to do it here, in the kitchen. Her eyes began to cast about for potential weapons: the knives on their magnetic rack, the saucepans hanging from their ornate hooks above the kitchen island . . .
Behind her, the coffee pot was bubbling. The plate had started to overheat a week ago. She’d meant to have it fixed or replaced when it began to act up, but she hadn’t managed to get around to it. Instead, she’d simply started using instant for herself, afraid that the glass on the pot might crack if she didn’t keep an eye on it.
‘We are the only hope of immortality,’ said Darina. ‘Watch, and I’ll prove it to you.’
But Barbara had no intention of watching anything. The car keys were on the table in the hall. If she could make it to her car, she’d find her way to safety. She had already reached out to those who might be in a position to help her. They could hide her, shelter her. They might even be able to find a place for her to rest, a bed in which to die in peace as the disease had its way with her.
Sanctuary: that was the word. She would seek sanctuary.
Darina sensed the threat as Barbara rose, although she could not pinpoint its source. She simply knew that the cornered prey was about to strike back. She moved quickly, but not as fast as her intended victim.
Barbara grabbed the coffee pot and threw its contents into the woman’s face.
8
A chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ rang out from the direction of the Fulcis’ table. I went over to join in with it, and we sang around a candlelit heap of cupcakes while the Fulcis smiled proudly at their mother, and Mrs Fulci beamed with love for all, and Dave Evans somehow found the strength to sing a couple of words while praying that no stray almonds had found their way into the cupcake mix. The candles were blown out, cupcakes were passsed around, and Mrs Fulci didn’t die. Jackie Garner prepared to leave, and took two cupcakes with him, one for his girlfriend and one for his mother. I made a mental note to ask him more about his mother’s health when the opportunity presented itself, then returned to the booth at the back where Marielle Vetters and Ernie Scollay were exchanging words. It looked like Marielle was trying to convince Ernie that they’d done the right thing by talking to me, and Ernie was reluctantly agreeing.
‘So: that’s our story,’ said Marielle Vetters. ‘What do you think?
‘You want something stronger than coffee now?’ I asked. ‘Because I do.’
Ernie Scollay consented to a small whisky, and Marielle accepted a glass of Cab Sauv. I had the same, although I barely sipped it. I just liked having it in my hand. There was also the fact that Ernie hadn’t relaxed for a single moment since he’d entered the bar. He may not have been much of a drinker, by his own admission, but now that the story was told he clearly felt that he’d earned a glass for his efforts. Some of the tension went out of his body with the first sip. He leaned back in the booth and tuned out of the conversation, his thoughts elsewhere, perhaps with his dead brother, standing beside Paul’s closed casket.
‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Marielle. ‘We felt that we had to tell you what happened: both of my parents mentioned you before their deaths.’
‘Why didn’t he come to me himself after his wife spoke of me?’ I said.
‘He told me that he didn’t think it would do any good, and Paul Scollay counseled him against it too. They were always frightened about the money. They were afraid that, if they came to you, then you’d report them to the police. But you were supposed to hear about what my father did, which was why he waited until the law could do nothing to him before he spoke to me of you. As for me, I guess I wanted you to advise us. We were afraid that man Brightwell might come back, but if what you say is true there’s no chance of that.’
My hand tightened involuntarily on my wine glass. Marielle was wrong. I had been warned not to kill Brightwell: he was supposed to be taken alive because there were those who believed that the entity that animated him, the dark spirit that kept his