“Are they okay?” I asked when neither officer spoke, my chest heaving.
“Ash.” Beth stopped bustling round the kitchen and stood in front of me. “I’m… We’re very sorry. They didn’t survive the crash.”
I stared down at her, only vaguely aware of her clasping my hands in hers. Her eyes were blue, and bloodshot, like she hadn’t been on shift long, or maybe she’d been on it longer than she should have been. There were freckles across her nose. She looked young. Her eyes were still kind as she stared up at me.
“Crash,” I echoed, my voice hoarse and weak.
“It looks like they veered off the road and collided with a tree.” Grant’s voice was grim, and Beth’s eyes flashed with annoyance at his blunt tone before she schooled her features.
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Ash.” She squeezed my hands. “I’m here if you need to talk or have questions. I understand you’ll be in shock. We’ll stay as long as you need.”
I stared down at her, my eyes too wide. She hurriedly tried to steady me as I dropped back into the chair, vacant eyes fixing on the radio holstered at the front of her left shoulder.
“This is a terrible shock,” Beth was saying, kneeling in front of me. She gripped my hands again and peered up at me. “Is there someone you can call to come over? Is your mum still around?”
“No.”
I didn’t add that she never had been. Until he’d married Mags when I was six, it had just been me and my dad. Always.
He was gone.
My eyes filled abruptly, a hoarse sound leaving my throat. And then I broke down entirely. A gut-wrenching sob tore from my chest, and Beth quickly made a sympathetic noise and pulled me into her arms.
Constable Grant watched in silence as I wept on the shoulder of a complete stranger, the hard plastic of her police radio pressing into my forehead.
The funeral was a little over a week later.
I barely remembered it. I barely even remembered arranging it, because most of it had fallen to me, with Mags’ sister Carol calling twice a day to make sure I was alright.
Some friends came to support me, but I couldn’t remember what I’d said to them. I remembered cracking a hollow smile when one of them bought me a drink at the wake, but I hadn’t touched it.
They’d all texted or tried to call since, but I hadn’t answered any of them. I’d stopped answering Carol’s calls too. I couldn’t handle any of it.
I stayed in bed for a week after the funeral, getting up only when the stink of my own unwashed body forced me to shower and change the sheets. After that, I started sleeping during the day and sitting in the garden at night, not moving for hours, just staring into the darkness.
There was too much that I just couldn’t bring myself to deal with. Accounts in Dad’s name that I had to sort and close. The will and my inheritance, which I didn’t give a shit about. At least Carol was dealing with it all on Mags’ side. Part of me wanted to call her—despite ignoring her for days—and beg her to do all of Dad’s stuff too.
I didn’t feel old or mature enough to deal with this. A month ago I’d been stumbling home and collapsing into bed after a night out, waking up with an awful hangover and trying to soak up the lingering alcohol with a big, greasy breakfast with my friends.
Now my dad was dead. And Mags. The only mother I’d ever had, who’d only ever treated me like I was actually her son. She’d loved me as much as my dad had.
The air was still warm, but I had Mags’ favourite blanket wrapped around my shoulders as I sat in my usual chair in the garden, staring at the outline of the forest that loomed in the near distance. I curled my bare toes against the cold stone of the patio, barely noticing when I felt the tickle of some unseen insect crawling over my foot.
I felt empty. Like there was no point to anything. I’d started sitting out here a lot because I could hardly bring myself to interact with anything in the house. I kept my eyes down when I was anywhere inside except my room, so that I didn’t see Dad’s books stacked up in the old, cluttered dining room, or Mag’s half-finished embroidery of an autumn harvest that was still sitting on the coffee table.
I already knew I’d inherit the cottage. Was I going to become a hermit here, refusing to change a single thing so it remained a shrine to my parents? What was the alternative? Throwing their stuff away? I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.
I tipped my head back against the chair as my eyes filled with tears. It wouldn’t stop. The pain wasn’t fading. It wasn’t going away. Logically, I knew it was far too early to even consider the grief lessening, but I couldn’t take this anymore. It was too much. It filled every inch of me, making it hard to breathe. Hard to do anything at all except sit and stagnate.
I jumped out of my skin when a lowmrowsounded, and something soft brushed against my bare calf beneath my shorts. Blinking hard, I sat up and stared down at the black cat winding between my legs, nuzzling its head against my shins.
My voice was thick when I asked, “Where did you come from?”
Mags’ blanket slipped off my shoulders as I leaned down to scoop it up. Once on my lap, the cat froze for a moment, before it began to purr madly and butted its head against my chin. I sniffed, and the first real smile in weeks stretched my mouth, just a little.
Its little paws kneaded my chest as it rubbed its face against my neck, purring loudly into my ear. I smoothed a hand down its back, its tail curling up and shivering with pleasure.
I hadn’t thought any of the neighbours had a black cat, but maybe one of them had gotten this one while I’d been away at uni. It was clearly friendly, and its coat was silky smooth and soft, so it was obviously well cared for.