Requiem Mass by Elizabeth Corley

at the edges of his words. He knew what his mother would say next before the sentence was out of her mouth.
    ‘Bess’s not yet six years old, Andrew. It’s totally unfair to rely on her. We need expert advice and help. You’re being unfair to all of us with your pig-headedness, me included and Christopher most of all.’
    ‘Look, we can’t discuss this now. Take him to the doctor’s tomorrow and get his opinion by all means, then we’ll talk again.’
    He cleared his throat to recover his normal tone of authority. ‘I’ll have a word with Chris now, if I may.’
    ‘I’ll see if he’ll come to the phone. What time are you coming home, by the way?’
    ‘I’m not sure. Looking at this lot it could be an hour or so yet.’
    ‘Give me a call before you set off then and I’ll put your supper on to warm.’ The muffled clunk of the handset on the table announced her departure before he had a chance to say thank you. It was amazing the way she could always maintain the moral advantage. She really was an exasperating woman but he would not have been able to keep his children at home without her.
    Fenwick stared blankly at the half-screen opposite his desk.The dark brown material was curiously empty – devoid of the usual clutter of photographs, maps and notes associated with current cases. He had no open cases, he reflected ruefully. No cases, bugger all career. That was what extended compassionate leave did for you. He looked darkly at the pile of files on his desk.
    One of them might yet present a hope of rebuilding his reputation. As he waited on the line, he was tormented again by memories of the previous six months. How could he have missed the signs, first with Monique and now with Christopher? After all these weeks he still cursed his myopia over his wife’s steady decline. Perhaps if he had been more attentive, had been at home more often, he would have been alert and they would have been able to do something. He was a detective, for God’s sake; it was his job to detect, to spot clues, to create whole pictures from a jigsaw of evidence. And he had failed on his most important case – his wife’s health.
    The doctor and their friends had tried to comfort him, of course, when the prognosis had been confirmed. They said there was nothing more that could have been done, so little he could have achieved; she had covered it up so well. She’d had them all fooled for a while but she couldn’t cheat nature. Now it was too late and he was faced with a growing dilemma over his son. The sense of helplessness and inevitability threatened to overwhelm him again.
    He had vowed that he would never, ever again allow work to drive a wedge between him and his family, nor compromise his commitment to them. But he had only been back at work a day and was already faced with choices. As he listened to the empty static on the line he promised himself he wouldn’t let it happen again. If Christopher needed him then he had to be there.
    The silence at the end of the line thickened. With the unique sensitivity of a parent, he was aware that his son was suddenly there.
    ‘Hello, Chris, it’s Daddy. How are you then? How’s your head?’
    Silence.
    ‘I hear from Bess that you got a bit of a bump on it today.’
    Nothing. An aggressive silence echoed in his ear.
    ‘Well, the good news is that Nanny and I have agreed that you don’t have to go to school tomorrow. That’ll be fun, won’t it?’
    Incidental static tickled his ear, masquerading as a preparatory intake of breath.
    ‘Chris? Chris, look, I know you’re there. Talk to me, tell Daddy something – like what’ve you done today? Please?’
    ‘Clouds. Clouds and clouds and more clouds. I saw them today.’ The boy’s voice was distorted, strained, without character. Fenwick had to swallow down the hard lump in his throat.
    ‘I see. Were these nice clouds, Chris? Were they friendly?’
    ‘They’re my clouds, Daddy. I’ve brought them home with me.’
    Fenwick