Jack stared at the bungalow he’d grown up in. Every light was on. Every light was always on. He smiled and shook his head. He watched Penny fussing in the lounge through always-open curtains, then in his old bedroom — she was fluffing his pillows, probably for the twentieth time. He was sure she was checking she’d put every toiletry under the sun in his en suite, just in case he’d forgotten anything — which would be handy on this occasion because, in his rush to get here, he’d forgotten pretty much everything.
From the second Penny opened the front door, she never once stopped talking.
‘Tea, darling...? Oh, the trains are a nuisance, aren’t they...? How’s Maggie...? Georgina’s got herself a puppy, can you believe it...? There’s a chicken in the oven, but the veg isn’t on yet... Would you like a whisky to tide you over?’
Charlie smiled at Jack and rolled his eyes, gently mocking his hyperactive wife.
Father and son hugged. Charlie held on for a moment longer than usual and, in that instant, Jack knew something was very wrong. When Charlie pulled away, the tears were welling — then he sniffed, shook his head and squeezed Jack’s shoulders. In the background, Penny fussed between the sink, the oven and the drinks cabinet — oblivious to the fact that the dreadful news she was so frantically avoiding had just been silently shared.
When she finally turned around, holding two glasses of whisky and ice, Charlie and Jack were hugging again, and Jack was crying.
Penny carved the chicken as Jack and Charlie sat across the table from each other. Jack was frowning as he tried to get his head around everything.
‘OK, so who’s said it’ll be no more than a few months from now?’
‘Dr Chakrabarti, his name is.’
This was Penny’s domain, as Charlie had never been any good with details.
‘And what treatment has he suggested?’
Jack picked up his mobile and googled Dr Chakrabarti.
‘We’ve done it all, darling. Your dad was told just before Christmas and—’
‘Christmas? You were with us in London at Christmas!’
‘Are you listening or shouting, darling?’
Jack fell silent. His mum faced away from him and started to tear the remains of the chicken to pieces with her hands. He knew she wasn’t being rude, she was just terrified of breaking down before she’d said everything she needed to.
‘Your dad was told just before Christmas, and in the new year he went straight into his first round of chemotherapy, which didn’t agree with him at all, did it, my love?’ Charlie shook his head. ‘So, we tried a second type, which didn’t have as many side effects, but didn’t really do much good—’
‘I can’t find Chakrabarti,’ Jack interrupted. ‘Does he work at Derriford?’
‘Yes. The best in the West Country, he is. C — H - A — K...’
‘Found him.’ Jack read background on Chakrabarti at the same time as finding out everything that had happened while his bloody back was turned. ‘But there must be something else you can try. Isn’t there? I mean, even if there’s nothing right at this moment, new cures come along all the time.’
Now, Charlie spoke for the first time.
‘The word “cure” was never used, son. Not from the very beginning. It was always only ever about giving me as much time as possible. And they’ve done that. We are where we are.’
The pain in Jack’s chest built as he squeezed the words out from between his pursed lips and the tears welled again.
‘A few fucking months!’
Penny let the swear word go on this occasion.
‘Yep,’ Charlie said. ‘So, me and your mum are going on holiday. If that’s all right with you.’
‘For how long?’ Jack asked. ‘Do you need money? Where are you going?’
Charlie beamed as if he didn’t have a care left in the world.
‘Everywhere. We’ve cashed in the pensions and the bungalow’s on the market.’
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘You’re selling? That makes no sense at all. Where are you going to live when you come back?’
Penny gently, lovingly, stroked the back of Charlie’s head.
‘Why don’t you boys nip to the pub?’
Although it was way too late to be starting the full post-mortem, Foxy did need to make certain that there was no evidence on the body which simply couldn’t wait until the morning. The preservation of any dead body was a delicate process at the best of times, but ‘Sheila’, as he’d now been universally christened, was extra vulnerable and brittle due to the fire.
‘Sheila’ still lay on his side, almost in the foetal position. This was a common death position for people exposed to extreme temperatures — partly as a natural yet futile defence against flames and smoke, and partly because as the body dried out, the joints would naturally curl. However, this body had been found on a small two-seater sofa and so the curled position could equally be because he’d been too long for it.
Foxy flicked through Abigail Coleman’s very thorough preliminary observations and tentatively agreed that the large fracture to the back of the skull could be a blunt force trauma and therefore the cause of death.
Tomorrow morning, when he cut ‘Sheila’ open, the first thing Foxy would look for would be signs of smoke inhalation. If there were none, then ‘Sheila’ would have already been dead when the fire started. Which would be some consolation.
As Foxy refrigerated ‘Sheila’ for the night, he smiled. He loved a good mystery.
Jack and Charlie sat in the window of the King’s Head, looking out over the patch of grass that the locals proudly called the ‘village green’. Charlie told the story of their first meeting and, although Jack had heard it a thousand times, he didn’t mind at all hearing it again.
On that day back in 1987, Charlie had got up from the garden bench and knelt on the grass to greet his potential new son. As Jack got within touching distance, he’d instinctively turned his back to Charlie, reversed, and sat down on his waiting knee. And there he’d stayed, while the women tutted about how inexplicable it was that someone had chosen to walk away from such a stunning little boy.
Reluctantly, Jack brought the conversation back to the present.
‘You’re selling the bungalow ’cos you’re not coming back, aren’t you?’
Charlie took his time in answering. ‘A friend of my brother’s has reserved a short lease on a one-bedroomed flat in a wardened complex for your mum. She can have it for as long as she likes. She’s said she doesn’t want...’ Charlie stumbled over his words for a second. ‘She doesn’t want to be in our bungalow on her own.’
‘You might come home though, eh, Dad? I mean, you hear about people surprising doctors all the time. A few months doesn’t have to mean a few months.’
Charlie took a slug from his pint and even managed a smile, as he lied to his son.
‘Maybe. You know us builders, lad... if we’re given six months, we always take twelve.’
The rest of the evening was like old times. Jack moaned about how badly Plymouth Argyle were doing this year; Charlie asked about Jack’s job, about Maggie and whether there were any kids on the horizon.
‘The jobs have got to come first at the moment, Dad. Mags has not long started at the New Victoria and she’s doing really well — impressing all the right people, you know. Maybe in a year or two.’
‘Ah, Jack, once she gets where she wants to be, she’ll not want to leave to do parenting.’
‘She might not be the one who leaves.’
Jack realised that he’d said this almost without thinking. He wasn’t even sure where the thought had come from — him being the one to give up work and look after kids — but, once he’d said it, he really didn’t mind how it sounded.