Page 38 of The Stranger in Her House

‘Again, that’s not unusual. Many people have private ceremonies like your mother’s and then hold parties afterwards for friends and family.’

‘You know that my mum’s now dead, don’t you?’

Jan’s back straightens. ‘Um, no, no, I didn’t. I’m very sorry to hear that.’

‘I don’t believe it was an accident. I think – no, I’m convinced – that Paul killed her.’

‘Oh, well, I ...’ She’s at a loss as to what to say next. I wonder what her guidance suggests about that. But I like her, so I spare her any further awkwardness by readying to leave.

She touches my arm with her hand as I open the door and she says again how sorry she is for my loss. I believe her. I believe all of them when they tell me that. If only their apologies were worth something.

CHAPTER 27

CONNIE

The sky is as dark grey as the gates to the cemetery. Both reflect my mood accurately.

Older people are often obsessed with their mortality and death. I pause to think about the number of conversations we must’ve had about what she wanted from her funeral. While she often got muddled or forgetful over other subjects, she reminded me a hundred times of exactly what she expected. And I have no doubt she told Paul exactly the same thing. Yet still she has ended up here: a cemetery fifty miles and five bus rides away from where she planned to be, and nowhere near to the only man who deserved to call himself her husband. There isn’t anyone close by who can just pop down here with a posy of flowers or to tidy the weeds that surround her plot. Paul has treated her death as nonchalantly as he regarded her life.

It’s beyond me why he had her buried when it’s twice the price of a cremation. But I’m sure he had a reason. A man like him doesn’t act without purpose.

It was Reverend Eddie who stopped by at the bungalow to tell me where to find her grave. And now I’m here, I’m shocked by just how different it is to the one in our village. It is vast and impersonal; there are a handful of trees, no quiet nooks to reflect in, just a smattering of benches to sit upon and no church in sight. Dog poo bins are overflowing with plastic bags; crunched-up beer cans and takeaway cartons have been stuffed into hedges, and plastic flower-wrappers skitter across the ground in the breeze. Behind the metal climb-proof railings that fence us in are three tower blocks for high-rise living and a handful of unidentifiable buildings.

I follow a map Reverend Eddie printed out to locate exactly the spot where she’s buried. It contains the names of the nearest headstones to her unmarked grave. It takes ten minutes before I spot a fresh mound of earth. Only when I walk towards it do I realise that I’m trampling over three other unmarked graves, and I find myself apologising to her neighbours. The ground is flat, so I assume they’ve been here longer than her, and I wonder what their stories are. At least six months must pass for the ground to settle before a headstone can be installed, but I can’t see it being on Paul’s to-do list. I only wish I could afford to buy her one.

‘There you are,’ I say aloud. I’ve been carrying a bouquet of flowers for the two-plus hours it’s taken me to get here. The heads of the yellow roses – her favourites – are now looking a little worse for wear, having been brushed against bus seats and my coat. Their leaves are crumpled and some of the petals have fallen off. But at least anyone who passes the unnamed person buried here will know that someone cares. I place them upon the mound of earth.

I torture myself by imagining the night she fell. I can see her in my mind’s eye, lying in a crumpled, bloodied heap at the bottom of the stairs, disorientated, in pain and begging for help. As clear as day I can picture Paul standing at the top, arms folded and legs apart. He is waiting for the moment her body gives up fighting tostay alive. Only she’s a stubborn old gal, and it makes him impatient, so he turns his back on her, returns to their room and closes the door, leaving her there all night to suffer and die alone. He has taken it all. I shake the thoughts away. Paul has robbed me of my present and my future.

I get down on my knees, unbothered by the moist earth dampening my jeans. I sweep some of the larger pebbles away from the mound with my hand and recall how witnessing a journey through dementia is almost as awful for the spectator as it is the victim. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy, with the exception of Paul. I wish nothing but pain and misery upon that shitty excuse for a man. I know that if I don’t eventually find a way through this, I’m heading for a lifetime of bitterness. But if I accept things for how they are, then Paul will have won. And I’m not yet ready to admit defeat. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to expose him for what he is.

‘One day, I’ll find a way to get you out of here and moved to where you’re supposed to be,’ I tell her. ‘I promise.’

CHAPTER 28

MARY LAWSON, NEIGHBOUR

That poor girl, I think as she walks like a lost soul past our house and towards Gwen’s. Her shoulders are stooped, her clothes are un-ironed, and everything she wears is washed-out and colourless. These days she’s always puffing on a cigarette like her life depends on it. You can see it in her face, she’s broken. Not only is she struggling with her mum’s death, but she’s also coming to terms with knowing she’ll never see a single penny from the estate. You don’t expect what is rightfully yours to be snatched away from under your nose. So I feel for her, I really do. I’d be inconsolable if I was her.

But as I was saying to Joe last night, I think Connie might eventually find Gwen’s sudden death a blessing of sorts. Vascular dementia and Alzheimer’s and all those brain-related diseases are cruel because they’re so gradual and drawn-out. However, as Joe pointed out, it doesn’t make the way Gwen died any less than awful. I was saying to Reverend Eddie that I can only pray she was unconscious the moment her head hit that radiator so she didn’t suffer. Because if she wasn’t, well ... I’m shivering just thinking about it.

Joe and his network of Neighbourhood Watch volunteers haven’t seen hide nor hair of Paul for weeks now. Shortly after Gwen died and before Connie came back, Joe spotted his van parked outside the house. The rear doors were wide open and he and another man, older than Paul and wearing a tartan flat cap, were lugging furniture into the back of it from Gwen’s. It went back and forth all day. I thought about going over there to give him a piece of my mind, telling him how wicked he was for the way he buried Gwen without any of us knowing. Honestly, we couldn’t believe it when the reverend told us what had happened. But Joe begged me not to get involved. ‘It’s not our business,’ he said. And he was right. I already picked the wrong side when I accepted Paul’s version of events about Connie – you know, the sleeping tablets, spending Gwen’s money, and so on. I don’t know what arrangement Gwen and Connie had when it came to her accounts, but I assumed the worst. More fool me.

But it was an easy mistake to make because Paul was such a convincing character. He had a way of making you feel like he trusted you, and only you, with a secret that he wanted to confide in you. He cared about what you thought. And believe me, that’s rare these days. Most young people don’t really give a tinker’s cuss what people of my age have to say. So I fell for his patter and I understand why Gwen did the same, especially in her vulnerable state. It’s not in my nature to admit I’m wrong, but I was about Paul and I hope Connie can forgive me.

But no matter what she says, I’m struggling to believe that Paul killed Gwen. I now believe he’s devious and heartless, but not a killer. Or perhaps I’d rather believe that than acknowledge I was taken in by a murderer.

We’ve all been rallying round to support Connie and I’m not going to lie, she’s not making it easy for us. I’ve popped round to the bungalow a few times to check on her and drop off casserolesand hotpots because she’s as thin as a rake. But she always keeps me at the door and never lets me inside. ‘Perhaps if you put a bit of make-up on and bought a nice dress you might start feeling better about yourself?’ I suggested. If looks could kill, the local funeral directors would’ve picked me up from her doormat. But I can’t take it personally. We all handle grief differently, don’t we?

Truth be told, I think her conscience might also be weighing heavy on her. If I was Connie, I’d feel as guilty as sin for not being there when her mum needed her the most. It still doesn’t really make sense to me why she’d leave the country for the best part of two months if she was so concerned about Paul’s influence over Gwen. I know I couldn’t. She accused us of neglecting Gwen, of not keeping an eye on her like we promised. But that’s unfair, because how were we supposed to do that when Paul never answered the door or let us in to see her?

I can’t tell you the number of times we tried to call Connie when she was in Italy after we learned of Gwen’s death. Each time and without fail, we got a voice recording saying, ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised.’ Walter remembered her talking about being based on the Amalfi Coast, so Joe tried looking for her on the internet but couldn’t find any mention of her. I also asked my granddaughter Katie to try and track her down on the Facebook and that other one with all the photographs with funny filters, but she had no luck there. So eventually we had no choice but to give up.

When Connie finally returned, she told us she’d bought a new phone shortly before she left but had given us the wrong number. She said she’d tried calling Gwen herself dozens of times, but it kept going to her voicemail. I said she could’ve rung us, Walter or Zainab if she was that worried. And if she didn’t have our numbers, then she should’ve called the church. The reverend reckons he never heard a word from her either.

I really hate to say this because I don’t want to knock someone when they’re down, but I can’t help thinking there’s more to Connie’s vanishing act than meets the eye. When I mentioned it to Joe, he put me in my place. ‘You’ve already done enough damage to the girl by telling half the village what Paul told you,’ he snapped. ‘Now give her the benefit of the doubt.’

So for once, I listened to him and I’ve done just that. I suppose, when it comes down to it, the one thing we can all be certain of is that a daughter has lost her mother in the most awful of circumstances. I can only hope she eventually bounces back from it.

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