The next few days seemed to pass in a blur – from Jack’s time in hospital to the police statements and constant press attention.
Jack had been saved by Don’s impatience. Don had fashioned a proper fixed knot for Shane, spent time making sure that the knot was strong and wouldn’t come loose when he started to swing. Once Shane kicked his chair away, the rope had jammed under his jaw, the sudden jolt breaking his neck. He was dead before the police broke in. When it came to Jack, Don was getting angry, was working off-plan, and so he just threaded a slipknot, so that when Shane kicked away Jack’s chair, it throttled him, tight and hard.
Laura had just about got there in time and the knot slackened a touch when he was cut down, but they had to cut away the whole thing to get Jack breathing again.
Jack looked down at his hands. They were shaking, his palms slick with sweat. He tried not to think back to that time. He had recovered from the physical threat. It had been other things that came back to him more often, like the thoughts he’d had when on the chair. It had been the jolt he’d needed, as frightening as it was, the realisation that if he’d died, there wouldn’t have been too many people to scatter petals on his grave. He had friends, but they were casual, just good for a drink or a phone call. The circle of people who loved Jack was too small. The only people he’d had to say goodbye to were Laura and Bobby. He vowed to change that, to meet more people, to make his life a little less about writing articles not many people read.
His finger ran around his neck, and he felt the rough skin that still marked out the loop of the rope. He pulled his shirt collar away. It felt too tight.
Shane’s funeral had attracted more photographers than mourners. There were just two people who shed tears, Ida and Emma, on opposite sides of the grave, each in black, one crying because she blamed herself for what he had done, the other because she hadn’t been there to stop him. They left separately, each partly blaming the other. Bad upbringing. Bad genes. Maybe just a combination of the two.
Rachel had no choice but to resign. The force had allowed her to do that – fall or be pushed. It was the only way to keep the small pension she had built up. Jack had seen her once, coming out of the college, dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt, holding papers in her hand. It looked like she was trying to get on a course, approaching the resignation as an opportunity, not a punishment. Jack smiled when he saw her, pleased that she was doing something with her life.
The future of Don and his men, and Mike Corley and David Hoyle, was not quite so bright. They had been charged with conspiring to murder Shane, all of them in custody awaiting their trial. Jack was the star witness, the only person who was in that room who wasn’t in a cell, and he felt no nerves at the thought of sending men to prison for many years.
Jack knew that David Hoyle would suffer the most in prison. Mike Corley would get some protection because he was an ex-copper. His own cell, with a television, provided that he didn’t mind sharing a wing with rapists and child molesters. David Hoyle would have to mix with the general population, and he wasn’t tough enough for that.
Jack had no sympathy. David Hoyle was a lawyer, he knew where the line was, and he shouldn’t have crossed it.
Jack took some deep breaths and looked at the floor. He shouldn’t feel like this. He could hear the soft murmurs of people around him, but they seemed distant, as if he was sitting in a bubble. He looked up instead, tried to focus on the view through the large window, past clusters of trees and towards a line of cottages on a distant brow. It was going to be all right, he told himself.
Then his thoughts were broken by the sound of music from the back of the room and the rumble of people rising to their feet. He recognised the tune. It was the one Laura had wanted for her entrance.
Jack felt a tap on his arm. It was Joe Kinsella, who smiled and said, ‘It’s time.’
Jack rose slowly to his feet, winced as his leg ached, and then as he looked round, his nerves melted away.
Laura was in an ivory-coloured dress, neat and simple, her shoulders bare, the train short, clutching a hand-tied bouquet of white calla lilies and roses, the colour provided by her stream of dark hair. Her dimples flickered in her cheeks. As beautiful as she looked the first time he’d met her.
As she reached him, he held out his hand and squeezed hers.
‘I love you,’ he whispered.
Tears sprang to her eyes before she gave his fingers a small squeeze and then they turned to the Registrar.
Jack knew then that everything was going to be all right.