‘I ALWAYS FEEL SORRY FOR LEFTOVERS,’ Holly says, as she picks up a dinner plate from the buffet table. ‘It’s like when you’re an afterthought at a wedding because someone’s dropped out.’
Only if it’s a cannibal’s wedding, Lily thinks, and then feels terrible. How can she make jokes like this in her own head when someone’s died?
‘Only if it’s a cannibal wedding,’ Tom says.
Everyone laughs, if a little guiltily, smiles hidden behind hands, and Lily feels glad that someone at least can speak her mind.
The buffet table does look a bit sorry for itself. The offcuts of cheese look imprisoned in their glass dome. The sausage rolls are the burned ones of the batch, and the grapes are well on their way to becoming raisins.
‘Thanks for going to so much trouble, Mrs Castle,’ Sara says, dripping saracasm over the lunch like chutney. She looks at the table with a pseudo-chef sneer, her nth since arriving at Endgame House what feels like weeks ago.
‘You’re entirely welcome, Miss,’ Mrs Castle replies as she shoves heated-up mince pies on a plate. She counters the saracasm with relish. ‘Tuck in, by all means. And there I was thinking none of you would want much to eat, given the circumstances.’
And it’s true – nobody has much of an appetite but they still dutifully fill their plates before retreating in cliques to their preferred corners of the house.
Lily sits with Tom in the living room. She half-heartedly picks at a turkey sandwich so dry in both bread and bird that she can’t swallow. Tom is poking at the fire, breaking blackened wood into ash.
‘I would’ve thought Ronnie would be awake by now,’ Lily says.
‘I think Rachel gave him another two sedatives. That, and the shock, means he needs to repair.’
‘Can he get better from this?’ Lily asks. Her hope is not just for Ronnie.
Tom nods. ‘In time. With help from us, and a therapist. He might need some EMDR – that’s Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing – to try and process the trauma of finding her. He could easily get stuck in that moment and replay it again and again.’ He glances across at her but doesn’t say the obvious.
‘You don’t need to say it. I’m stuck on finding Mum.’
‘I know I might be trespassing,’ he says. ‘But I could recommend someone who could help specifically with trauma. I’ve seen EMDR do great things. Might stop your nightmares.’
Lily nods slowly. ‘When we get back, give me the number.’ Even saying that makes her anxiety rise. At least she’s managed to keep Tom quiet for a while on that subject. She’ll sort it herself, hopefully by finding Mum’s killer.
Tom puts the poker back in the stand and leans into his chair. He smiles at her, and she longs to tell him what she’s looking into. He might know something. He lived in Endgame House for a while after Mum died, until his parents passed too. And while that was an accident, he must want to know about that time. She reckons he only got into psychology and psychotherapy in order to process his own sadness at one remove. We all deal with death in our own way.
And maybe helping her would be healing for him. ‘I need to tell you something, Tom,’ she says.
Tom turns to her, and then heavy footsteps are heard from the floor above.
‘Ronnie’s up,’ Lily says.
*
Ronnie is throwing objects across his room when Tom and Lily get up the first set of stairs. As Lily runs in, a book hits the door. ‘She can’t be gone,’ he’s saying, as if he’s plugged straight back in to when he was last awake. He tears at his cheeks with his nails.
‘Hey, sweetheart,’ Lily says, placing her arms round him.
He pushes her back into Tom, who steadies her, and silently checks in with her by raising his eyebrows. She nods back. She’s always wanted this level of communication. When you can’t, or don’t want to, speak, it’s wonderful when someone can read you.
Ronnie grabs her by the shoulders. His eyes are crazy-paved with red. ‘I need to see Samuel.’
‘We can’t at the moment, mate,’ Tom says, slowly moving Ronnie away from Lily. ‘Car trouble.’
Ronnie holds Tom’s head in his hands. ‘No one else can tell him. It’s got to be me. You got it? Me.’
‘Of course, mate. You’re his dad.’
‘That’s right, I’m his dad.’ Ronnie’s face contorts. ‘What am I going to do? She was the one who did everything. How’s he going to cope without her?’
‘You’ll be there for each other,’ Tom says. ‘And we’ll all be there for you both.’
Ronnie puts his forehead against Tom’s. ‘I’m going to need you, bruv,’ he says.
*
Lily and Tom spend the next few hours with Ronnie. Talking when he wants to, sitting quietly by his side when he doesn’t. He won’t leave the room, just sits on the bed, holding Philippa’s shawl. He rubs the hem between his thumb and forefinger. Occasionally, he brings it to his face and sniffs.
Lily tries to look for Philippa’s key, but it feels intrusive, too venal with Ronnie like this. She understands. She’d like to be in her own room now. Every part of her aches. Tiredness tugs at her eyes. She looks out of the window and sees the snow fall onto the grounds and she thinks of being tucked up in bed. Head settling into a sinking pillow.
‘When can I go and see her at the funeral parlour?’ Ronnie asks after a long silence.
Lily and Tom share looks. ‘What do you mean?’ says Tom.
Ronnie swallows. ‘I know I can’t go immediately, that they need to – you know,’ he gags, and places his hand to his mouth. Lily feels an empathic peristaltic jolt. ‘Make her comfortable, as Gray said. But I’ll be able to see her tomorrow, won’t I?’
No one’s told him that her body is in the ice house. He’s just assumed that her body was taken away while he slept. And it was. Just not in the way he imagines.
Lily can’t let him think this. ‘I’m sorry, Ronnie,’ she says. ‘You’ve got the wrong impression. Philippa—’
Tom nudges Lily and she stops talking. ‘Can’t be visited for a few days,’ he takes over. ‘Something to do with bank holidays and working days. You just concentrate on getting in a fit state to see her.’ He gives Lily a meaningful glance over Ronnie’s bowed head, although she has no idea what it means.
Ronnie starts crying again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, wiping his nose. ‘I can’t stop crying.’
‘You don’t have to, mate,’ Tom says. ‘It’s healthy.’
‘You should know, I suppose,’ Ronnie replies, trying to smile.
‘Exactly,’ Tom says. ‘I’m a professional. And in my professional opinion, you need something to eat.’
‘Perhaps I should have more of Rachel’s pills,’ Ronnie says. He looks at both Tom and Ronnie with such a pleading face.
‘I don’t know, Ronnie,’ Lily says, thinking about the way he uses alcohol.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Ronnie replies. ‘But this is different. With alcohol I was self-medicating in order to function and get on with life. I want those pills to not get on with life. Not right now.’ He raises a hand as if reading her next objection. ‘And I don’t want to check out either. I want things to stop for a bit. To stop hurting.’
‘We can all understand that, mate,’ Tom says. ‘Tell you what, you come down with us, have a bite to eat, take whatever you want from the pantry – or you could cook something. Sara would appreciate a chef at the helm.’
Ronnie turns to Tom and grabs him by the shoulders. He’s breathing quickly, grasping at breaths, as if staving off a panic attack. ‘I can’t cook, not without Philippa.’
When you lose someone that close, they drag part of you into death with them. Better to be alone.
*
Lily gets her way in the early evening. Having settled Ronnie into another sedated sleep, she takes herself to her room. She had intended to study the blueprint of the house that Isabelle gave her, but she’s too tired to focus. She’s sure her eyes are getting worse.
That’s a side effect of pregnancy they don’t tell you about – fluid retention in the eye or behind the eyeball can make the cornea change shape. Apparently, they’ll go back to normal after the birth. Probably.
So many changes that she hadn’t expected. Some good – her boobs resembling marble statues, for one. And her hair’s extra thick because no strands fall out during pregnancy.
Of course, that means it’ll all fall out, with extra for luck, after Bean is born. Grandma Violet used to claim that she’d lost a tooth for every one of her children – ‘They suck the calcium from your bones,’ she’d said at dinner once, making a Hannibal Lecter-eating-liver sound. ‘Leach all the good stuff out of you so they can grow. It’s just fact. Marvellous little parasites, you lot are. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Lily had also heard, with less basis in science, from her friend Natalie who she’d met at the one antenatal class she’d attended before stopping, that if you have a girl, they take your beauty for themselves.
‘You take whatever you want, Beanie,’ she whispers to her bump. Bean seems to give a flippy fist bump back.
Knock, knock. ‘It’s me, Miss Lily. I’ve brought you supper,’ Mrs Castle says, her voice muffled from behind Lily’s door.
Lily has become the pregnant cliché – moaning when standing up or sitting. Holding her back. She’d told everyone she was going to skip tea and have an early night, but her stomach is already rumbling. Bean wants more food, even if Lily doesn’t. On opening the door, she sees Mrs Castle holding a tray with cream crackers, cheese, ginger biscuits, salt and pepper, and a mug of murky peppermint tea. The pregnant person’s supper.
‘You know too, then,’ Lily says.
Mrs Castle shrugs. ‘Obvious, isn’t it?’
‘To everyone?’ Lily asks, thinking of the warning that both Isabelle and Liliana had given her.
Mrs Castle shakes her head. Her curls somehow do not move. ‘The others are too self-absorbed to notice. Anyway, Liliana told me she suspected you were pregnant when you met up. Said you looked younger, felt queasy, and had the “sheen”.’ She barks a laugh. ‘I’ll tell you what for nothing. Looking younger doesn’t last. It’s nature’s last gift, or trick, before aging you a decade the minute they pop out.’
‘Thanks for that, Mrs Castle. I look forward to it. Don’t tell anyone else, will you?’ Lily says. ‘I can’t face all the questions about the house.’
Mrs Castle nods and hands her the tray.
Lily is about to turn when something occurs to her. ‘You said Liliana told you about me?’
Mrs Castle nods. She tips her chin up as if defying Lily to ask anything personal.
‘How did you know Liliana?’ Lily asks. ‘I mean, I know you used to babysit for us when we were little, but did you work for her up until she died?’
‘I looked after her and her house best I could. And I still do.’ Mrs Castle looks down at her hands, rubs her ring finger as if it’s arthritic from all the housework Liliana got her to do.
‘I would’ve thought she’d have mentioned you,’ Lily says.
Mrs Castle’s laugh is full of rue, not mirth. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Maybe she didn’t feel she could.’
‘Why?’ Lily asks.
‘You’re not the only member of the family to keep things to herself.’
‘I’ve just realised. I don’t even know your name. I’m so sorry,’ Lily says.
‘Liliana just called me Castle.’
‘Not the most informal nickname.’
‘Sometimes you take what you can get,’ Mrs Castle says.
‘So, you’re not going to tell me your name?’
Mrs Castle walks back to the door. ‘Eat your supper, Miss Lily,’ she says. The door closes slowly behind her.
When she’s finished eating, Lily gets into bed. With the curtains open, she watches snowflakes settle on the sill. She counts these teeny cold alternatives to sheep, and drifts off to sleep.