arrived.
CUNT.
It was followed swiftly by a third.
SLAG.
And a forth.
CHEAP CUNT.
By the time the fifth one arrived, she was almost in tears.
24
North London
‘I realise it’s to be expected considering what I’ve been through,’ Mason said. ‘But that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with. I thought I was dying.’
As he sat in the kitchen with the phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, he looked at the letters before him, moving them slowly back and forth as if he was shuffling giant playing cards.
‘We’ve got an appointment at five this afternoon,’ the doctor’s receptionist told him.‘Can you come along then?’
‘Will the doctor give me something?’ Mason insisted.
‘I can’t say that, Mr Mason, you’ll have to discuss it with him,’ the receptionist went on.
‘I’m not coming to the surgery for nothing. I want some bloody tablets to help me. I want to know that he’ll give them to me.’
‘You could call your consultant at the hospital, I’m sure he’d give you a prescription. Especially if he recommended tranquillisers to begin with.’
Mason sucked in a deep breath.
‘I’m sure the doctor here will be able to help you,’ the receptionist continued.
‘All right, I’ll take that five o’clock appointment then,’ Mason sighed.
He hung up.
Again he shuffled through the mail he’d picked up. A couple of circulars. Junk mail. Bills. And a white envelope bearing a crest. Mason saw the postmark and opened it excitedly. His heart was thumping hard.
Perhaps it’s another panic attack.
He sipped at his tea, wincing when he found it was cold. He tutted irritably and continued to open the white envelope.
The paper was headed and the crest was there again, this time embossed with gold foil. A smile spread across Mason’s face and he read aloud.
‘Langley Hill, private boarding school,’ he said, running one index finger over the bas-relief of the words as if he were blind and reading Braille. ‘Dear Mr Mason, further to your letter.’ Mason allowed the words to trail away into the air and he continued reading to himself, his eyes flicking swiftly but intently over the words before him. By the time he reached the bottom of the page and the sweeping signature of the headmaster (a certain Mr Nigel Grant), there was a broad smile plastered right across his face.
‘We invite you to an interview at the school,’ he read again, finally standing up from the table. ‘We do hope that you will be able to attend.’ Mason punched the air triumphantly. ‘You’re fucking right I will,’ he said. He walked briskly from the kitchen to the bedroom, pulling open his wardrobe, inspecting the clothes that hung within. He ran his hand along the fabrics and nodded. His charcoal-grey suit. That should be perfect for the interview.
The one you wore for Chloe’s funeral.
Mason swallowed hard as the recollection hit him like a thunderbolt. He stood motionless before the wardrobe for a moment then slowly removed the suit and raised it before him on the hanger.
Nice suit. You haven’t worn it since, have you?
He brushed some fluff from the shoulder and slipped the jacket on, checking the fit.
Why bother? You haven’t put on any weight since she died. Perhaps you’ll look as smart as you did that day. That day they put your daughter in the ground.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror, angry with himself for allowing the memories to intrude so brutally.
Yes, after all, you’re supposed to be happy now, aren’t you? The last thing you want is thoughts of your dead daughter fucking up your day.
Mason pulled the jacket off and slid it back onto the hanger then he hooked the curved metal over the handle of the wardrobe and stood there looking at it.
I’m sure Chloe would have approved.
The tears that began to roll down his cheeks came more quickly and more plentifully than he would have thought possible. He sat down on the edge of
CUNT.
It was followed swiftly by a third.
SLAG.
And a forth.
CHEAP CUNT.
By the time the fifth one arrived, she was almost in tears.
24
North London
‘I realise it’s to be expected considering what I’ve been through,’ Mason said. ‘But that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with. I thought I was dying.’
As he sat in the kitchen with the phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, he looked at the letters before him, moving them slowly back and forth as if he was shuffling giant playing cards.
‘We’ve got an appointment at five this afternoon,’ the doctor’s receptionist told him.‘Can you come along then?’
‘Will the doctor give me something?’ Mason insisted.
‘I can’t say that, Mr Mason, you’ll have to discuss it with him,’ the receptionist went on.
‘I’m not coming to the surgery for nothing. I want some bloody tablets to help me. I want to know that he’ll give them to me.’
‘You could call your consultant at the hospital, I’m sure he’d give you a prescription. Especially if he recommended tranquillisers to begin with.’
Mason sucked in a deep breath.
‘I’m sure the doctor here will be able to help you,’ the receptionist continued.
‘All right, I’ll take that five o’clock appointment then,’ Mason sighed.
He hung up.
Again he shuffled through the mail he’d picked up. A couple of circulars. Junk mail. Bills. And a white envelope bearing a crest. Mason saw the postmark and opened it excitedly. His heart was thumping hard.
Perhaps it’s another panic attack.
He sipped at his tea, wincing when he found it was cold. He tutted irritably and continued to open the white envelope.
The paper was headed and the crest was there again, this time embossed with gold foil. A smile spread across Mason’s face and he read aloud.
‘Langley Hill, private boarding school,’ he said, running one index finger over the bas-relief of the words as if he were blind and reading Braille. ‘Dear Mr Mason, further to your letter.’ Mason allowed the words to trail away into the air and he continued reading to himself, his eyes flicking swiftly but intently over the words before him. By the time he reached the bottom of the page and the sweeping signature of the headmaster (a certain Mr Nigel Grant), there was a broad smile plastered right across his face.
‘We invite you to an interview at the school,’ he read again, finally standing up from the table. ‘We do hope that you will be able to attend.’ Mason punched the air triumphantly. ‘You’re fucking right I will,’ he said. He walked briskly from the kitchen to the bedroom, pulling open his wardrobe, inspecting the clothes that hung within. He ran his hand along the fabrics and nodded. His charcoal-grey suit. That should be perfect for the interview.
The one you wore for Chloe’s funeral.
Mason swallowed hard as the recollection hit him like a thunderbolt. He stood motionless before the wardrobe for a moment then slowly removed the suit and raised it before him on the hanger.
Nice suit. You haven’t worn it since, have you?
He brushed some fluff from the shoulder and slipped the jacket on, checking the fit.
Why bother? You haven’t put on any weight since she died. Perhaps you’ll look as smart as you did that day. That day they put your daughter in the ground.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror, angry with himself for allowing the memories to intrude so brutally.
Yes, after all, you’re supposed to be happy now, aren’t you? The last thing you want is thoughts of your dead daughter fucking up your day.
Mason pulled the jacket off and slid it back onto the hanger then he hooked the curved metal over the handle of the wardrobe and stood there looking at it.
I’m sure Chloe would have approved.
The tears that began to roll down his cheeks came more quickly and more plentifully than he would have thought possible. He sat down on the edge of
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