Shaun Hutson - Heathen/Nemesis

‘You’ve helped me enough times in the past,’ Julie said.

There was only two years’ age difference between the women. Julie, at twenty-six, was also a little taller, her hair darker, chestnut brown compared to her sister’s lighter, natural colour. They were dressed similarly too, both in black leggings and baggy tops, Julie wearing white socks, Donna barefoot. They had always dressed similarly. They had similar views on life, men and the world in general, too. Best friends as well as sisters, they had shared a closeness throughout their lives most siblings only discover with advancing years. There had been no teenage rivalry between them, only a bond of love that had grown deeper as they’d developed. It had intensified when Julie left home first to attend photographic college and Donna had moved into her own flat after securing a job with a record company. The very fact that the women saw less of each other made their closeness more palpable when they met.

Julie had married when she was twenty-two. It was a doomed relationship with a man ten years older, whose affections seemed divided between her and the contents of whisky bottles. Their short marriage had ended acrimoniously less than a year after they’d promised each other, ‘Til Death us do Part’. Alcohol, it seemed, was as effective a destroyer of marriages as death.

Julie had set up her own photographic business with her share of the settlement money, a business she now owned and operated with the aid of a partner, employing three people. It was thriving.

Donna had married two years later. Both had known love; both had known grief. The latter tended to predominate where men were concerned.

‘How far have you got with the arrangements?’ Julie asked. ‘Sorting out the undertaker, things like that?’

‘I haven’t even picked up Chris’s things from the hospital yet,’ Donna said guiltily. She looked at her sister, opened her mouth to say something, then paused a moment longer before finally breaking the silence.

‘Julie, I think Chris was having an affair.’

Julie shot her an anxious glance.

‘What makes you think that?’ she demanded.

‘There was another woman in the car with him when he died,’ Donna began, then went on to explain what had come to light.

‘She could have been a friend,’ Julie offered.

Donna raised an eyebrow quizzically.

‘A friend? Yes, I suppose she could have been.’ She shook her head.

‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying you’ve got more important things to think about right now.’

‘More important things?’ Donna snapped. ‘My husband was having an affair, Julie. He died with the woman he was fucking behind my back. I think that’s important.’

‘You loved him, didn’t you?’

‘Of course I loved him. I loved him more than I thought it was possible to love anyone. That’s why it hurts so much.’ Tears were beginning to form in her eyes. ‘I miss him so much but I’ll never know the truth.’ The tears were flowing freely now. ‘And I have to know.’ Julie embraced her, stroking her hair. ‘I have to know.’

Thirteen

Donna was crossing the hall when she heard the car pull up outside.

She paused as she heard the car door shut and footsteps approach. She moved towards the front door, peering through the spy-hole. She smiled as she recognised her visitor and opened the door before he could ring the bell.

Martin Connelly looked surprised to find himself gazing into her face.

‘I heard your car,’ she said, beckoning him inside.

Connelly accepted the invitation and stepped in, turning to hug Donna briefly.

‘When you didn’t call me back I thought I’d come round and see how you were. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said.

‘It’s very thoughtful of you,’ she told him as they walked into the sitting-room.

Julie was glancing at a magazine when Connelly entered. She looked up and saw him, smiled tightly and nodded a greeting.

‘Martin, this is my sister Julie,’ Donna announced. ‘Martin Connelly. He was Chris’s agent.’ The two of them shook hands a little stiffly and Connelly looked at Donna.

‘If I’m interrupting,’ he apologised. ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay. I won’t stay.’ He smiled at Julie again.

‘Stay and have a drink.’

‘If I do it had better be coffee. I’m driving,’ Connelly explained.

‘I’ll make it,’ said Julie. ‘You two talk.’ And she was gone, closing the sitting-room door behind her, leaving them alone.

Connelly wandered over to the fireplace and glanced at the framed book covers that hung there. Donna studied him.

He was in his mid-thirties, smartly dressed (he was always smartly dressed, she remembered), his light brown hair impeccably groomed. He had been Ward’s agent for the last five years. The relationship between them had never been business-orientated, though; it was something stronger than that. Although it was not powerful enough to be true friendship, there was nevertheless a mutual respect of each other’s abilities coupled by a ruthless streak they also both possessed. It had been a formidable combination.

‘You’re okay for money, aren’t you?’ Connelly asked her.

‘I won’t starve, Martin.’

‘I always made sure Chris had enough insurance policies and stuff like that.’ He turned and looked at her. ‘But if you need anything, anything at all, you call me. Right?’

She smiled.

‘I mean it, Donna,’ he insisted. ‘Promise me you will.’

‘I promise.’

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a packet of cigarettes, lighting one with his silver lighter. He regarded her coolly through the haze of bluish smoke. Despite the dark rings beneath her eyes and the fact that her hair needed brushing she still looked extremely attractive. Prior to Ward’s death he’d seen her dressed up, her make-up done to perfection. On some of those occasions the only word he could find to describe her was breathtaking. Now he ran appraising eyes slowly over her, a little embarrassed when she looked up and caught him in the middle of his furtive inspection.

‘How long’s your sister here for?’ he asked, feeling the need to break the silence.

‘For as long as she wants to be. Certainly until after the funeral.’

‘Do you know when it is yet?’

She shook her head.

‘I’ve got to sort all that out tomorrow,’ Donna told him.

‘Do you need any help?’

‘I’ll be all right. Thanks, anyway. It’s probably better in some ways. The more I’ve got to do, the less time I’ve got to sit around and think about what’s happened.’

‘I know what you mean. No good brooding about it, is it?’ He realized the clumsiness of his statement and apologised.

‘It’s okay, Martin. Say what you think. People can’t tip-toe around the subject for the rest of their lives. Chris is dead, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Ignoring it isn’t going to make it any more bearable.’

‘You know that he had it written into all his contracts that, if anything happened to him, you were to become beneficiary of all his money from royalties and advances?’ Connelly said.

She nodded.

‘I remember when we first met, before Chris was earning decent money from his books. People used to tell me I was crazy to stay with him, that he’d never earn a good living. Then, when he did start earning good money, those same people told me that was the only reason I’d stayed with him.’ She shook her head.

‘Jealousy. You’ll always get it. The wives of successful men always get that thrown at them, that they’re only with the bloke because of his money. It happens the other way round, too. Behind every successful woman is a spongeing bastard; behind every successful man is a gold-digger.’ He smiled and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Of course sometimes it’s true.’