Forgotten Graves: Whitby's Forgotten Victims Book 4, page 3
Tom leaned forward and kissed her.
She touched her lips afterward, processing the unexpected gesture.
Then, he slid off the couch onto his knees.
Too much unpredictability had her internal warning system at the ready.
Rylan shifted closer.
Tom glanced at him before looking back at Gerry. He reached over and fumbled under a small cushion that had been in the small of his back. ‘Sorry… I…’ Face creased, he slipped his hand in the crevice between the main cushion and the arm of the sofa, and fumbled around. ‘Shit… wait—’
‘What’re you doing, Tom?’ she asked.
His face scrunched in concentration as he continued his search.
‘Got it… here…’ He yanked out a small box.
She saw a familiar jeweller’s symbol. ‘Are you going to ask me to marry you?’
Colour flooded his cheeks, but he seized the moment. He opened the box, revealing a gold ring with a diamond set in it. ‘Gerry Carver, will you marry me?’
This was unexpected.
Completely.
‘Gerry?’
She looked at his wide eyes, realising she’d just spiralled off for a moment.
She opened her mouth, searching out the most logical thing she could think of. ‘When?’
His face lit up. Had he taken this as an acceptance? ‘Soon… as soon as… if you want… or we can go slow… wait a bit… up to you.’
‘I see.’
‘I love you.’ He took a deep breath and shuffled closer.
Gerry looked away.
‘Gerry? What’re you feeling? What’re you thinking?’
She decided to answer the questions and looked back at him. ‘Well, I’m feeling surprised,’ she said. ‘And I’m thinking it’s unexpected.’
‘Are you unhappy?’
‘No.’
‘Happy then?’
She bit back her initial response. I’m not sure.
‘I love you, Gerry, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’
She managed a smile. After all, Gerry understood these were culturally significant statements in marriage proposals.
Deep down, though, she knew that all words – whether lies or truths – required careful evaluation.
Love?
Rest of life?
Yes, these required very careful evaluation.
Rylan went over and licked Tom’s face.
Tom laughed warmly. ‘I know, I know… you come as a package deal. I love you and want to spend my life with you, too. We can all be together. A happy family.’ He reached out to stroke Rylan.
There it was again.
Rest of life.
He went to sit beside her and put his hand on her leg. This was one such instance when touch caused her discomfort. She shuffled away. ‘Sorry.’
‘What’s wrong?’
He was waving the ring at her now, but she’d not really looked at it yet. He wanted to put it on her finger, but that didn’t feel right in the moment. In fact, it made her feel rather cold and unsettled.
‘Gerry, you need to talk to me, tell me what’s going through your head,’ he said.
She was having a lot of thoughts now. A barrage of them. But she was trying to hold them down. Frank often advised her on restraining potentially offensive thoughts.
‘Please, Gerry… tell me exactly what you’re thinking.’
Stop pushing, she thought. You might not like it—
‘Gerry? What?’
‘I’m thinking that the last time I checked, 42 per cent of marriages end in divorce. They end unhappily and…’
She imagined Frank’s disappointed stare. ‘Aye,’ she imagined him saying. ‘That’ll do it.’
The silence that followed confirmed this.
Now what? ‘It was kind of you to ask, though,’ she added. ‘I’ll give it careful consideration.’
Tom stood, closing the box. ‘Forty-two per cent of people aren’t right for each other. I thought we were.’
Gerry bit back her thoughts. Based on what? I concluded we were right for each other to date. I never evaluated us with marriage as a factor.
‘Look,’ Tom said, sitting back down. He took her hand. She resisted the urge to pull it away and nodded. She felt Rylan pressing against her legs.
‘We complement each other,’ Tom said. ‘You help me be more organised, more precise, less all over the place. You put things in perspective. Growing up with my parents I had no sodding perspective. Then, I met you. You try new things, even if they’re small things, and we have fun… and the sex is great.’
She thought about this. He made some good points.
‘And I’m not saying sex is the be all and end all. We’ve more than that. So much more.’
She nodded, beginning to process the possibility.
‘Your parents were happy, weren’t they?’
A complex memory surfaced. ‘Yes… but after I showed up, their marriage was focused on me most of the time. They had to work hard to maintain their relationship while meeting that commitment.’
‘And if we ever have something else, then we’ll work through it too.’
‘But I wasn’t planning for children. I understand how consuming my own needs are. It always seemed… like a selfish thing.’
‘Nonsense, you’d be a great mum.’
Her thoughts accelerated, overwhelming her. Rylan pressed harder against her leg, and her hand dropped to his fur.
‘Sorry… this is my fault… too much, too soon…’ Tom said. ‘When you stood up for me with my parents, Gerry, I fell head over heels…’
He pulled his hand away. She reached over and grabbed it. ‘No… you’re right. Thanks for asking. It’s sweet. Can I just have some time to consider the pros and cons?’ She met his eyes directly. ‘Does that sound offensive?’
‘It doesn’t.’
She studied his expression. ‘You’re lying.’
‘A little, maybe, but I understand you. That’s how I know I love you.’
She nodded.
‘Take all the time you need to think about it.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
He leaned in for a kiss.
They kissed for a short time, then, seeking the comfort of routine, desperate for it, she picked up the remote, sat back and resumed the documentary.
Chapter Six
In the bathroom mirror, Frank studied his reflection with the same analytical eye he reserved for suspects. He’d been critical of himself earlier, before Evelyn had arrived. But he was being hard on himself. The dark circles that had shadowed his eyes since Mary’s death had softened since he’d quit drinking. His face, while still heavier than it should be, had lost its bloated, unhealthy pallor.
He considered the rolling tobacco in the kitchen. The last vice. His fingers twitched with a familiar craving. Maybe it was time to vanquish that demon, too?
Who says you can’t polish a turd? he thought and winked.
He had a lot to be thankful to Gerry for. He thought of Evelyn in his kitchen, and realised that she, too, was part of his healing. She’d allowed him to understand his loss. Process it.
Even Henrietta could take some credit. On that night, he’d poured out his grief to her, and she’d shared stories of her own estranged son. It had made him feel less alone in his heartache for a short time.
Was that the secret to happiness?
Learning to let other people in, even when it terrifies you?
Frank had initially left the kitchen for the toilet because of his emotions over Maddie. Having calmed himself, he thought of Mary on his way back to the kitchen and felt another rush of emotion.
He gripped the edge of the hallway table, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and he feared a panic attack.
He turned and headed into the living room, intending to get control of his breathing, before returning to Evelyn. There he stood behind the half-closed door, regarding his sad looking plastic Christmas tree by the window. It looked withered, and the baubles had lost their sparkle. At least he’d got it out, though. It must have been the first time in five years.
Now, feeling more centred, he looked at Mary’s photograph on the mantelpiece. It was from about fifteen years ago. She was smiling, caught in a moment of amusement because of Frank.
Not because of any joke, he most certainly wasn’t that funny, but because he’d been attempting to juggle oranges and failing.
Maddie had taken the photograph.
He went close to the picture and stroked her face. ‘We’re just friends, love,’ he mouthed. ‘She’s helping, I promise.’
As he was leaving, he heard Mary whisper in his memory. ‘It’s okay, love. And remember, Maddie will come back, Frank, when she’s ready.’
Chapter Seven
Later that night, Gerry lay beside Tom, unable to stop herself from reflecting on their scheduled intercourse. He’d not approached it with his usual enthusiasm. It’d been rather mechanical.
It was clear she had sapped his usual warmth with her reaction earlier.
She felt some distress about hurting him and reasoned this was a good thing. It was significant evidence that she cared for him immensely.
But that didn’t solve the problem, did it?
Solutions for her had never been straightforward though. Her mind operated on its unique wavelength – a fact her parents had understood, her doctors had confirmed, and Tom was still learning to navigate.
She couldn’t imagine processing his proposal any differently—it would require rewiring her entire nervous system! After all, her lifestyle was rigid – not out of self-centredness, but self-preservation.
She waited ten more minutes – she didn’t need a clock; she could measure time without one – and then reached for a melatonin tablet. It helped settle her mind whenever her thoughts raced.
Twenty minutes later, she had her last conscious thought before sleeping.
Sometimes statistics and facts alone couldn’t provide solutions.
It was a terrifying thought.
Chapter Eight
The phone call from Constable Donald Oxley came just as Frank was finishing his third roll-up of the morning.
He looked out the window as he listened. Two young lads pelted each other with snowballs, their laughter carrying through the glass.
Lucky buggers, he thought. School’s out.
There was no such luck for him. He had a body to see.
Donald gave him the location.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, his joints already aching at trudging through the snow.
He didn’t have to be told that he needed decent footwear. Donald told him anyway.
I’m sure he still considers me incompetent, even after working with him for several decades. Bertha, his faithful yellow Volvo, had seen far better days. She was far too long in the tooth to weather these treacherous conditions. Also, her heater had been throwing tantrums lately, and the mechanism controlling the wipers had started jamming.
We share that in common, lass, he thought. Both of us hate the cold.
Ten years ago, he might have tackled the two-mile walk to the scene. But he was a lot heavier now. One slip on that ice could put him out of commission for weeks.
Frank rummaged through his closet, unearthing an old pair of hiking boots that were stiff but serviceable. He added his winter jacket, and – with a pang of melancholy – Mary’s old fur-lined leather gloves. Months ago, he’d lost his own pair and never got around to replacing them. He completed his get-up with a beanie hat.
It took four phone calls to find a taxi driver willing to brave the conditions.
When he was finally en route, the cab’s heating blasted at full force, turning the interior into a mobile sauna. Frank stripped off some of his layers in the back. At least the driver was silent. Chatty cabbies, especially first thing, ranked right up there with leaf-blowers on his list of pet peeves.
Through the windscreen, the snow-blanketed landscape stretched endlessly along the A169.
He sighed, thinking about the two joyriders who had raced down this stretch at breakneck speed last night. Frank had been young once, and he’d experienced the pull of adrenaline himself, but driving at that speed in these conditions. It was just suicidal, making their survival nothing short of miraculous.
He didn’t need directions to the scene – police vehicles and vans lined the road. Other than that, the road was quiet. The weather was keeping most indoors. Good. A steady stream of traffic down here would have been a pain in the arse.
After paying the driver – with a generous tip for his blessed silence – Frank wrapped up tight again, and stepped out into the biting cold, and light snowfall. The morning sun blazed off the snow, forcing him to push his prescription sunglasses from his forehead down over his nose.
Only one police car had their lights flashing. It provided a surreal blue heartbeat in the quiet, white expanse.
At the broken fence line, a fresh-faced constable manned the log-in point. Orange tape fluttered in the bitter wind. He doubted he’d have to keep any pedestrians away. Who in their right mind would be here in these conditions other than them?
‘Morning, sir!’ The young officer’s face split into an eager grin. ‘You okay?’
Frank suppressed a groan. When had over-enthusiasm become a job requirement? ‘Aye… thanks… How do?’
‘Good. You look much better than last time.’
Frank frowned. ‘Eh?’
‘Do you remember me, sir?’
Frank’s memory banks came up empty. ‘Sorry, son… I’m a man of certain years.’
‘PC Thompson, sir. That mess outside the Rusty Anchor a few months back.’
Ah. That explained the comment about looking better. He’d been sporting several shades of purple after searching for Maddie that night. Frank nodded. ‘I remember, aye. I wasn’t looking my best then… a couple of black eyes after a nasty fall.’
‘It’s a privilege to see you again, sir.’
Christ on a bike! Was this the universe’s punishment for dodging the chatty taxi driver? ‘Thank you. I must get on—’
‘And that wasn’t what I meant, about looking better. The bruises, I mean. You look healthier. You’ve lost weight. And there’s more of a glow about you.’
Frank shifted uncomfortably. Was this conversation really happening? It felt like a surreal dream.
In his day, men didn’t discuss such things. The observation felt oddly intimate, even if well-meant. He wasn’t very good at reciprocal pleasantry, but he gave it a whirl. ‘Aye, well… you’re looking more confident yourself. Growing into the uniform, son.’
The constable beamed.
Enthusiastic that he’d managed it, he added, ‘Like a baby finding its feet.’
The constable’s face suggested that was a little too much.
Ah well. His tolerance for small talk was exhausted now. He gestured toward the crime scene. ‘Right then, laddie… onwards.’
Chapter Nine
Onwards was a bloody nightmare.
The waterproofing on his old hiking boots was completely shot. And after two minutes of crunching through metre-high snow, icy water was seeping through to his socks.
He thought back to Donald’s warning about decent footwear.
He’s right… I’m bloody incompetent.
As his toes burned with the cold and every step made his joints flare, he couldn’t help but think, Sixty-five and still not retired! I need my head read!
Still, as was the norm whenever the retirement question popped up, the image of a smiling and relieved Donald Oxley crept into his mind…
He clenched his teeth and trudged with purpose.
The thought of Donald celebrating his retirement always had him feeling resolved to continue until he dropped dead.
By the time Frank reached the crash site, his feet were blocks of ice.
Still, the scene before him quickly drove all of his own discomforts from mind.
The old wooden silo had been a familiar sight on these moors for as long as anyone could remember. Now destroyed, it’d have to be removed. Half of its wooden exterior was scattered across the snow. The Audi jutted from beneath the wreckage - now a wreck itself. White-suited SOCOs moved around the scene. In their white oversuits, they looked like arctic explorers, their forms barely distinguishable against the snowy backdrop.
Frank caught sight of John Spears, the forensic photographer, circling the wreckage, snapping away. Above them, a drone swooped back and forth in the air, a mechanical insect capturing a more impressive view of the chaotic scene.
The modern bloody world, Frank thought. He couldn’t have less of a desire to keep up with it.
‘Morning boss!’ DS Reggie Moyes approached, hand raised.
Now here was an old man embracing everything the modern world had to offer.
Starting with relentless exercise.
He hadn’t seen Reggie in well over a month, and his white over suit did nothing to hide his newly bulked-up frame. He’d been banging on about ‘upping the weights’ in early November. Seems it hadn’t been hot air.
As if running marathons in his late fifties wasn’t enough? Ridiculous.
A small, traitorous part of his mind whispered that his derision masked envy.
He hated that part of his mind, although he should probably concede that it was right.
Reggie drew closer, moving gracefully through the snow, forcing Frank to reflect on his own sluggish limp.
He inwardly sighed, suppressing, as he always had to, his irritation. After all, despite Reggie’s self-professed reputation as a ladies’ man, shameless discussion of his exercise routines, and tendency towards workplace inappropriateness, Reggie was one of Frank’s most reliable detectives. And, on very rare occasions – emphasis on rare – even a friend.
But then he saw what was on Reggie’s face, and Frank realised there were limits on what he could tolerate. Frank pointed at Reggie’s shaggy new moustache. ‘What the bloody hell is that?’
