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Already Dead(102)

By:Stephen Booth


As so often happened when Ben called at Bridge End Farm, Matt himself was nowhere to be seen. He’d be lurking in the workshop or the machinery shed, or poking about in a blocked drain to divert that flow of water he could see streaming across the yard, scouring a winding track through the mud.

So he called to say hello to Kate and the girls first. Now that his nieces were growing up he didn’t see them quite so often, and he hardly recognised them sometimes. They changed so fast. Worse, they seemed to have no interests in common with him any more, but talked only about their friends and their complicated social lives, or about programmes on TV that he never watched. Yes, they were definitely growing up, or he was getting old. Or possibly both.

At least his sister-in-law hadn’t changed much. Kate was a rock, who’d held the family together on more than one occasion. As far as Ben was concerned, marrying her was the best thing his brother had ever done. It was amazing that he’d ever got round to it.

When he came into the kitchen, Kate looked round at him with an expression he recognised. Ben’s heart sank.

‘What’s the matter, Kate?’

‘This came,’ she said.

‘What?’

A parcel lay on the dresser. It was a substantial package, a large postal envelope enclosing a cardboard box. It was addressed to him, but at Bridge End Farm. He thought he knew why that should be the case.

Kate had been a big help after Liz’s death. She’d stepped in to sort out all those details of the wedding preparations that Ben had been unable to face. She’d picked up Liz’s lists, attached herself to a phone for hours on end, and dealt with everything. She’d cancelled the booking for the venue, the hotel room, the honeymoon flights, the wedding cars. She’d informed everyone who needed to know, accepting their condolences on his behalf, deflecting at least some of the unstoppable tide before it overwhelmed him.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘I think I must have missed something, Ben.’

‘It’s not your fault, Kate. You’ve been brilliant.’

‘Do you want me to open it?’

He hesitated. But time had passed since then. Surely he ought to be capable of a simple task like opening a package?

‘No, I’ll do it. Thanks.’

He tore open the outer paper, but within seconds he knew it was going to be bad. Inside the box, he could feel rectangular shapes, something heavy. When he got through the last of the packaging, he saw pristine white card, and silver lettering. Of all the things it might have been. His wedding invitations had arrived.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Kate, looking over his shoulder. ‘I couldn’t cancel them. They’d already been printed.’

‘We ordered them months ago.’

‘I asked them just to destroy them,’ she said. ‘Really I did. I have no idea why they just decided to send them anyway.’

Ben freed one of the invitation cards from the wrapping. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

‘It might be best …’ said Kate.

‘What?’

‘Well, perhaps best not to look at them, Ben.’

But it was too late. He’d spent so long over these cards with Liz anyway that they were imprinted on his memory. Colin and Linda Petty invite you to the wedding of their daughter, Elizabeth Anne.

He heard Matt come in from outside, clattering noisily in the doorway as he kicked off his boots and thumped down the passage to the bathroom. There was no mistaking his presence in the house. It was like a slow rumble of thunder threatening to break the heavy silence of a humid summer’s day.

‘You’ll be staying for dinner with us, Ben,’ said Kate, making it a statement rather than a question. ‘I know Matt wants to talk to you about something.’

In the dining room, Matt Cooper waited until Kate had taken the two girls out of the way. Then he took a deep breath. He reached down beside his armchair and laid a gun slip on the table in front of his brother. He put it down gently, almost reverently, like a priest placing an offering on the altar. Then he lowered his head and looked at his hands, as if surprised to find them empty. He turned them palms upwards and back again, absorbed in their appearance.

‘What’s this?’ asked Ben at last.

Matt still didn’t look at him. ‘It’s my Remington.’

‘Your Remington?’

‘Yes. The new one.’

Matt unfastened the straps and opened the slip. The shotgun lay between them, the stock gleaming. Ben could see that it had been cleaned, lubricated and polished. His brother always looked after his guns well, but this one had been the object of lavish attention quite recently. He could smell the cleaning solvent and the stock oil as soon as the slip was opened.