Page 21 of Stripped

Chapter 12

The church was already packed by the time they arrived. It would be standing room only soon. Graham Rankin approached, kissing Pim on the cheek. "How are you holding up, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine. I wasn't expecting it to be this crowded," she said, looking around sadly.

"Your grandfather touched a lot of peoples' lives." He brushed her cheek briefly before helping her with her coat, the diamond and gold rings on his fingers garish.

Wraith scanned the growing crowd. The elite of Glasgow society had turned out, not a great representation of the working-class city, and definitely not emblematic of the lives Angus ruined. How many of them did he have in his pocket through extortion and bribes?

"The front pew is saved for you and the other speakers," Graham said, giving Wraith an unwelcome sideways glance. Clearly, he was not invited to sit there. "We'll walk in when the service starts."

Pim looked up at Wraith. "Sorry," she mouthed.

He hushed her. "I'll go get a seat," he said. "I'll find you when it's over."

Graham took her purse from her, adding it to her coat. "I'll put these in the side room."

She clutched her small notebook, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly.

Wraith pulled her aside before leaving. "Are you sure you're okay, Primrose?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said sharply, rubbing at an invisible spot on her arm. "I just want this to be over."

The thug from the viewing yesterday came out of the room with Rankin, giving Wraith a tight nod. He was to be watched again. "I'll be in the back if you need me."

"I won't," she said. Wraith gave her shoulder a squeeze and kissed her on her forehead before walking off. He could hear her behind him, muttering, "Fuck off."

He smiled to himself. Entering the chapel, he found a place against the back wall where he could stand, giving him a good vantage point of the room. The guests talked amongst themselves in small groups, laughing and exchanging pleasantries as if they were at a party instead of a funeral. Even Graham Rankin had a sense of nervous excitement about him, taking on the new self-appointed role of boss now that he was out from under Angus's shadow. The coffin was already up front, along with several large flower arrangements and a portrait of Angus, looking smugly out at the congregation. Somehow, Wraith imagined the man would enjoy a day like this, people paying their respects, thinking him a grand and important man. A packed house and not a true friend in attendance, he surmised. Looking around, he spotted Peter Brindy, apparently recovered, and several of the dancers sitting in a middle pew, along with the SNB board members.

The sounds of a bagpipe filled the church, resonating through the pews and indicating the start of the service as a piper led the small processional down the aisle. Graham escorted Pim, followed by a few other men and the reverend. Peter reached out for her hand as she passed. He clutched it for a second as he held his other hand over his heart, in a dramatic show of sympathy and affection. Fucking bastard. The muscles in Wraith's jaw clenched. The service was short, in and of itself, thankfully. He couldn't imagine a man like Angus having a soul, much less being religious and worthy of God's blessing into the afterlife. When it was Pim's turn to deliver her eulogy, he was impressed with how eloquent she was, remaining stoic and poised, for someone so young. The reverend gave the benediction and the piper began to play, the drone of the pipes splitting the stillness as he led the recessional out. People began to leave, shaking hands and offering their cheap condolences about a man most of them probably either hated or feared. Bloody circus. Wraith stayed back, watching. He thought the chapel was empty when he spotted the girl from yesterday. She was by herself today, the young boy nowhere to be seen, and she stood up front praying. He moved closer. She was speaking in Russian and crossed herself, then touched the coffin and said, "Pokoysya s miron, Papa."

Wraith didn't mean to scare her, but when she turned around and saw him, all the color left her face. She looked for a way to escape, spying an exit toward the chancel.

"Natasha, wait," he said. "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

"Net. Net," she said, backing up toward the door. "Please. Leave me alone."

She fled before he could say anything else, but he knew enough Russian to understand what she said. Rest in peace, Papa.

* * *

Pim stood at the bar with Peter. The relaxed chatter of the guests, absolved from the somberness of loss with the conclusion of the service, filled the room as they shared toasts and tributes over drams of whiskey and fried appetizers. Rankin arranged for one of the restaurants her grandfather owned to close to the public for the evening, in order to host a private reception for some of the funeral attendees. Tomorrow, their lives would resume, as if nothing had ever happened. These were not friends, yet they continued to offer her their sympathy as if they cared.

"Who's the guy?" Peter asked casually, handing her a white wine.

She looked over her shoulder at Wraith. He was in the corner on his phone. He saw her watching him and hung up. "He's a friend of the family. He's staying with me right now."

Paul, her dance partner, came up behind her and put his arm around her, kissing her on the side of the head. "God, I miss you, Pim."

She gave him a smile and looked at her wine warily. Her mouth was parched, but she refused to drink anything Peter gave her. "Thanks, I miss you too."

"I heard what Zora did, kicking you out of class." Peter lifted her chin, so she had to look at him. "She didn't have the right to do that. She was just upset because of Irina."

Wraith joined their group. Peter dropped his hand and she was glad to be rid of his touch, now finding it disconcerting. "Sorry if I interrupted." He took the glass from her and set it on the bar.

"No, not at all." She gave him a faint smile. "Wraith, this is Peter Brindy, artistic director of Scottish National Ballet, my dance partner Paul and his fiancé, Richard."

He gave the men a curt nod. "Robert Wraith, it's nice to meet you."

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