Chapters (49)
- Cover
- Table of Contents
- Also by Graham Hurley
- LIMELIGHT
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- AFTERWARDS
This, unusually for Evelyn, has the force of an order and we both know it. When I first knock next door, nothing happens. Only when I try a third time does McFaul finally appear.
‘You,’ he says. He’s rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looks totally knackered.
I try and explain how sorry I am, how sorry we both are, me and Evelyn, but he simply holds the door open wide and gestures me inside. We go through to the kitchen. To my surprise, it’s been tidied up: no mountain of unwashed plates, no smears of grease on the oven knobs, no swing-bin brimming with rubbish, not a single knotted black sack awaiting disposal. The clutter has gone from every working surface and I can even smell the faintest hint of disinfectant.
‘It helps,’ McFaul says simply. He’s noted my interest.
‘I’m sure it does. If you want a hand anywhere else …’ I leave the sentence unfinished.
He shakes his head, puts the kettle on, invites me to sit down. I watch him limping slowly around the kitchen for a moment or two, looking for the jar of coffee he’s tidied away. The last couple of days seem to have aged him immeasurably. I’m looking at an old man with barely half a face.
‘You never told me,’ I say at last. ‘About what was wrong with her.’
‘You know about that shit? MND?’
‘The police mentioned it. I’m just curious why you never did. Either of you.’
‘Not my call. Chrissie was a proud woman. In her own good time, maybe, but even then she’d probably keep it to herself. Share news like that, and you were dead already. That’s what she thought. That’s what she always told me.’
I nod. It fits perfectly with my own impressions of Christianne. A stumble or two? A lunge at the wine glass? Who’s watching? And what does it matter?
‘When did you know she was ill?’ I ask. ‘For sure?’
McFaul takes his time answering. He’s spooning instant coffee into a couple of mugs. He does it with intense concentration, the way a drunk might, and I’m guessing he must have had this same fierce attention to detail when he was in the minefields. Then, it would have helped save his life, and now is probably no different.