The Fall - By Claire McGowan

Epilogue



Six months later

A mile before the church, they started – little wooden signs tied onto the trees, waving slightly in the afternoon breeze. They said: Wedding this way.

‘Must be the right place.’

‘Bloody well hope so.’ They’d had a long drive from London to Dorset, and now the roads were so narrow, two cars couldn’t pass, and the trees grew together above them, so it seemed nearly dark despite the sunny day. It was the country – she hated the country. It was a warm spring day, the sun making long gold shadows in the trees. There were cows in the fields, and the village had red-brick cottages and people playing cricket on the green. She’d expected it to be exactly like this: the cows, the bloody cricketers, the cutesy little signs.

‘Think it’s here,’ he said, drawing into a field beside the little village church. Cars were parked there already, but not so many as she would have thought. It was a much smaller wedding than the other one would have been. Too many people had just not been there when it mattered, and wouldn’t be forgiven now. So the wedding was this, a small country church, reception in the pub, nothing else. You had to respect that.

Suddenly she was jumpy. ‘What if they’ve started?’

‘They’ve not – look.’ A white wedding car was pulling up, and inside you could see someone all surrounded by lace. ‘Nice set of wheels there.’

She looked at him.

‘Jesus, woman, go on. Do it.’

‘You’ll mind her?’

‘Course.’ Ruby had fallen asleep before they even left London, her head dropping onto her shoulder in the back seat. Keisha looked at her daughter for a good few seconds, little legs dangling from the booster seat. She was still getting used to it, that she could let Ruby out of her sight, and the kid would still be there when she came back. ‘OK. Give her a juicebox if she wakes up.’

She took off her seatbelt and grabbed the package from the back, opened the car door. Lucky for her she was wearing her usual jeans and trainers, ’cos the f*cking ground was like quicksand with spring mud. She’d bet ladies in stilettos would get caught in that.

When she got to the church door the guests had been chased inside and there was just one little girl in pink and a bigger one standing among the crooked gravestones and waving trees. And there, in a different white wedding dress, this one bought in Monsoon, just one flower tucked into her pile of fair curls, was Charlotte. She looked pale with nerves, her step-sister fussing round with the bouquet of pink roses.

‘Honestly, I said she hadn’t dried them right. They’ll leave marks.’

‘All right, Sarah, it doesn’t matter. Take Tilly inside.’

‘I need a wee-wee.’ The little girl was whining already. This was Charlotte’s niece, Keisha thought. Ruby was much better-behaved.

‘For God’s sake.’ Sarah was pissed off. ‘I told her to go at the house.’

‘Will you please just—’ That was when Charlotte saw her, standing at the corner of the church in her jeans and denim jacket. ‘Go in, Sarah, will you?’

‘What? You mean walk down?’

‘Just go, OK?’

‘All right, all right.’

Once the church door had shut, Charlotte turned to Keisha. ‘Didn’t think you’d come.’

‘I’m not staying.’

‘You’re not? Oh. Where’s Ruby?’

‘In the car. Ron drove us. Your dad not walking you in?’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘I sort of wanted to do it by myself.’

Keisha understood that; better to prove to yourself that you didn’t need anyone to walk with you. You had to show that you could stand alone, if you needed to. Just in case. She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry about the flat. Sale went through, then?’

‘Yeah.’ Charlotte sighed. ‘It’s OK. I think it’s been good for us. No mortgage, less money, less stuff – does that make sense? You must think I’m daft.’

Keisha shook her head. She’d given up trying to understand what it was like to be someone like Charlotte. She never would. They were too different, but that was OK. ‘You’re living down here now?’

‘Yes. His dad found me a training post, in his old practice. Can you believe I decided to retrain in law? That’s ironic, huh?’

Keisha was never really sure what ‘ironic’ meant. ‘You’re a student again, then?’

‘Yeah. The money off Dan’s firm, you know. It won’t last for ever, but – it helps. Since Dan can’t work yet – he’s not up to it – yeah, it helps.’ She was blushing and Keisha wasn’t surprised. Three hundred grand must be a help, for sure. That was how much Haussmann’s had paid to make Charlotte’s brother go away with everything he’d found out about the bullying and stress at Dan’s workplace. She’d seen on the morning news that the police were investigating the bank for dodgy dealing now. Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch, she was sure.

‘He’s still bad, then? Dan?’

Charlotte winced. ‘He still can’t sleep all night in bed. I find him outside, just sitting in the garden . . .’ Something went over her face. ‘But we’ll manage. He’ll get better. He needs me now, his epilepsy’s been bad too. We’re getting into a routine with the meds. It’ll be OK.’

‘Yeah. You heard from anyone else at all?’

Charlotte flushed. ‘If you mean DC Hegarty, yes. He sent a card.’

‘That’s nice. Not in trouble then.’

‘We-ell. A bit. He’ll be all right. Just a reprimand, I think. I suppose they wanted to hush it up, they made so many mistakes.’ She wouldn’t meet Keisha’s eyes. ‘Right.’

Charlotte fiddled with the roses, which were indeed dripping water. ‘You didn’t answer any of my texts.’

‘Didn’t know what to say, after everything.’ Keisha shrugged, taking in the trial, and her surprise testifying, and everything that happened after.

Charlotte nodded stiffly. ‘Congratulations, anyway. I didn’t have your address to send a card.’

‘Oh, no, don’t.’ Keisha looked down at the diamond on her finger. It wasn’t as big as Charlotte’s had been, but it was big enough.

‘You’ll do it over there, in Jamaica?’

‘Think so. We’re going next week, the three of us. Ron thought it was best to get away. You know, people aren’t so happy with us after . . . everything.’

‘No. I suppose not.’ Charlotte shivered a bit in her dress, probably thinking of the stones thrown at her house and the paint on her step. ‘Be careful, will you?’

‘S’OK. Anyway, I just came to see you, wish you all the best. Got you this. It’s not much.’ She shoved the parcel at Charlotte, the tissue paper already falling off. It was the photo of Charlotte that had come from Gary the photographer. The same as the one in the paper, but in this one she was smiling. She looked happy. She looked like she could do things. Keisha had taken it after all the hoo-ha with the trial and she’d put it in a nice silver frame.

Charlotte looked at it for a long time. ‘Hard to think I did all that.’

‘You did. Better remember it.’

‘You definitely won’t stay? I want you to be here.’

‘Aw, no, Char. I’m in my jeans, aren’t I.’

‘But it’s not fancy – just the pub. Honest, it’s not like last time.’

‘Char. No. I’m sorry.’

‘All right.’ She looked sad. This was wrong, Keisha hadn’t meant to make her sad, not on her wedding day.

Inside, there was the sound of music starting up, that one, what was it called, something Canon.

‘Come on, Charlotte,’ they heard Sarah hiss from behind the door.

‘Go on. You look gorgeous. Told ya you don’t need designer shit.’ Keisha scuffed her feet, embarrassed.

‘Keesh . . .’

‘Oh, come on. It’s your wedding day!’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your make-up.’

‘OK.’ Charlotte sniffed.

Keisha moved towards her and Charlotte threw her arms round the other girl, stifling a little crying sound in her throat. The flower in her hair scratched Keisha’s face. She smelled of very strong, very nice perfume. ‘I wish – I wish . . . You know, without you, I—’ Charlotte was trying to say something. ‘I know you sent the letter to Dan. He told me. He said that was why he started to fight, and I never knew, I never thanked you.’

‘Don’t. It’s OK.’

Charlotte tried to smile. Even her tears looked pretty today. ‘You’ll keep in touch, when you go to Jamaica? Promise?’

‘Sure I will.’ She said it even though she didn’t think she would. She just didn’t know how they could, her and Charlotte, after everything. After all that water under the bridge. That was the truth.

The music was starting to falter. ‘Go on, they’re waiting.’

Charlotte gathered up her skirt and took a deep breath. ‘OK. I’m going.’

And she went in, and Keisha peeked in the church door as she walked down in her simple dress, the small crowd smiling and snapping away on their phones and cameras, music swelling. Flashes going off, the smell of flowers. At the end of the aisle was Dan, in a plain suit, his eyes fixed nervously on his bride. One foot in front of the other, that was all it would take. And as she walked to him one step at a time, Charlotte didn’t look back once.





Acknowledgements

Sometimes, ideas come from nowhere; sometimes, you know exactly where. The idea for The Fall came from a dream I had sometime in 2009. If that hadn’t happened, it’s unlikely I would have set out to write a novel about a police investigation and a trial, when I know pretty much nothing about these things. Therefore, I have to thank everyone who helped with the research, especially writer Elizabeth Haynes, my cousin Niall McCarron, and my friend Kelly ‘Efficiency’ Hagedorn, who certainly lived up to her name on this one. Any lingering mistakes are of course my own.

I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to this book’s journey from my subconscious to the object you see today. This includes: Sony for launching the new writers’ competition; my agent Francesca Barrie for finding me through that; and Ali Hope and everyone at Headline for being so enthusiastic about the book. Being a new writer is a bit bewildering, and so for guidance, welcome, and many, many drinks, I’d like to thank the Crime Writers’ Association and all the lovely crime writers I’ve met so far. They know how to party (and kill you in inventive ways).

Finally, I doubt I’d have got to this stage without the support of everyone who read the book and said they liked it. Especial thanks go to Oliver, who, although it is not a book about management theory, read it first and said, ‘Actually, do give up the day job.’

If you’ve read this book, I would love to hear from you. Please visit my website at http://clairemcgowan.net or find me on Twitter, where I am @inkstainsclaire.





Claire McGowan grew up in a small village in Northern Ireland. After completing a degree in English and French at Oxford University she moved to London and worked in the charity sector. She is currently the Director of the Crime Writers’ Association. The Fall is her first novel.