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A DARK MATTER

DOUG JOHNSTONE

DEDICATION

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This one is for Chris Brookmyre, who has
more faith in me than I have in myself.

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CONTENTS

1. TITLE PAGE
2. DEDICATION
3. 1 JENNY
4. 2 JENNY
5. 3 HANNAH
6. 4 DOROTHY
7. 5 HANNAH
8. 6 JENNY
9. 7 DOROTHY
10. 8 HANNAH
11. 9 DOROTHY
12. 10 HANNAH
13. 11 DOROTHY
14. 12 JENNY
15. 13 HANNAH
16. 14 DOROTHY
17. 15 JENNY
18. 16 DOROTHY
19. 17 HANNAH
20. 18 JENNY
21. 19 HANNAH
22. 20 DOROTHY
23. 21 JENNY
24. 22 HANNAH
25. 23 DOROTHY
26. 24 JENNY
27. 25 HANNAH
28. 26 JENNY
29. 27 DOROTHY
30. 28 JENNY
31. 29 HANNAH
32. 30 JENNY
33. 31 DOROTHY
34. 32 JENNY
35. 33 HANNAH
36. 34 HANNAH
37. 35 DOROTHY
38. 36 JENNY
39. 37 HANNAH
40. 38 DOROTHY
41. 39 JENNY
42. 40 HANNAH
43. 41 DOROTHY
44. 42 HANNAH
45. 43 JENNY
46. 44 DOROTHY
47. 45 JENNY
48. 46 HANNAH
49. 47 JENNY
50. 48 DOROTHY
51. 49 JENNY
52. 50 HANNAH
53. 51 DOROTHY
54. 52 JENNY
55. 53 DOROTHY
56. 54 HANNAH
57. 55 JENNY
58. 56 DOROTHY
59. 57 HANNAH
60. 58 JENNY
61. 59 DOROTHY
62. 60 HANNAH
63. 61 JENNY
64. 62 HANNAH
65. 63 DOROTHY
66. 64 JENNY
67. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
68. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
69. COPYRIGHT

1

1

JENNY

Her dad took much longer to burn than she expected.

Jenny watched the deep flames lick his body, curl around his chest and crotch, whisper in his ear. His thin hair crisped then turned to smoke, grey sinewy strands reaching into the mottled sky. A sprig of juniper in his hand caught alight and threw out blue sparks, and Jenny smelt the scent, reminding her of gin. The spruce and pine logs packed around Jim’s body were blazing bright and hard. The fire had destroyed his suit already and his skin was tightening around the bones as moisture evaporated from his body.

But still, it seemed to take a long time.

The funeral pyre wasn’t much more than a makeshift, oversized barbecue, two rows of concrete breezeblocks with a metal grill suspended between them. Underneath was a long silver tray borrowed from the embalming room, which they would use to gather his remains once the pieces were small enough to fall through the grate. Archie had been working on the pyre in the garden ever since Dorothy announced what her husband’s last wishes were.

It was contrary, Jenny had to admit. Her dad spent forty-five years orchestrating the funerals of thousands of people, arranging music and flowers, orders of service, funeral cars and sermons. Making sure every detail was right for the bereaved, ensuring all rival factions got what they wanted and the deceased was sent off in style. And yet his own funeral was the opposite. A pyre in their back garden, no speeches, no sermons, no friends or flowers or ceremony, just the five of them standing next to the throbbing heat of an illegal fire.2

Jenny looked away from the flames to the others standing around the fire. Her mum stood at the head of the pyre. A dancing mote of ash landed on her flowery yellow dress and she flicked at it with a bright fingernail. She brushed a strand of wavy grey hair from her forehead and lifted her face to the flames, eyes closed, like she was sunbathing.