“N-no,” he whimpered, covering his mouth. “No!”
George jumped up, causing the ashes,Imogen’sashes, to spray up into the air in a dusty cloud. A gust of wind carried the ashes away, making them drift and swirl across his front garden.
“Oh my God!” he cried, dropping to his knees as he tried to scoop the ashes back into the urn.
Despair tore through him, cold and jagged. It ripped at his stomach, his chest, with every handful of Imogen’s ashes that slipped between his fingers.
The bottom of the urn was cracked open, something that shouldn’t have been possible given that it was made out of fuckingmetal.
“Oi! What’s all—” Val appeared in the doorway, voice cutting off abruptly when she saw Pember on the ground. “Lad?”
“Quick!” he cried, trying to catch the ashes as more and more blew away. “Quick! Get me something, a-anything that I can put this in!” Tears were streaming down his face and dripping into the ashes, turning them into a grainy paste. “Shit,” he cried, hands shaking. “Shit, shit, shit!”
“Here!” Val said, appearing at his back. She was holding a purple biscuit tin and a dustpan and brush.
Pember nodded shakily and started brushing the ashes into the empty tin. He couldn’t save much, and he fell down against the door, letting out a long wail.
“Why!” he screamed with his head in his hands. “Why does she have to be so fucking horrible!”
“Who, lad? Who?” Val said, her face full of concern as she awkwardly leaned against the wall.
“My mum! My fucking mum! She’s… she’s theonlyone that could have done this. The ashes… My sister’s ashes… they were…” He was breathing hard as a wave of nausea crashed over him. “Oh, God,” he cried, leaning to the side and vomiting into his recycling box.
“Your mammy?” Val said, leaning down to pat his back. “Your mammy did this?”
“Yes!” Pember cried, spitting a glob of saliva onto the ground. “Ever since I left she’s been doing this shit. She can’t standthat I’ve gone. She couldn’t stand it when Immy left either. I thought… I thought maybe she’d calmed down. But now this!”
Val tutted and crumpled onto the wall. “Your mammy wouldn’t do this. She loves you. Shehasto love you.”
Pember scoffed, running his hands over his face. “I thought so too, once. But ever since Dad died it’s just been—” He let out a breath and fisted his hair. “It’s been a revolving door of hell.”
Val sighed and patted his shoulder. “I don’t like to see you like this, lad. I’ll connect the landline and you can call Blake.”
“N-no!” he cried, slowly getting to his feet. “No, Blake’s going through enough. I have to… This is something I have to do alone.”
Because if he couldn’t stand on his own two feet, what could he do? How could he be an equal mate to Blake? How could he face a murderer if he couldn’t even face his own mum? Dropping his gaze, he followed the powdery trail of rapidly dispersing ashes. Something silver glinted behind the fence post.
Crawling forwards, he let out a sharp breath as he wrapped his fingers around a necklace that was tangled in the grass.
“Immy,” he sobbed, clutching it to his chest. He’d dropped it into the urn when his mum threw out all of her belongings. When the sympathy cards and the well-wishers had dried up she’d decided she didn’t need her things anymore.
Buthedid. He needed time to process her death. Heneededto grieve. Every time he thought he was coming up for air, he found himself drowning in it instead.
His hands shook as he held the silver necklace, the small heart-shaped locket scuffed and scratched. Popping it open, his eyes filled with fresh tears when he saw a picture of himself as a baby on one side, and a photograph of his dad on the other. All willowy limbs and kind eyes.
A shaky smile spread across Pember’s lips. He hadn’t looked at a photograph of his dad in years, because every time he did itbrought back memories of when they turned off his life support machine and his chest went still.
Carefully closing the locket, he slipped it over his head and let it hang in the middle of his chest. Wiping his nose, he clambered to his feet and dusted off his knees.
“Come on,” he said, gripping the necklace in the palm of his hand. “First, we eat mushroom soup. Then, we go to battle.”
CHAPTER 32
CUTTING THE CORD
Pember
The afternoon slippedinto evening as Pember stood on the perimeter of his childhood home. He swallowed, placed a hand on the garden wall and just stared at his mother.
