Widows

Dolly stared at the package. Eddie shifted his weight and moved closer.

‘I think it’s the keys to his lock-up,’ he said.

Dolly slipped the packet into her handbag and followed Eddie outside. She couldn’t believe she was about to bury Harry. All she wanted to do was lie down and die. Her little dog was all that kept her alive now.

The neighbors were out on their driveways and, as Dolly walked down her front garden path, she could feel everyone watching her. Car after car was lined up, waiting patiently to follow the hearse, which was weighed down with wreaths and bunches of flowers. Dolly had never seen so many hearts and crosses, the splashes of color standing out in contrast to the line of black cars.

Eddie ushered Dolly into the back of a black Mercedes-Benz with dark tinted windows. As she bent her head to step into the car she saw her mother-in-law in the Rolls-Royce behind. Iris mouthed the word: ‘bitch.’ Dolly ignored her, just as she had done throughout most of her married life.

Once she had settled herself, Dolly gave the nod for Eddie to follow the slow-moving hearse. Through the driver’s mirror, he saw the trickle of tears start to run down her ashen face. She made no effort to wipe them away as she spoke in a tight voice.

‘I hope you told them I’m doing nothing back at the house after the funeral... nothing. The sooner this is over the better.’

‘Yeah, I did,’ Eddie replied cautiously ‘But I think Iris is havin’ a few folks back at her flat. She asked me to go and said she’s paid for everythin’.’ Dolly closed her eyes and shook her head. Iris hadn’t been financially self-sufficient since retiring so ‘paying for everything’ actually meant that Harry was paying. Or, more accurately now, Dolly.

Harry Rawlins was buried in the style his mother wanted, with hundreds gathered at the cemetery, and even more flowers surrounding the graveside. Throughout the ceremony, Dolly remained solitary and unmoved. She was the first to leave the graveside and the nosy, intrusive crowd of mourners raised their bowed heads to watch her go.

Among the mourners was Arnie Fisher, in his navy cashmere coat, immaculately tailored suit and shirt. As soon as Dolly’s car moved off he nodded to a huge bear of a man standing at the back of the crowd. Boxer Davis pushed his way forward. Boxer’s suit, in comparison, was shoddy and threadbare and even his shirt was grimy and stained. His big stupid face appeared moved by the ceremony, and he wiped his flattened nose — dripping from the cold — with the back of his hand. Arnie Fisher flicked a look at Dolly’s slowly retreating Mercedes and nodded for Boxer to follow. Boxer shuffled, slightly embarrassed.

‘Don’t you think I should wait a few days, boss? I mean, she only just buried him.’

Arnie stared at Boxer for a couple of seconds, jerked his head toward the Merc again, and turned away. Conversation over.

Standing a few feet away from Arnie was his younger brother, Tony, who towered above everyone, making even Boxer look small by comparison. The cold sun glinted off the diamond in his right ear as he fingered it while he chatted to some friends. He came to the end of some joke he was obviously telling and they roared with laughter. Unlike his brother, Tony was a handsome man; in fact, the only similarity between them was their steely blue ice-cold eyes. Arnie was short-sighted so he wore rimless glasses — but there was something about those unfeeling, unemotional eyes they both shared. Boxer looked from Tony back to Arnie and obediently made his way through the dispersing mourners to follow Dolly back to the huge, empty home where she and Harry had been so happy for so long.

A short distance from the main crowd, Detective Sergeant Fuller leaned against a tombstone, making a mental note of everyone there. My God, he thought, it’s like looking at the mug shots down the Yard. All the villains were there — the old timers and the new blood. A diligent young officer out to impress the powers that be, Fuller was pissed off to have been sent on what he considered a fool’s errand. His boss, Detective Inspector George Resnick, had been obsessed with catching Harry Rawlins for longer than Fuller had been alive. ‘There’ll be something, Fuller,’ Resnick had barked to Fuller and Detective Constable Andrews that morning. ‘Every criminal in London will be in that graveyard today, either to pay their respects or to make certain Rawlins doesn’t come back from the dead. So, there’ll be something. And I want to know what.’