Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5) by David Gatward (best love novels of all time .txt) 📕

there was no warmth to it, was there? James thought, as she stared at him now with eyes as hard and dead, and yet as beautiful as a Da Vinci statue carved in marble.

Behind Ruth, James saw Patricia and her husband, Dan, and Ruth’s teenage son, Anthony. His family, he thought, and all of them hurting. Behind them, he saw other faces, of friends, relatives who were little more than names on Christmas cards. And then there was a face he took a moment to register, because he didn’t immediately have a name to place with it, but the scars he remembered, and that was enough. That the police had turned up to the funeral, well, that said a lot, he thought. And what was the name of that new one, now? Grimm, yes, that was it. And there he was, with two more from his team. It was very good of them to be here at all, wasn’t it?

‘Dad!’

The shout was a slap at a window, and James jolted out of his rambling thoughts.

‘Yes?’

Ruth held out a hand. ‘I saw them fall from your pocket, while you were searching.’

James looked down at his daughter’s pale hand and saw his notes. He snatched them back, didn’t mean to, but also didn’t feel quite in the mood to apologise.

Ruth took a long, slow breath and James knew that she understood, that she wasn’t hurt by his behaviour.

James turned from his daughter and moved to stand at the foot of Helen’s grave. To his side, Ruth walked back to stand with the rest of the family.

‘Right then,’ James said, clearing his throat, unfolding the notes to read. ‘Best I get this done so we can all get home before the rain comes in, eh?’

James cast a look around the small gathering, unable to fully grasp the reality of it, that he was there, that any of them were, and Helen wasn’t.

Mr Rawlings, the minister, coughed.

‘Right, yes,’ James said, realising he had fallen silent for a little too long. ‘I suppose I should just get on with it, shouldn’t I? Helen was never one for hanging about, was she?’ He laughed at the memory, imagining his wife chivvying him along, but his laugh cracked and broke apart, crumbling to dust around him.

James unfolded the notes Ruth had handed him, brushing off a bit of dirt and grass, then stared at the words. At first, they were clear and he opened his mouth to start reading, but then all he could see was the grave, and the words turned to tasteless mush in his mouth, because the grave was the end, and Helen was down there, except she wasn’t, because she couldn’t be, could she? Whatever it was that was down there, it wasn’t Helen, she was gone, and he wanted her back, to hear her voice, to hold her and laugh with her and fall asleep with her and, dear God, the pain of it!

James’ cry caught in his throat. He looked up at the people in front of him, at his daughters, his family, his friends, all of them waiting for him to say something, to somehow sum up what they were all thinking, what they were all feeling, to condense their grief into . . . into what? James thought. How could he? It was impossible, all of it! He just couldn’t!

James rubbed his thumb over his notes, tried to read the words again, but there was water on the paper now, and the words started to smear because he was crying, and that was all he could do, just cry and weep and let the agony of this moment flow out of him until there was nothing left.

A cough brought James back into the now and he wiped his eyes with the collar of his jacket, sniffed hard enough to burn the back of his throat. With another glance at those gathered around Helen’s grave, he folded up his notes and slipped them back into his pocket out of sight.

‘I can’t . . .’ James said, his voice breaking on the pain ripping him apart inside. ‘I just can’t do this. It’s wrong, all of it . . .’

James turned on his heels, whipping himself around and away from the hideous thing at his feet, the deep, dark muddy hole that had swallowed his dead wife with silent glee. The whole thing was an abomination! Helen’s death, the crash that had taken her, this god-awful funeral!

‘Dad!’

James didn’t stop. He was at the cemetery gate now, car keys in his hand, his walk now a run, even though his leg still hurt from the crash, because he couldn’t get away fast enough.

‘Dad! Stop!’

James hit the button on the key fob and just ahead the lights blinked on the hire car he’d been driving since the accident.

A hand grabbed at him, but he pulled away from it.

‘No, I’m not stopping here!’ he shouted, refusing to turn around and face whoever it was that had made chase. ‘I can’t and I won’t, you hear? I just won’t! I’m not doing this, not any of it!’

‘You have to!’ Ruth cried after him. ‘Please, Dad! You have to! You’re not being fair! It’s not just about you! It’s not! You can’t own this! You can’t own Mum’s death! Please!’

At this, James jarred to a halt and whipped round, something rare broiling in his stomach, twisting his grief into a wild animal of teeth and spit.

‘What did you say?’

‘You can’t just leave!’ Ruth said, standing in front of him now. ‘I know it’s hard, Dad. God, it’s hard for all of us, but we need you here. We all do!’

‘No, you don’t,’ James replied ‘She’s gone, Ruth! That’s it! And it’s not like she’s coming back, is it? So, what the hell is the point of any of this, can you tell me that? Can anyone? It doesn’t make sense! She should be here, with me, with us, not in that . . . that awful