Requiem Mass by Elizabeth Corley Page A

fought a growing sense of panic as his son’s nonsense words continued.
    ‘Where do you keep these clouds, Chris? What does Nanny think of them?’
    ‘She can’t see them. Not sure you could either. They’re my clouds. Bess can.’
    ‘What colour are the clouds? Are they pretty, like at sunset?’ Fenwick just wanted to keep his son there on the line.
    ‘They’re my clouds. If I don’t look after them they’ll go.’
    ‘Look after them? What do you have to do?’
    ‘They’re always changing shape and splitting into bits. If I don’t know how many there are, I’ll lose them.’
    The stone in Fenwick’s throat was threatening to choke him again but he talked on in a desperate attempt to move his son’s conversation on to firm ground. It was no good. He heard the receiver being replaced on the table and the sound of Chris’s retreating steps. The phone was off the hook and, unless his mother returned to the room, there was no use shouting down it. For a few moments he fought a strong impulse to ignore the papers on his desk. In the end, he compromised and decided to work on the complaints at home. He bundled the files into his briefcase and left.

     * * *
    Two hours later he was sitting in the lounge, more relaxed and enjoying a blazing log fire. He had seen the children off to bed with long cuddles, eaten an excellent supper and was relaxing with a stiff whisky and warm water, ready to tackle the two complaints. The name on the first file seemed familiar – Derek Fearnside from Harlden – but the case had arisen back in April whilst he had been on leave so he couldn’t think why it should mean anything. Then he remembered. Bob Fearnside had been one of his best friends at school and he’d had a brother called Derek. In a small town, it was highly likely that it was the same family.
    Fenwick flipped open the file. A pool of light from the desk lamp flowed over a 6 × 8 inch colour photograph clipped to the cover. A happy family group had been captured for ever in a microsecond’s exposure. His eye was drawn automatically to the woman, who appeared to be the focus of the picture.
    Blonde, stunningly pretty, blue eyes alive and gazing through the shutter of the camera to hold the attention of the observer. Her intensity and beauty were, literally, captivating and for a moment Fenwick allowed himself the pleasure of simply looking at her.
    He wondered who the photographer had been. Her look was intimate and confiding – the cameraman must have felt it, and enjoyed her attention. He found himself drawn into the photo, invited to share the intimacy of the little group. He guessed, with an uncanny insight, that she had been on intimate terms with the unknown photographer and that the poor man would never forget her. Was it her husband? If so, who was the man with her in the picture?
    The woman was holding a small child in her arm, balancing its weight on a forward thrust of hip, protecting the neck and head within a sheltering elbow. The child was about twelve months old, sexless, asleep. Another, older, child clung to her leg and skirt. The woman’s left hand rested gently on his head. He could see the way her fingers were entwined in his auburn hair, caught in a moment of stroking reassurance. The youngboy’s eyes were soft and distant, unaware of the photographer. He was relishing one of those unremarked but fundamental moments of childhood when a mother’s body heat, smell and solid physical presence, provide a bubble of absolute safety and contentment.
    The three of them, mother, child and baby, formed a tight trinity at the heart of the picture. So strong was their image that he almost overlooked the man to one side. He was distant from the group, a silent witness to it, like a shepherd at the cradle. He was avoiding the camera. Fenwick felt profoundly sorry for him.
    Looking closer, he recognised the man’s face. It was the Derek Fearnside he had known. The picture opened an old memory. He had