Hand for a Hand by Frank Muir Page A

that.”
    “I love you, Mo.”
    A pause, then, “Where are you?”
    “Looking out over the West Sands. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Cold. But beautiful. A lovely day for a walk along the beach. Care to join me?”
    Another chuckle. “Mum never said you were a romantic.”
    Something turned over in his stomach at that comment. He used to send flowers to Gail, leave silly little love notes on her bedside table or pinned to the fridge when he was out on a case. And it struck him that he could not recall when he had stopped doing that. And Gail, too. When had she changed? When was the exact moment she stopped loving him? And why did he still struggle with her not being in his life? Was it because she had taken Jack and Maureen with her? Or was jealousy still smothering his emotions? And as a dark shadow worked its way through his mind he wondered how much longer Gail had to live.
    “How’s Mum?” he asked.
    “I saw her last night.”
    Gilchrist stared off across the water of the Eden Estuary, not trusting his voice.
    “She’s not well,” Maureen said. “I mean, she’s, she’s desperately ill.…”
    “She’s not in any.…”
    “She’s on a morphine drip, Dad. It’s only a matter of time.”
    Only a matter of time . Dear Jesus. When he and Gail married he would never have predicted this was how it would end. He had imagined they would grow old together, walk the beach with their grandchildren together. Not like this. Bitter and apart.
    “Is there anything, I mean, can I do anything.…”
    “I don’t think so, Dad. I’m sorry.”
    He felt his head nod.
    “Have you heard from Jack?” Maureen asked.
    “He’s here at the moment. Staying at the cottage.”
    A pause, then, “Is it true about Chloe?”
    “It’s looking that way.”
    “Oh, God,” she whispered. “That’s awful.”
    It’s worse than awful , he almost said. Necrophilia ? Surely Mackie was wrong. “Did you know Chloe?” he asked.
    “Met her a few times.”
    “Recently?” he tried.
    “A couple of months back.”
    “Before Christmas?”
    “Yes.”
    “At Jack’s?”
    “In town. How’s Jack taking it?”
    “You know Jack. Doesn’t say much,” he said. “Keeps it to himself.” He felt a sudden need to change the subject. “Will you be seeing Mum again?”
    “I see Mum every day now. But with the drugs and stuff she’s mostly out of it.”
    He hated asking, but the words were out before he could stop himself. “Do you think she might … she might want to see me?”
    “Oh, Dad.”
    “Well then, if you can,” he said. “If you get a chance, Mo, will you tell her I love her?” Maureen’s silence only cut him deeper, made him feel the need to say more. “Will you tell her I’ve always loved her?”
    “Oh, Dad.”
    The words were whispered, and in her whisper he heard the echo of his own pain. He watched a pair of labradors splash into the sea and wondered why he had been against buying a puppy for Jack. “Listen, Mo,” he said, fighting to liven up. “Why don’t you come up to St. Andrews this weekend? I could maybe wangle an early night, take you out for an Indian—”
    “I’d love to, Dad. But I’ve got stuff to do. You know. With Mum. And work and stuff.”
    Her answer did not surprise him, but hearing her say she had work to do somehow settled his mind. “Sure, Mo. Love you.”
    “Love you, too, Dad.”
    He wanted to tell her his fears about the case. But how could he? He could be wrong, so wrong, and doing so would only frighten her. “Take care now,” he said.
    “Don’t I always?”
    “And call me.”
    “Sure.”
    “No. I mean it, Mo. Call me.”
    “Dad?”
    “More often, I mean. We should talk to each other more often.”
    “Okay, Dad. But I’ve got to go. Love you,” and hung up before he could respond.
    He held onto the phone, listened to the echo of her voice in his mind, and worried that he should have been more direct with her. He felt that familiar need to fight off the dark