Hanging Hill - Mo Hayder [158]
The doors at the back of the church opened and the funeral director’s pall-bearers began the long walk up the aisle. Zoë looked down and saw Sally’s hand resting on her lap. She looked to her left and saw Millie’s hand on hers. On an impulse she reached out and took both, and as she did, the answer to Ben’s question about the funeral popped into her head.
Solidarity. That was what it was. She was here to show the world, and Kelvin’s memory, that this family, her family, wouldn’t be pushed apart again. Ever.
2
When the service was over, the teenagers ran on ahead, though the adults lingered a while, waiting for Kelvin’s sister to go before they got up and left by the east entrance, which led into the graveyard. They didn’t want to bump into the press who were ranked outside the west gate, gathering around Kelvin’s sister.
The three of them went to the bench under the buddleia tree to wait it out. Sally sat on Steve’s knee, Zoë stood in front of them, smiling, a hand up to shade her eyes from the sun. She looked gorgeous, Sally thought, like an Amazon. Dressed in white from head to foot, with an incredible tan she’d picked up just from being on her bike. Her face had healed completely and she wore a solid cherry-red lipstick that hadn’t smudged or faded.
‘I like your dress,’ Sally said. ‘And the hat.’
‘Thanks.’ Zoë pulled off the hat and sat next to them. Tried to shake a crease out of the skirt. ‘It’s not really my thing. You know, dresses and hats. Still – proves I scrub up OK.’
‘Ben’s not here?’
‘Yes – he’s waiting in the car until the press go. See him?’
Sally looked across the graves and the cypress trees and saw a dark-blue Audi pulled up in the patchy sunlight. Ben was inside it, wearing sunglasses. ‘He’s staring at us. He doesn’t look happy.’
‘Ignore him. He reckoned we shouldn’t have come to the funeral. Thinks we’re nuts.’
Behind Ben, Nial and Peter’s Glastonbury vans were parked. Peter had got into his and now Nial was unlocking the side door of his and pulling it back to let in some cooler air. In the days since the inquest Nial had painted yellow flowers and skulls on it. He’d stencilled a line around the middle, a Plimsoll line in pale blue, with the words ‘Projected Glasto mud level 2011’.
‘They’re going to Glastonbury tonight,’ Steve told Zoë. ‘Sleeping in the van for three days. Nice.’
‘The Pilton mudbath? Oh, Christ, I feel so jealous. You’re happy to let her go? After everything?’
Sally watched Millie lean into the cab of Nial’s camper and attach something – a charm or a ribbon – to the mirror. She saw Nial loosen his tie – he still had a brownish mark on the side of his face where he’d scraped it in the tumble down the cliff. Both of them looked awkward and wrong in their formal outfits – a white blouse and black skirt for Millie, bare legs in black pumps, which looked vulnerable and out of place, Nial in a suit that was a little short in the legs, his hands dangling out of the sleeves. He was growing into himself, just as Sally had known he would eventually. There’d been story after story about him in the papers. Nial – little Nial, suddenly pushed into the shoes of the hero – leading Kelvin to Pollock’s Farm away from Millie, whom he’d hidden in the camper-van. The tarot had been wrong that Millie was going to die. A warning, of Kelvin and what was to come, but not a warning of death. ‘I’m not worried.’ Sally smiled. ‘She’ll be all right with Nial.’
‘He’s totally in love with her,’ Steve said.
Zoë laughed. ‘He might be in love with her, but what about Millie? Has it worked? He’s a hero now – is she in love with him?’
‘No.’ Sally sighed. ‘Of course not. Poor Nial.’
‘No?’
‘It’s Peter. It’s always been Peter.’
Zoë narrowed her eyes at Peter, who was sitting in his van fastening his seatbelt. ‘That waste of space? I never