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Back The Widow Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

I spent weeks in hospital following the fire, staring through wide, unblinking eyes at those who questioned me, neither answering nor giving any indication that I’d heard. The doctors whispered to the uniformed police officers and the succession of other concerned individuals who came to peer down at me. Some wore expressions of sympathy, others of sheer horror. I didn’t respond to either.

The word ‘catatonic’ was bandied back and forward. I knew what it meant and how to act the part. I didn’t flinch when they inserted tubes into my arm and barely responded when they slid another down my nose.

I lay still, unresisting, when the nurses moved me back and forth with gentle efficiency to clean away the mess my body insisted on making. They alone treated me non-judgementally as the child I still was and rarely left without giving me a gentle pat and kindly word.

After a time, the others who came to stand and stare didn’t bother to whisper and held long and often detailed conversations about what I’d done. It was difficult not to react when I learnt they’d found my scruffy schoolbag and had read my detailed notes.

From them, too, I first heard the word ‘monster’.

It was this that dragged me out of the catatonia into a world of pain and sorrow.

34

When Allison woke, it was mid-morning. Rested and relaxed, she stretched arms and legs, feeling the vast emptiness surrounding her with pleasure.

Sunday. A day of rest.

Not for her. She had things to do. She needed to tell Peter’s cousin and friends the bad news. It would have been so easy if there’d been a WhatsApp group of everyone who needed to be informed of his passing. She could have tapped out a suitable message. Hi, everyone, sorry, Peter’s dead. Blunt and to the point. It would have been so much easier than making phone call after phone call, trying to maintain the same sorrowful tone in each.

Luckily, his relationship with his cousin was a distant one, and they hadn’t spent much time with his friends. There was talk of dinner parties in some dim and distant future that Peter was never going to see.

After a mug of coffee, and with another in hand, she started the process, beginning with the cousin, who was suitably shocked. It took several minutes of spouting and listening to platitudes before she could hang up. One down, many to go. She worked her way through the contact list in the diary Peter had kept in his bedside locker drawer. Most of the names, she didn’t recognise. If they answered, she told the shortest version of the story she could get away with, a variation on He fell, he died, the police are investigating, the funeral won’t be for a few months.