Shaun Hutson: Heathen/Nemesis

CONTRACTS

RESEARCH AND NOTES

FAN MAIL

She picked a letter from the top of the tray and glanced at it. It was the usual thing. ‘I enjoyed your books very much. I look forward to the next one. Please can I have a signed photo etc. etc.’

Ward received a lot of fan mail and was always grateful for it. The readers, he used to tell her, paid their mortgage.

Did they pay for his mistress, too?

Donna slid open one of the drawers and peered in. More notepads, more envelopes. Elastic bands, paper clips, Tipp-Ex.

A letter.

She pulled it out and spread it out on the desk, scanning it through tired eyes.

Dear Suzanne.

Donna stiffened, sucked in a shallow breath.

Suzanne.

One part of her wanted to read the letter; the other part told her not to continue.

‘Dear Suzanne,’ she read aloud. ‘Just a quick note to tell you that everything is taken care of.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I hope you are well and I will see you next Thursday. Love, Chris.’

Love.

Donna closed her eyes for a moment, her body shaking. Then she looked at the letter again. There was no date on it.

See you next Thursday.

She snatched at the letter and balled it up, crushing it between her hands, finally hurling it across the room with a despairing grunt. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. She glared across at the photo of her husband on the wall.

He smiled back at her.

‘You fucking bastard,’ she roared at the photo.

She didn’t know whether her tears were of pain or anger.

And it didn’t really seem to matter any more.

Eleven

Donna hadn’t expected so much coverage in the papers.

She’d thought there would be a mention of her husband’s death in the trade magazines, and perhaps a line or two in one of the nationals, but she was unprepared for what actually appeared.

Three of the tabloids ran two-column stories (one with a photograph) while even The Times mentioned Chris’s death. A little ironic, Donna thought, considering how they had lambasted his books when he’d been alive. The coverage provoked a flood of phone calls to the house. She moved around irritably, not picking up the phone, leaving the answering machine to cope with the deluge. Occasionally she would stand beside the machine and listen to see who was on the other end of the line, but by the afternoon she had unplugged all the phones except the one connected to the answerphone in an effort to get some peace.

She hadn’t slept much the previous night and what rest she’d managed had been fitful. She’d woken twice from a nightmare but had been unable to remember the images that had shocked her into consciousness.

Car crashes, perhaps?

Funerals?

Mistresses?

She didn’t go near Ward’s office that day; she feared what she might find in there. The letter she had discovered had only reinforced her conviction that her husband had been having an affair with Suzanne Regan. What Donna was aware of was how little she had cried since finding the letter. More and more of the emotion she felt was tinged with anger now.

She ate a bowl of soup and some bread at about two o’clock and sat staring at the Valium bottle. She thought about taking one of the tablets but decided against it.

The phone was silent now. As she dropped her bowl into the sink, Donna decided to check the messages before a new batch came in.

The house seemed very quiet as she walked through the hallway and flicked the switch marked ‘Incoming Message’. She heard a high-pitched squeal, a cacophony of indecipherable noise as the tape rewound quickly then began with its catalogue of calls.

A reporter from the local paper.

Diana Wellsby, Ward’s editor, offering her condolences.

Nick Crosby, Managing Director of his publishers, also offering his sympathies.

No message.

Chris’s accountant; could he ring him? (Obviously not everyone read the papers, Donna thought.)

Her mother, who said she refused to speak to a machine but would ring back.

Donna smiled thinly when she heard her mother’s voice.

Jackie. Ring her, just to let her know how things were going.

‘Mrs Ward, this is Detective Constable Mackenzie. I’d appreciate it if you could call me as soon as possible. Thank you.’

Donna chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. The policeman had called yesterday, too. What was so important? She reached for the pad and pen beside the phone, rewound the tape and took down the number he’d left.

‘Donna, it’s Martin Connelly,’ the next voice announced. She smiled at the warmth in the tone. It was Chris’s agent. ‘I realize what you must be feeling and I’m very sorry about what’s happened. I’ll call you back later. Take care, gorgeous.’

One more call.

She waited for a voice but there wasn’t one.

A wrong number, perhaps?

She could hear breathing on the tape, slow, rhythmic breathing. No background noise. Nothing but breathing.

Then the message was brought to an abrupt end as the phone was put down.

Donna flicked her hair from her face and was about to walk away from the phone when it rang again.

Her hand hovered over the receiver. She thought about picking it up but finally allowed the machine to click on.

Breathing.

The same breathing as on the message she’d just listened to.

Pick it up.

Donna stared at the phone, listening to the breathing. Then finally she heard, ‘Shit.’ The phone was put down, slammed down hard at the other end.

Donna backed away from the machine as if it were some kind of venomous serpent. If it was a crank call, it was either bad timing or a particularly sick bastard getting his rocks off at the other end of the line. She suddenly felt very lonely and vulnerable.

It was then that the doorbell rang.

Twelve

For long moments she hesitated, standing rigid in the hallway.

The chain was off.

Donna swallowed hard and took a step towards the door as the two-tone chime sounded again. She gently eased the chain into position and finally peered through the spy-hole.

She saw her younger sister immediately.

Donna hurried to open the door, throwing it wide and holding out her arms.

When Julie Craig embraced her the two women clutched each other tightly, unwilling to be parted. Finally Donna pulled back slightly, with tears in her eyes.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she whispered.

‘Nothing would have stopped me,’ Julie told her. They embraced again. ‘Donna, I’m so sorry.’

Both of them were crying now, weeping softly against each other’s shoulders. At last Donna guided her sister inside the house and pushed the front door closed:

‘I’ll get my stuff out of the car in a minute,’ Julie told her, wiping a tear away. She touched her cheek and shook her head gently. ‘You look so tired.’

‘I haven’t been sleeping too well,’ Donna said, smiling humourlessly. ‘You can guess why.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Julie.’

When she’d finished telling her story Donna didn’t even raise her head. She merely shifted slightly in her seat, running the tip of her index finger around the rim of her teacup.

Julie watched her sister seated at the other end of the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her. She reached out a hand and touched Donna’s arm, gripping it.

‘Why didn’t you call me as soon as it happened?’ she wanted to know.

‘There was no point. Besides, I could hardly remember my own name, let alone call anyone,’ Donna explained, running a hand through her blonde hair. She looked at Julie and smiled. ‘Little sister helping big sister out this time.’