Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller (22 page)

The
following morning, Sarah took Sam’s breakfast to him in bed. He’d dozed on and
off throughout the night and most of the previous afternoon; the medication
playing havoc with his sleeping patterns. As he drifted in and out of
consciousness, his mind was filled with blurred visions of what took place in
Lloyd’s Hotel. Thankfully his memory remained hazy from the Diazepam, with the
exception of one particular image that refused to dissipate; that of Tom
Jackson grinning at him with his eyes rolled so far back into his head that
only the whites were showing. It wasn’t so much that Sam was frightened by the
image, (although neither was he overly enamoured by it), but rather that it wasn’t
natural for someone to look that way. It had been the same outside Chapman’s
that morning when Tom had attacked him: to the average bystander it was Tom
Jackson, but to Sam it was someone else...someone completely different.

‘Morning, Mr Sleepyhead,’
Sarah said, placing the tray of tea and toast on the bedside table. ‘I thought
you could use something to eat. You haven’t had anything since lunchtime yesterday.’

‘Has it really been
that long?’ Sam asked, groaning as he hauled himself up into a sitting position
and reached for his cup. ‘Everything’s just a blur.’

‘It’s going to take
some time before you’re back to normal. Until then, you’re under strict doctor’s
orders to stay in bed.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Sam
said, taking a sip of tea. ‘Although I’ll need to call the office to let them
know what’s happening.’

‘There’s no need. I’ve
already spoken to them.’

‘Have you?’

‘Uh-huh. As you can
probably imagine, there’s a lot going on there right now. I told them that all
things considered you were doing okay, and that I’ll keep them informed of your
progress. They said they’d send someone round to see how you’re doing when
things have died down. I guess they’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment.’

‘Yeah, I suppose.
Losing Holdsworth is about as serious as it gets. Aside from the fact that he
was a brilliant chief exec, he was responsible for bringing in most of the
business. The sharks from the other agencies will be circling our clients at
the same time as they’re sending their condolences. Jesus Christ…I still can’t
believe I’m talking about Holdsworth in the past tense. And Gabby…I don’t know
why, but it’s Gabby I feel most sorry for. She was just starting out in life.
She was so young. Her family must be devastated.’

‘They will be.’

‘She was a nice girl,’
Sam said, setting aside his plate of uneaten toast and staring out of the
window. ‘And smart too. She had real potential. It’s so fucked up, Sarah. I
can’t get my head around it.’

‘Give it time. Here,’
she said, passing the plate of toast back to him. ‘You need to eat something.
You need to get your strength back.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You have to try. I’m
not going anywhere until you’ve at least eaten one slice.’

‘Alright, alright, I’ll
do my best.’

‘Good boy. Oh, by the
way, Gracie called round to see you last night.’

Whatever appetite Sam
might have been unable to muster to appease his wife suddenly vanished and he
pushed his food away without taking so much as a bite. ‘Gracie? What did she
want?’

‘She wanted to see
you.’

‘See me? Why?’

‘I don’t know. She said
she needed to speak to you about something. She wouldn’t say what. She probably
just wanted to see how you were.’

Sam felt the blood
drain from his face as he remembered the conversation he’d had with Gracie the
other day about his father and sister. He recalled how, in a rare moment of
weakness, he’d confided in her about his past, only for the demented old hag to
turn around and suggest that his father had come back from the grave to haunt
him. He had opened his heart to that woman, and instead of showing sympathy and
understanding, she’d reacted by pushing him to accept her unnatural beliefs
about spirits and ghosts.  As far as Sam was concerned, he never wanted to see
that crazy bitch again.

‘I don’t want to talk
to her,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m serious, Sarah. She’s
not all there.’

‘What on earth are you
talking ab-’

‘You don’t want to
know. Just trust me, okay? You’re not to open the front door to her again, is
that clear? And I don’t want her looking after Max anymore either. She’s not
who she seems. She can’t be trusted.’

It took everything in
Sarah’s power to stop herself from losing her temper. Gracie may have been many
things, but
untrustworthy
was certainly not one of them. She could only
assume it was the medication talking.

She was about to tell him
that he was talking nonsense when the doorbell rang.

‘Who do you think that
is?’ Sam asked.

‘How the bloody hell
would I know? Gracie’s the mind reader, not me.’

‘Cheap shot,’ Sam said,
reaching for his pills.

‘You deserve it for spouting
such rubbish about the woman who’s spent the last ten years caring for our
son.’ With a parting scowl to reinforce her disappointment in him, she stood up
and headed downstairs to answer the door. Sam watched after her, sympathetic to
her reaction but adamant that he was right about Gracie.

He reached across for
the TV control and switched it on, flicking through the news channels. Even
though nearly two days had passed since the shooting, he was expecting there to
be at least some residual interest in what had happened. He shook his head
despondently, surprised to discover that the world had moved on to pastures new
in such a short space of time. He switched off the TV and slid under the
covers. He doubted that he’d be able to forget what happened that night as
quickly as the media evidently had.

Five
minutes later, as he drifted once again towards unconsciousness, Sarah wandered
back into the bedroom and stood at the end of the bed.

‘Sarah?’ Sam whispered,
forcing himself awake. She stared back at him nervously, fidgeting like a
guilty schoolgirl. Sam frowned. He knew immediately that something was wrong.

‘What’s up?’ he asked,
yawning and shuffling back into an upright sitting position. ‘You look like
you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I wish I had,’ she
replied, taking a deep breath before continuing. ‘You’re not going to believe
who that was at the door.’

‘Go on.’

‘It was Jane,’ she
said, her heart thumping in her chest as she spoke. ‘Tom’s Jane.’

Sam’s eyes widened as
his brain struggled to process the information. ‘Jane…Jane Jackson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus Christ! What was
she doing here? What did she want?’

Sarah walked around the
bed and sat down. Taking his hand in hers, she said: ‘They’re burying Tom the
day after tomorrow.’

Sam’s head sank to his
chest. Hearing her say that sounded so surreal. In spite of all that had
happened – in spite of how everything had turned out - there had been a time
when he and Tom had been close friends. Okay, towards the end Tom had revealed
himself for the unstable coward that he was, but he hadn’t always been like
that…he hadn’t always been the deceitful, malicious bastard that people would
remember him for.

‘I see,’ Sam said. ‘I’m
surprised at her coming all the way over here to tell us that in person. I’m
surprised she felt the need to tell us at all.’

‘That’s only part of
the reason she called round.’

‘What else did she want?’

‘She wants us to go to
his funeral. Both of us.’

‘You
are
joking,
aren’t you? For Christ’s sake, Sarah, tell me you’re not being serious.’

‘I’m not joking, Sam.’

‘But…but how? Why…after
everything that’s happened?’

‘I don’t know. My only
guess is that Tom never told Jane about me and him. Either that or she’s a very
good liar. You know what he’s like –
was
like - he was highly adept at
hiding the truth. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jane never found out about any of
his affairs. She probably didn’t even find out about him losing his job until
after he killed himself.’

Sam closed his eyes and
sighed, struggling to stay awake under the medication. ‘You could be right.
Anyway, what did you tell her? About going to the funeral, I mean.’

‘I said I’d talk to you
about it, but that I didn’t think it was likely given what’s happened.’

‘Didn’t think it was
likely?! Do you really think I want to go to the funeral of the man who had an affair
with my wife, fired me from my job, attacked me outside of work and then ended
up shooting my boss and my new assistant six feet from my fucking face? Are you
sure you’re not the one who needs medication?’

‘Hey!’ she said,
rounding on him. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, okay? I’m merely passing on what
she said. There’s no need to bite my head off.’

‘Alright, alright…I’m
sorry.’ His eyelids grew heavier, to the point where he was no longer able to
keep them open. ‘It’s just that…it’s just that…’

‘Shush,’ she said,
pulling the duvet cover up to his neckline. ‘Get some rest and we’ll talk about
it later.’

‘Okay,’ he whispered,
drifting towards unconsciousness. ‘But no more visitors. No Gracie, no Jane, no
nosy well-wishers. I just want to be left alone. I just want to sleep.’

Nine
uninterrupted hours went by before Sam woke up to find that his head was
refreshingly clear and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. He leaned
over and checked the alarm clock on his bedside table: 5.00pm.

He randomly selected a
Diazepam from its packet and washed it down with a swig of tepid water,
grimacing at the stale taste but grateful nonetheless for the soothing effect
of the water on his bone dry throat. Summoning every ounce of strength in his
body, he peeled back the duvet cover and swung his legs out of bed, sliding his
feet into his slippers before tentatively standing up and reaching for his
dressing gown from the back of a chair by the window. Breathing deeply, he
attempted a brief routine of stretches, only to find that his body wasn’t
anywhere near as willing as his mind. Ignoring the discomfort, he limped across
to the bedroom door and headed downstairs for something to eat.

He wasn’t expecting to
find Sarah standing behind the ironing board in the kitchen, working her way
through a huge pile of freshly-dried clothes. She jumped when she saw him,
surprised to see him up and about.

‘Shouldn’t you be in
bed?’ she asked, resuming her ironing.

‘My mother used to say
that you die in bed if you stay in it long enough,’ he replied, crossing the
kitchen and giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Besides, I’m starving. My belly
feels like my throat’s been cut.’

‘I hate that
expression,’ she said, brushing him away.

‘I know. Why do you
think I said it?’

‘Sit down and I’ll
fetch you something,’ she said, switching off the iron and folding up the
ironing board. ‘What do you fancy?’

‘Mmm…now there’s a
question,’ he said, winking at her.

‘No chance, mister.
You’re supposed to be ill, remember?’

‘In that case, how
about some cheese on toast?’

‘
That
I can do,’
she replied, turning on the grill and heading to the breadbin. ‘One slice or
two?’

‘How about we start
with three and see how we get on?’

‘Three?’

‘Honestly, Sarah, I
could eat a scabby horse.’

‘I guess it’s a good
sign that your appetite’s back.’

‘Certainly is.’

‘What about the rest of
you?’ she said, slicing some cheese onto a plate. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Not great, but a damn
sight better than yesterday. I’ve slept like a baby all day, and this time I
didn’t dream of anything.’

‘That’s a relief. Have
you taken your Diazepam?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Five
minutes ago.’

‘Good. The doctor said
to keep taking them, even if you start feeling better.’

‘I know. I will. Listen,
I’ve been thinking some more about Jane, about what she said.’

Sarah stopped what she
was doing and turned to face him. ‘I can tell you right now, we’re not going to
Tom’s funeral.’

Sam sighed. ‘Just…just
hear me out, will you?’

‘No, Tom, I won’t. It’s
non-negotiable.’

‘I think we should go,’
Sam said, ignoring her. ‘I think we need closure.’

‘He’s dead, Sam. How
much more closure do you want?’

‘It’s the right thing
to do,’ he persisted. ‘If nothing else, I think we owe it to Jane. She was
innocent in all this, and besides, I can’t see there being many people there,
can you?’

‘I’m not going just to
make up the bloody numbers!’

‘Please,’ Sam said,
rubbing his forehead as he felt the beginnings of a headache. ‘I understand why
you don’t want to go, but I’d like you to come with me. If not for Tom or Jane,
then for me.’

Pulling on an oven mit,
she slid the tray of cheese-laden bread into the grill and paused to consider
her reply. ‘What if going to his funeral has an adverse effect on you?’

Sam laughed and shook
his head. ‘Such as?’

‘It’s not funny, Sam.
What if seeing him being buried sparks some kind of emotional reaction?’

‘You mean a nervous
breakdown?’

‘Maybe…I don’t know.
I’m not sure what your psychologist would have to say about it.’

‘I won’t have a nervous
breakdown, okay? I know what Tom did, I know how he did it, and I know how the
story ended. There aren’t any more surprises to catch me out. All I want is to
pay my last respects and do the right thing by Jane. After that, I don’t care
what happens. I’ll be able to focus all my attention on putting the past behind
me and moving on with my life…with our lives.’

Sarah looked at him.
‘Is that a promise?’

‘I hope so,’ Sam said.
‘It’ll take some time, but I’m willing to do whatever the so-called professionals
tell me to do. Medication, therapy, chemical castration…whatever it takes.’

After a long pause,
Sarah nodded and sighed. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Against my better judgement, we’ll
go to his funeral. We’ll pay our last respects, listen to the priest, watch the
murdering bastard being buried, and then we’ll come home and never mention his
name again for as long as we live.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘It’s not a plan,’ she
said, handing him his cheese on toast. ‘It’s a disaster waiting to happen.’