Wednesday
As Gareth marches up the broad driveway that leads to an impressive detached Georgian-style house, he presses a hand to his stomach, not because he’s nervous but because he hasn’t had breakfast yet. He lifts the heavy brass knocker on William Mackesy’s door. He tried ringing the man several times last night after he found the note on the flowers, but there was no reply and there’s no way Gareth can do a full day at work without answers. He’d been a fool to think his dad might still be alive, that he was wandering through the Meads looking for his son, when all along it was obvious who was behind the postcard. Bloody William Mackesy. Not content with extorting money from the desperate and the grieving, now he was branching out and sending postcards from the dead. It was an idiotic thing to do. No one with healthy neurons would ever believe a dead relative had magicked words onto a card then floated it into a postbox, and even his own mother, with her protein-coated cells and her withered synapses, thought the card was from a living person. Was Mackesy trying to befuddle her to work his way into her will somehow? His visits certainly seemed to have increased in frequency recently, if Sally’s reports were anything to go by.
Bang
Gareth brings the knocker down hard.
Bang
Bang
He steels himself, pushing back his shoulders and drawing himself up to his full five foot seven. Dogs – at least two or three – respond by barking frantically. The sound has a strange echoey quality. Gareth has never been to William Mackesy’s house before but it didn’t take much to persuade the church secretary to hand over his address. After all, hadn’t Joan made such a generous donation?
‘Hello?’ The door opens to reveal a man not much taller than Gareth with thinning grey hair, wire-framed glasses and a face that wouldn’t be out of place on an ageing game show host. ‘Oh.’ He looks Gareth up and down, struggling to place him.
‘I’m Joan Filer’s son,’ Gareth says. ‘We met briefly at one of your … events … about a year ago.’
‘Joan’s son. Oh, of course!’ Mackesy holds out his right hand. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected early visit … er …?’
Gareth doesn’t tell him his name, nor does he shake the proffered hand. Instead he nods his head towards the cavernous hallway behind Mackesy and says, ‘I’d like to come in if I could.’
The older man’s eyes widen and he glances behind him. ‘One second. I’ll just shut the dogs in the utility room.’
And the door closes in Gareth’s face.
‘So …’ William Mackesy says, his elbows on the mahogany desk that separates him from Gareth, an expression of utmost compassion on his face (faked, Gareth thinks bitterly). ‘What can I do you for?’
They’re in his office, a large book-lined room, twice the size of Gareth’s bedroom with a massive computer screen on the desk, various expensive-looking ornaments dotted around and an enormous pot-plant-cum-tree in the corner of the room.
‘Two things,’ Gareth says. ‘Firstly, I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell my mother upsetting messages from …’ he forms quotation marks with his fingers ‘… the other side.’
Mackesy shakes his head lightly. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘You told her that someone close to me would cause me …’ Gareth falters as an image of Liam Dunford, propped up against the wall outside his office with a smug look on his face, pops into his head. If by ‘close’ Mackesy had meant proximity then maybe he wasn’t a million miles off target with his little prophecy. No. Gareth dismisses the thought. Pure coincidence.
‘Anyway,’ he continues. ‘Stop telling her things that might upset or worry her. She’s not well.’
Mackesy holds out his hands, palms out. ‘I only tell people what the departed tell me, but I take your point.’
Gareth reaches into his pocket and slides the white card that was attached to his mother’s flowers across the desk. ‘The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this.’
Mackesy picks up the card, nods, then looks back at him. ‘I sent your mother flowers to thank her for her donation. Is there a problem?’
‘That depends on how big the donation was.’
The other man shrugs. ‘I’m not sure I can tell you off the top of my head. Sheila, my wife, deals with that side of things. Our parishioners are so … so very generous. We receive a lot of help. We couldn’t keep the church going without it.’
Can’t tell you off the top of my head my arse. Gareth grits his teeth. William Mackesy is lying. He knows exactly how much Joan donated, he just doesn’t want to tell him. Gareth’s mum had no idea what he was talking about when he asked her about it and he hasn’t got power of attorney over her affairs which means he can’t legally access her bank account. She still receives a paper statement every month but the last one arrived three weeks ago so he’ll have to wait another seven days if he wants to take a look at her outgoings.
‘Do a lot of your parishioners suffer from dementia then?’ he asks, his hands curled into fists beneath the desk.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mackesy tilts his head to one side. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying.’
‘Aren’t you? Well let me spell it out for you then. Somehow you’ve managed to wheedle money out of my mum. As soon as I get hold of her bank statement I’m going to the police.’
Gareth waits, expectantly and slightly gleefully, for a reaction, for horror to register on the other man’s face and for his hands to fly up in repentance. Instead his continues to sit stock-still, the only movement in his entire body the slight arch of one eyebrow.
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, it is. I think they might be interested to know that you’re sending vulnerable older people postcards from their dead relatives in an effort to extort money from them.’
Now Mackesy reacts. He recoils, pulling his hands away from the desk, more of the whites of his eyes visible beneath the glint of his glasses.
‘What postcards?’
‘This one.’ Gareth reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the postcard. He slides it across the desk so it sits alongside the florist’s card.
Mackesy snatches it up, his brow creasing as he reads it, then flips it over. ‘Who’s John?’
Gareth laughs lightly. ‘John? My dad. The one that talks to you and tells you how cold he is?’
‘Oh … well …’ Mackesy looks from the postcard to Gareth. ‘Yes, of course but … but your dad’s dead.’
‘Yes. He is. Which makes what you’re doing really bloody twisted.’
‘I didn’t send this.’
‘Are you sure about that? Because it’s a bit of a coincidence that it arrived on Monday and your flowers thanking Mum for her donation arrived yesterday.’
‘Quite sure.’ Mackesy tosses the postcard onto the table then shoves it towards Gareth. ‘Whoever sent that to your mother it’s got nothing to do with me. Ask Sheila. I’ve been in Brighton for a Mind, Body and Spirit Fayre since last Friday. You’re lucky to catch me. I only got home forty-five minutes ago. Want me to call her? She keeps my diary. She could show it to you if you’d like.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Gareth snaps. ‘I’ve heard enough bullshit for one day.’
Brighton or not, he could still have sent the postcard. Or Sheila could. With the postmark partly smudged there’s no way of knowing where it was sent. Gareth flexes his fingers and runs his damp palms up and down the cheap material of his work trousers. Every cell in his body is screaming at him to stand up, lean over the table, grab Mackesy by the collar and drive his fist straight into his smug face, but he can’t get out of his chair. He can’t do anything but stare at the man he despises and will all the shit in the world to come crashing down over his shiny, comb-over head.
‘If that’s everything,’ Mackesy says, standing up. He walks around the desk and heads for the door. At one point he’s so close that Gareth could shoot out a hand and grab him. But he doesn’t. Instead he stands up, pulls back his shoulders and follows him out into the hall, the sound of whining, barking dogs drifting from somewhere in the depths of the house. As Mackesy opens the front door, standing back to allow him through, Gareth pauses and turns to face him.
‘Leave my mum alone. Don’t call her, don’t drop in and if you take another penny of her money, then I’ll …’ He tails off. ‘Just leave her alone. Okay?’
As he steps through the door he hears Mackesy say his name under his breath and turns sharply. ‘What was that?’
The other man presses a hand to the side of his head and narrows his eyes, staring off into the distance. ‘Yes …’ he says. ‘Okay. Yes.’
For a moment Gareth has no idea what’s going on, then it’s all he can do not to roll his eyes. Mackesy’s communing with the dead. Of course he is.
‘He’s proud of you.’ Mackesy looks him straight in the eye. ‘Your dad. He wanted me to tell you.’
Gareth takes a deep breath and stares at the grey clouds rolling over head. A cold breeze whips at the thin cotton of his shirt and he shivers. The air smells different, sweet and earthy, he needs to get back to his car before it starts to rain.
‘Did you hear me?’ Mackesy shouts after him as he jogs back down the driveway. ‘He’s proud of you, your dad. He said it was important that you knew that.’
‘Fraud!’ Gareth shouts, not slowing his pace as the first spots of rain land on his nose and cheeks. If he ever had any doubt about William Mackesy’s abilities, he certainly doesn’t now.