Page 67

ASHES TO ASHES

Pember

Despite Isla’s repeated assurances that Falkington were looking after his lab, Pember still couldn’t help but pace up and down the corridors in between copious amounts of coffee.

He received some very funny looks as he rode the bus back to Bell Lane, taking on the aesthetic of an incredibly well-dressed homeless man with two dogs, a scruffy shopping bag and Blake’s black trench coat bulging with dirt and mushrooms.

It was a ten-minute walk down the narrow country lane to get to their little estate, but the sun was still out and the birds were singing, so he took the dogs off their leads and let them jog the rest of the way home.

Against his better judgement, he sent a text to Ru.

‘ Hey, saw some half-price crochet kits in the supermarket earlier and thought of you! ’

Ru messaged back a moment later with a photograph of a knitted monkey.

‘ Cute! ’ Pember replied.

A loud braying sound made him flinch, and when he looked up he saw a brown and white Jersey cow hanging its head over a fence buried in the hedge.

“You made me jump,” Pember said, smiling as he stepped up onto the grassy verge to stroke the cow’s ear.

It wiped its nose all over Blake’s coat, and its long, slimy tongue came out to curl into his pocket. “You thief,” Pember chuckled, digging a hand in and pulling out a fistful of mushrooms.

The cow snorted as it ate, and soon a whole herd of nosy bovines appeared at the fence. “Sorry, girls,” Pember said, giving the cow one last tickle behind the ear. “I’m saving these babies for a very special lady.” With that, he clambered back down the verge, called the dogs and made his way home.

Bailey whined and hung back behind Pember’s legs.

“What is it?” he said, bending down to pat her flank.

George was snuffling and sneezing, his claws scraping on the concrete up ahead.

As Pember climbed the steps to his front door, he found the corgi rolling around on his front porch in a pile of dust. It was grey and powdery.

Pember frowned, letting his eyes trail along the row of houses. He pulled out his house key, the toe of his boot hitting something solid as he stepped forward. Glancing down, he saw the source of the mess piled next to his recycling box.

A black metal container.

No, not a container. An urn. The urn that should have been on the corner of mum’s mantelpiece.

Pember jerked away, biting his tongue as he stumbled back.

“N-no,” he whimpered, covering his mouth. “No!”

George jumped up, causing the ashes, Imogen’s ashes, to spray up into the air in a dusty cloud. A gust of wind carried the ashes away, making them drift and swirl across his front garden.

“Oh my God!” he cried, dropping to his knees as he tried to scoop the ashes back into the urn.

Despair tore through him, cold and jagged. It ripped at his stomach, his chest, with every handful of Imogen’s ashes that slipped between his fingers.

The bottom of the urn was cracked open, something that shouldn’t have been possible given that it was made out of fucking metal.

“Oi! What’s all—” Val appeared in the doorway, voice cutting off abruptly when she saw Pember on the ground. “Lad?”

“Quick!” he cried, trying to catch the ashes as more and more blew away. “Quick! Get me something, a-anything that I can put this in!” Tears were streaming down his face and dripping into the ashes, turning them into a grainy paste. “Shit,” he cried, hands shaking. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Here!” Val said, appearing at his back. She was holding a purple biscuit tin and a dustpan and brush.

Pember nodded shakily and started brushing the ashes into the empty tin. He couldn’t save much, and he fell down against the door, letting out a long wail.

“Why!” he screamed with his head in his hands. “Why does she have to be so fucking horrible!”

“Who, lad? Who?” Val said, her face full of concern as she awkwardly leaned against the wall.

“My mum! My fucking mum! She’s… she’s the only one that could have done this. The ashes… My sister’s ashes… they were…” He was breathing hard as a wave of nausea crashed over him. “Oh, God,” he cried, leaning to the side and vomiting into his recycling box.

“Your mammy?” Val said, leaning down to pat his back. “Your mammy did this?”

“Yes!” Pember cried, spitting a glob of saliva onto the ground. “Ever since I left she’s been doing this shit. She can’t stand that I’ve gone. She couldn’t stand it when Immy left either. I thought… I thought maybe she’d calmed down. But now this!”

Val tutted and crumpled onto the wall. “Your mammy wouldn’t do this. She loves you. She has to love you.”

Pember scoffed, running his hands over his face. “I thought so too, once. But ever since Dad died it’s just been—” He let out a breath and fisted his hair. “It’s been a revolving door of hell.”

Val sighed and patted his shoulder. “I don’t like to see you like this, lad. I’ll connect the landline and you can call Blake.”

“N-no!” he cried, slowly getting to his feet. “No, Blake’s going through enough. I have to… This is something I have to do alone.”

Because if he couldn’t stand on his own two feet, what could he do?

How could he be an equal mate to Blake? How could he face a murderer if he couldn’t even face his own mum?

Dropping his gaze, he followed the powdery trail of rapidly dispersing ashes.

Something silver glinted behind the fence post.

Crawling forwards, he let out a sharp breath as he wrapped his fingers around a necklace that was tangled in the grass.

“Immy,” he sobbed, clutching it to his chest. He’d dropped it into the urn when his mum threw out all of her belongings. When the sympathy cards and the well-wishers had dried up she’d decided she didn’t need her things anymore.

But he did. He needed time to process her death. He needed to grieve. Every time he thought he was coming up for air, he found himself drowning in it instead.

His hands shook as he held the silver necklace, the small heart-shaped locket scuffed and scratched. Popping it open, his eyes filled with fresh tears when he saw a picture of himself as a baby on one side, and a photograph of his dad on the other. All willowy limbs and kind eyes.

A shaky smile spread across Pember’s lips. He hadn’t looked at a photograph of his dad in years, because every time he did it brought back memories of when they turned off his life support machine and his chest went still.

Carefully closing the locket, he slipped it over his head and let it hang in the middle of his chest. Wiping his nose, he clambered to his feet and dusted off his knees.

“Come on,” he said, gripping the necklace in the palm of his hand. “First, we eat mushroom soup. Then, we go to battle.”