Her Turn to Cry: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming. Chris Curran

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СКАЧАТЬ Irene will tell her stories and make her laugh. So she won’t have to think.

      And she doesn’t want to think. About the noises she heard in the night. Or the box with Mum’s best shoes still there under the bed. Or what she found rolled up next to the box: the mat from the living room blotched all over with dark red stains that look like blood.

       Chelsea, London – March 1965

      Joycie kept telling herself it was all in the past, but the memories wouldn’t stop flooding in. Things she thought she had forgotten; things she had tried to blank out. It was Irene Slade’s death that had brought it all back, of course. Well the funeral was today so that would put an end to it.

      Her face in the mirror was grey as the morning outside and the black dress didn’t help. She rubbed a touch of rouge onto her cheekbones.

      As she ran downstairs she could hear the wireless burbling away in the kitchen. Marcus had switched to the Home Service and on the Today programme, Jack de Manio’s posh growl was saying something about snow showers forecast this morning. There was a smell of boiling milk and she stood in the kitchen doorway as Marcus made coffee. It was a squeeze to get in, even though they were both skinny, and dangerous to try when he was pouring scalding liquid.

      He turned, holding the cups. ‘All right? You look a bit pale.’

      She sat on one of the spindly metal chairs that had to go sideways so you didn’t bang your legs on the drop-down leaves of the Formica table. The latest Vogue was in front of her and the face that was and wasn’t hers smiled from the cover through a cloud of black hair. She tapped the magazine. ‘I’m not, top model Orchid today, just common old Joycie Todd. Don’t need the false eyelashes or lipstick.’

      He kissed the top of her head. ‘You’re still beautiful.’

      For some reason that made her want to cry, but she forced a laugh. ‘Shut up, you. It’s your camera that makes me look good, we both know that. Anyway I need to be ordinary at the funeral. Don’t want anyone to notice me.’

      Marcus held out a plate of toast, but she shook her head. For once she wasn’t hungry. ‘Let’s get going,’ she said.

      His old Morgan was parked outside, but a bitter wind whipped past them as they went down the stone steps of the house and, even with her coat clutched tight, Joycie was cold. Marcus drove along by the river, one hand on the wheel the other over her shoulder, rubbing her arm. She leaned into him, gritting her teeth, clamping her mind shut. Don’t think about it. It’s all in the past.

      It had started to snow and she stared out of the misted window, watching a small boat chug through the filmy veil. Don’t think. On the towpath a herring gull dragged at a slice of bread that jerked about as if it was alive. That’s it, concentrate on something else.

      But it was no good, her stomach churned and she realized it was a mistake to think she could cope with the funeral. Much better to visit the grave another day. She gripped Marcus’s arm. ‘I can’t do this. Will you take me back?’

      He stopped the car and turned to look at her. ‘Come on, I’ll be there and you’ll never forgive yourself if you chicken out now.’

      She climbed out and walked over to look into the river. The water was grey, rippling with glints of steel and chrome as it slid by on its way to the sea.

      When she heard the familiar clicking of his camera she turned to face Marcus. ‘For God’s sake, not now.’

      He came close, kissing her cheek, his lips very warm. ‘Sorry, couldn’t stop myself. You look so wonderful all in black with the snow falling round you. Like Anna Karenina.’ His head was to one side, a lock of blond hair falling across his eye, and he was wearing the naughty little boy expression that always made her laugh. She blew him a raspberry and climbed back in the car.

      ‘OK let’s get it over with.’

      ***

      The stop had made them late to the church. Joycie had forgotten that Irene was Catholic and she hoped the service wouldn’t be too long because her legs felt weak and her stomach was still churning. By now the snow flurries had died away, and the sun was trying to come out, but a stiff breeze bothered the daffodils growing in a couple of stone pots beside the gate.

      As the heavy door closed behind them Marcus took her arm and they stood for a moment, eyes adjusting to the dim glitter inside. Joycie could feel rather than see that the church was crowded, but one short pew, tucked in beside a pillar, was empty and they slid in to sit there.

      Candles flickered everywhere. Tall white ones near the altar and dozens of tiny flames on black metal stands to each side. There were plaster statues of saints beside some of the columns, their red lips smirking, painted eyes cast heavenward. As Joycie’s eyes adjusted, she saw the priest in purple at the altar and a little boy in a white robe swinging an incense burner on a long chain. It sent a trail of blue vapour into the air. The sickly scent of it caught in her throat and as she watched the chain swinging to and fro, to and fro, she found herself swaying with it, until Marcus put his warm hand over hers and whispered, ‘OK?’

      The flower-covered coffin looked too small to carry buxom Irene, but maybe she’d lost weight before she died; the short obituary in The Times had mentioned something about a long illness. Joycie hadn’t seen her for more than a year. A pang of guilt turned the queasy feeling into something sharper.

      Latin chanting – Pater noster, qui es in caeilis – and tiny bells ringing. Joycie pulled her silk scarf tighter round her head, the collar of her coat close to her face, hoping no one would recognize her; wishing she’d stayed away. Libera nos a malo.

      It seemed to go on forever with kneelings, standings, and sittings. The wafting incense made the air shimmer, the candlelight waver. Joycie gripped the pew, breathing hard.

      More tinkling bells and two lines of people moving up the aisle to kneel at the altar rails. Maybe they could get out now without being noticed. She could come back to visit the grave later on – Irene would have understood. She whispered, ‘Let’s go.’

      But it was too late. Deirdre, Irene’s dresser and companion, was scuttling down the aisle towards them. She shuffled in to sit next to Joycie, her perfume clashing with the incense.

      ‘Oh, darling, I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you got my letter. Found your address in Irene’s handbag. I wish she’d told me she had it and I could have asked you to visit before she went. She’d have loved to see you.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Don’t you worry. She knew it was difficult for you. You will come back to the flat afterwards though, won’t you?’

      ‘Sorry, Deirdre, I can’t.’ She should have thought of an excuse.

      But Deirdre gave her hand a clammy squeeze. ‘That’s all right, lovey, I understand.’ She rummaged in her bag. ‘I thought you might say that, so I brought this for you.’ She handed Joycie a padded envelope. ‘Just some things she wanted you to have.’ She kissed Joycie’s cheek.

      The last people were walking back from the altar, hands clasped, eyes lowered.

      Joycie stood. She had to СКАЧАТЬ