toilet, splashing cold water onto my wrists.
When I get back to the living room I see Nick’s dad heading toward my mum. I arrive at her side at the same time as he arrives in front of her. He glances at me, then locks eyes with Mum and says, “I’m very sorry.” It seems an odd thing for him to say to her. He’s lost his son after all. And there’s something about his words, something I can’t puzzle out.
Mum bites her lip. “So am I.”
“Could we have a quick talk?” he asks. “How about some air?”
Mum shifts her black handbag from one shoulder to the other. “Will you be all right for a minute, Kate?”
I nod, but I don’t think she sees. She pats my arm and Nick’s dad gestures toward the door.
On the way home I ask her what they talked about during those fifteen minutes, when I could see only the tops of their heads through the living-room window. “Nothing, really,” she says. “Just Nick.”
I daren’t push it. I’m just relieved to be speeding home, rocked into a trance by the train’s bumpy gallop.
Even after the funeral is over, the suspense thickens every day. There are so many things that make my pulse fly—the ringing phone, visitors at the door. Becca and Auntie Rach come back whenever they can, usually at weekends, Auntie Rach bringing dirty potatoes from a friend’s garden or little bottles of brandy for her and Mum to share. Becca and I try to catch moments alone, but it’s impossible in the flat, and I’m not sure what we’d say to each other anyway.
We’re all in the kitchen eating breakfast when it finally happens. The only sound is teeth crunching burned toast. It doesn’t seem like we can get much quieter, but all noises evaporate as a knock thuds on the door. It’s as if we know this isn’t just another neighbor with a watery chicken stew.
Auntie Rach answers it and comes back with two policemen. They introduce themselves but I don’t take it in—I’m not even sure if they’re the ones I’ve met before. I notice, distantly, that I’ve dropped my toast jam-side down onto my plate.
“We’re here following the postmortem and toxicology report for Mr. Nicholas Wood,” one of the policemen says. “We need to ask you about some medication found in his system.”
I grip the edges of my chair. I don’t know where to look, how to make my legs stop twitching.
“Antidepressants?” Mum asks.
“Well, yes, a low dosage of antidepressants was found. Analysis of Mr. Wood’s blood and urine, combined with his medical records, suggests he’d been taking those for around four weeks. But it’s unlikely that was the cause of death.”
It’s Auntie Rach who asks the question. “Then what was?”
“After several rounds of testing, the toxicology team also found an anticonvulsant in Mr. Wood’s system. They estimate he ingested it around eight to twelve hours before he fell ill.”
I make myself focus on the police, a slight frown on my face, hoping a deep flush isn’t bleeding into my cheeks. The fridge is buzzing like an insect in the corner, the noise it makes when it’s on the blink.
“An anticonvulsant?” Mum echoes.
“Carbamazepine.” The name of Becca’s medication takes on a new emphasis in the policeman’s voice. Auntie Rach shifts as if she recognizes it, but says nothing. I look toward Becca, expecting her to look back at me, expecting this to feel like the inevitable end. She stares squarely ahead. Then I realize that everyone has followed me in turning toward her, and we’ve formed a ring of expectant gazes with her at its center.
“Do you know of any reason Mr. Wood might have taken this drug?” one of the officers asks. “It’s most commonly used to treat epileptic seizures.”
I snap my eyes downward, hoping everybody else will do the same. Auntie Rach’s gaze slides away from her daughter, but Mum’s still staring in Becca’s direction.
“My niece has epilepsy.”
Becca straightens. “But I don’t take that drug.”
My eyes boomerang to her. Does she really think she can get away with lying?
“Look.” She leaps to her feet and goes to her handbag, rummaging through and producing a packet of pills: sodium valproate.
I feel as if I’m seeing things. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe she’s been taking these all along. But that would mean the toxicology report was wrong.
More likely she’s changed her medication. For a genuine reason? Or in some crazy attempt at a cover-up?
What have you done, Becca?
“Have you always taken those?” one of the policemen asks, accepting the packet and studying it.
Becca sits back down. Her neck is blotchy. “Actually”—she screws up her face as if remembering—“I did used to take carbamazepine. But I’ve been on these for a little while now.”
“Were you taking carbamazepine when Mr. Wood fell ill? Might there have been some in the flat he could’ve accessed?”
She shakes her head firmly. “Nope. I actually wasn’t taking anything then. I was between meds.”
Between meds? I dare to glance at Auntie Rach: Her face is full of confusion. Becca looks pale now, too, as if regretting going down this road.
“We’ll have to follow this up, Miss Fielding. With your cooperation, I hope? And we’ll also consult with the toxicologists, to confirm how sure they are about the exact type of anticonvulsant in Mr. Wood’s system.”
“How much was found?” Mum asks.
“It can be hard to measure levels in the blood, but they’ve been estimated as quite high.”
“Did it kill him?”
“The toxicology team and our medical experts think he died from a strong adverse reaction to that drug. The antidepressants might have increased its effects, and made the levels of carbamazepine appear higher. With alcohol in his system also, the synergistic effect of all three . . .”
I try to breathe evenly through my nose. I can hear Becca cracking her knuckles beneath the table. Auntie Rach is very still, unusually quiet. Mum frowns at Becca’s pills in the policeman’s grasp.
“We’d like to talk to you all separately. It would be easier to do this at the station, if you would follow us there?”
I risk a final glance at Becca. She’s slumped now, as if in defeat. As if she knows that lying about her tablets is yet another decision we can’t take back.