Page 11 of Breaking the Code

The room fell silent, and then footsteps could be heard. The thuddy sounds of the shoes clip-clopping against the stone floors fade away to nothingness.

“You worthless, hateful cunt. You couldn’t do as I asked just once?”

Da threatened to hurt me when he talked to Mum last night. He didn’t know I could hear him from my spot behind the portrait in Mum’s room.

It is just a tiny alcove hidden by the painting. I sleep there some nights, and I love reading in there. It is cozy and quiet, and the nanny can never find me.

It gives me the perfect place to hear Da talking to people since the other side of the alcove is his office, and there is a small grate set in the stone. I can’t see through it, so I can’t see who is in the room, but I can hear what’s being said.

The man who just left has been here a lot.

“Well, I’ll make sure you never make a fool of me again,” Da says.

I peer around the frame of the painting, looking at Mum. I can’t see her. Da’s in the way. He’s messing with her machines. They beep a couple of times, and he turns back to Mum.

Why’s he got her pillow?

“Rest in hell, you bitch!” Da says as he puts the pillow on her face.

The flowery smell that fills the air mixes with the smell of wet grass and earth. The pungent combination fills my head, making me sadder, if that is possible.

I stare straight ahead at the coffin my mum is locked inside. I know it’s locked because I tried to open it. But maybe I’m just too small.

The shiny black box is covered in flowers. White ones with green leafy plants sticking out everywhere. Mum hates those flowers. I don’t remember what they are called, but anytime the estate gardener and Mum meet, he wants to add them to the garden, and she always tells him no.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Peace be with you,” Father Mark says.

I mumble in reply.

“We are gathered together today to commit Sorcha Buchanan’s soul to rest.”

Father Mark keeps talking, but I don’t hear him. All I hear is him talking and everyone else crying and sniffing snot. The sounds mix and mesh together, and it sounds like humming.

I step forward, and the priest drones on. My father grabs at me, and I pull away. He killed her, and I hate him.

“Tavish!” he snarls in a whisper.

I walk toward the casket they locked my mother in; I reach forward. The rain hides my tears as I grab the yucky, stinky flowers with both hands, pulling them out and tossing them to the ground.

“These aren’t right. She hates them!” I yell out. My screams drown out the priest, who still drones on.

Gasps and cries fill the air; my name is whispered and yelled, but I pay no mind. My hands sting, and blood beads up on them as I pull them off my mother.

I scream, “She hates them!” over and over. The words tear through my throat. It feels raw and sore, but I can’t stop.

A hand grabs onto my arm, but I pull away, wrenching my arm from their grasp.

“No!” I scream. “She hates them!”

Arms wrap around me, and a rough voice says, “Enough, Tavish! You’re disgracing yer mum, lad.”

“She hates them,” I whimper. Sobs rip through me, tears robbing me of my sight.

“Get him out of here!” Da yells.

“Pay him no mind, lad,” Makenzie McDougal whispers in my ear. “Mack is here, and you and I will pick yer mum’s flowers from her own gardens.”

Hours later after all the mourners had left Mum’s funeral, my father came to Mack’s cottage and took me away. That was the last time I saw Mack. It was also the last day I spent in Scotland. Da moved us to the States and into the headquarters for the Order of Death.

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