This Extraordinary Thing.
Chapter 2
Grey overcast skies, grey buildings, grey walls, grey roads, and grey cars. Everything, in fact, was grey. Karen pulled down her sun-shield and popped the lid that hid the mirror underneath. From underneath a dishevelled tawny mass that she liked to pretend was a fashionable hairstyle, blue eyes stared back at her, pale with weariness. She sullenly eyed the nose she always thought made her look like a hawk and the bags under her eyes that made her look like an 80-year old. She was currently as grey as the rest of this sorry old city.
"God," she muttered. "I look older than Mum."
With an inarticulate mutter of frustration, she flung sun-shield back up to the ceiling and glared at the number plate of the car in front. Willing the damn thing to move so she could get out of this hellish gauntlet that was London's inner-city traffic, she concluded privately that Harry was right: only the insane used their cars in London.
The car in front started moving unexpectedly and she felt her mood lighten considerably as she escaped the lights and turned left into a new, and slightly faster flowing, road. At the far end of the street, she could see the next set of traffic lights looming.
"Stay green," she prayed as a bus pulling out from a bus stop momentarily froze the traffic on her side of the street. She was quickly back in gear again, and the lights ahead were still green. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!" she exulted, finally reaching the traffic lights, with them still green and the road she needed to turn down so free of traffic it was actually looking empty by comparison to the streets she had just suffered through. There was a God, after all.
"Shit!" She slammed on the brakes and jerked to a stop right on the stop line as the lights turned red. There was a God, alright - and He hated her guts. She glared into her rear-view mirror as the car behind beeped noisily at her, the driver gesticulating angrily at her. Stupid women drivers. She could see that thought flash across his features with the clarity of a neon advertisement sign.
"Male chauvinist pig," she growled back, despite the fact he couldn't hear a word she said. He must have realised she'd said something though, because a moment later he thrust his middle finger into the centre of his front window - just for her. "Prick," she added vindictively.
Mercifully, the lights changed swiftly, and she turned left again, noticing with some relief that the car behind was going straight on. At least she wouldn't have to put up with him tailgating her for the rest of the journey.
It was with a sigh that she parked behind the large, grey Landrover and turned off her engine, but even that was a short-lived relief. She checked the road carefully, opened her door and climbed out - only to be flattened back against the side of her car by the van that appeared out of nowhere, careering down the road at speeds that were, she was convinced, faster than the speed of sound.
"Jesus Christ! The whole world is out to get me!" She slammed the door closed with much more force than was necessary and opened the boot, pulling out bags of shopping. After making sure the car was locked up - after her day, she was certain the damn thing would be stolen right from under her nose - she staggered onto the pavement. From there, it was a short journey up the steps to the plain, but inviting, white front door to dump the shopping and ring the small golden bell.
The man that answered the door was looking dishevelled - his hair in disarray from long hours of worrying with nervous hands and the old tracksuit he was wearing accentuating the grungy impression of him. His blue eyes looked bleary and for a moment she wasn't certain if she had interrupted him from sleep or from crying.
"Karen," he said in relief. "Come in, come in."
"Daniel," she replied warmly, momentarily forgetting her car journey from hell. She bent to pick up the shopping and stagger in with it but he stopped her with a sharp exclamation.
"Fuck, Karen, you haven't bought out the entire city, have you?" He demanded, heading into the kitchen with half the bags. Behind her the door slammed as she kicked it shut and hustled the rest of the bags through after him.
"No, just most of it," she replied, heaving them onto the table and beginning to unpack.
He pawed curiously through the bags to see what she had bought. "Christ, you look like you're setting me up to survive a famine!"
"Who knows what this new Government will do to the price of perishables," she grinned, hauling the huge bottles of milk to the fridge.
"Voted for the other guy, did you?" Daniel began putting away boxes as his oldest friend quickly took control of the refrigerator.
"Absolutely," she declared. "You think I'd trust a man I wouldn't let baby-sit my own kids to run the country?"
She had her back to him, but Daniel knew she was grinning and he smiled too. "Really? I thought your brother was the one who refused to baby-sit the kids."
"No, just Bernard. Not that I can blame him for that. Do you know what my dutiful son said to me the other the other day? He said that Bart Simpson's an amateur! Makes you wonder what he gets up to when my back's turned, doesn't it?" She paused, considering that. "Actually, let's not - that would keep me awake with nightmares for months."
Daniel chuckled softly. "You voted for him, didn't you?"
She turned around to shake the empty shopping bag at him indignantly. "Daniel, if you ever tell him that I will skewer you with my favourite kebab fork."
He raised his hands submissively, not bothering the hide the grin. "My lips are sealed," he promised. He wasn't lying either. Years of friendship with Karen had taught him a very valuable lesson in survival - never, ever get involved in sibling rivalry. Especially not when the siblings were a women who was frighteningly adept at wielding kitchen utensils in ways they were never designed to be used and a man who had just been elected Prime Minister.
"They better be," she grumbled, looking around to identify more bags to unpack.
Seeing this, Daniel made a shooing motion with his hands. "Come on, get your fat arse out of here and let me deal with this."
"Where's Sam?"
"In his room," Daniel said shortly, his humour fading immediately. "Good luck trying to get anything out of him."
She eyed him for a moment. "I'll go and say hi to him then, since you're so determined to kick me out of the kitchen."
"Jesus, can't chain a woman to the sink, can't tell her to take a break. Karen, just piss off, will you?"
She grinned. "Pissing off all the way up the stairs!" She hurried out before he could chase her out and headed up to the first floor.
She hadn't seen much of Sam since his mother had died and she was worried he'd be missing a maternal figure in his life. Although she didn't want him to believe she was trying to replace his mother, she was hoping he'd understand she was there if he needed a woman to turn to.
She stopped at Sam's door and eyed the message that was right at her eye level: "GO AWAY!"
Capital letters and multiple exclamation marks was not a good sign. Cautiously, she placed her head against the door, and listened for a moment. There were few sounds coming from his room, except for an odd comment she could barely make out - something about the reasons why psychopaths killed people. She frowned slightly and tapped the door.
"Daniel! I said get lost!" was the irritated yell from the room.
"Sam? It's Karen."
There was a thump from the room and then sudden silence. Karen shifted uneasily as she waited, not sure what was going on in there. She was just about to knock the door and call again, when it opened slightly and a rather dishevelled looking boy peeked out at her inquiringly.
His eyes looked as bleary as Daniel's did.
She gave him a little wave. "Just did some shopping for Daniel and decided to pop up. Say hi..."
"Hi," Sam said bluntly and disappeared back into his room.
She stared at the closed door for a few moments. "...see how you were doing, check if you wanted anything," she muttered to herself. "Nothing important." She sighed and headed back down the stairs again.
"Any luck?" Daniel asked as she walked back into the kitchen. He had just finished putting away all the shopping and was switching on the kettle.
"He said hi," Karen tried to sound optimistic.
"Then slammed the door in your face, right?" Daniel said sourly. "He's been doing that a lot. I'll talk to him later about it."
Karen winced and shook her head. "Daniel, don't. It's fine, really. His mother died yesterday - it's not the end of the world if he wants to sit in his room and cry for a while."
"Yeah, I guess so." Daniel turned around to hunt for some mugs. "He hasn't said anything, you know - about his mother." He pulled out milk and then sugar, too agitated to remember Karen had vowed to give up sugar in her tea and coffee. "He didn't say anything all yesterday. Didn't see him all night. He didn't come down until gone midday, I couldn't get him up for breakfast and he's barely eaten any lunch." He dropped two teabags into each mug instead of just one, but didn't notice and then suddenly turned on Karen. "Do you think I should force him to sit down and talk to me about it?"
Karen hesitated for a moment, not sure what the right answer was, or even if there was an answer at all. He was gazing at her with an honest desperation in those clear blue eyes as if she could cure all the world's ills - which was ironic in a truly horrible way. If she had that power, the operation and chemotherapy would have worked the first time around; Joanna's cancer wouldn't have reappeared; and she wouldn't have had such a slow, lingering and painful death.
They had known for a long time that she was going to die. Over a year ago, the doctors had given her three weeks to live. They had said there was nothing more they could do, the cancer was back and more aggressive than ever. The worst news, however, had been the knowledge that her body was fighting the chemotherapy. It had worked so well the first time around.. or so they had thought. This time, it wasn't even making a dent. The doctors had prescribed her medication for the pain, sent her home and implied she should make a serious effort to put her affairs in order.
With Daniel in complete denial, utterly refusing to accept the grim prognosis, the first decision Joanna had made was to live long enough to see her son's 10th birthday, six weeks into the future and double the projection the doctors had given her. She made it with flying colours and that seemed to have bolstered both her confidence and determination to fight the disease - and when, against all the odds, she made it to Sam's 11th birthday, Daniel had dared hope she might actually be winning.
It had all proven to have been a terrible lie. Joanna had spent the year tying up her affairs; giving closure to old friends and family; and ensuring the funeral details were all planned down to the last dotted 'i' and crossed 't'. She had updated her will; argued with social services about Daniel's right to remain primary caregiver of Sam instead of it reverting back to his maternal grandparents - his only living blood relatives; and made arrangements over which comprehensive school Sam would attend in the future. She had made it through Sam's 11th birthday, got him off to a flying start in his final junior school year, and then deteriorated almost overnight. It was as if she had held herself together just long enough to ensure Daniel and Sam's futures, then given up the ghost.
And now Daniel was in denial all over again.
He knew his wife was dead. It was an unavoidable fact that refused to get out of his face. He had called Sam out of school on Friday to get him to the hospital before it was too late; and together they had sat beside her bedside, vainly hoping she'd find a new strength, or wake one last time to say goodbye.
She had done neither of those things. After collapsing unconscious at home, she had never regained consciousness to know that she had made it to hospital, or died surrounded by her husband, son and parents.
Daniel had signed the coroner's certificate. He'd even run it straight over to the Registrar's Office on the way home from the hospital. Unable to bear the comfortable seats or quietly dignified decor of the waiting rooms he sat impatiently in the car park with a painfully silent Sam for nearly an hour waiting for an official response. The Registrar had been suitably apologetic about the delay, given him yet more paperwork he needed to fill out for both the Department of Work and Pensions and the funeral director of the service Joanna had planned, and wished him well.
Bereft of a civil answer, Daniel hadn't responded at all, and driven home as silently as Sam.
The following morning had seen him running more errands to resolve paperwork and a return home to find social services camped on his doorstep. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the way the bureaucratic circus managed to crawl out of the woodwork, he had allowed them to give him even more forms to fill out regarding Sam's status as his legal ward and gruffly pointed out his wife had addressed all this while she had been alive. With painted smiles and marionette nods, the goons had pointed out where he needed to sign and what he needed to read and then left, satisfied with another day's work completed and another reason to celebrate their salary down at the pub over the weekend.
Now Daniel was just tired. His wife had been officially dead for almost 24 hours and he already felt like he didn't any emotions left to express.
And he hadn't even begun to address what Sam must have been going through.
"Do you want to force him to sit down and talk about it?" Karen asked bluntly.
"Fuck no," Daniel sighed in exasperation.
"Then quit fussing like an old hen and starting acting like a host - that kettle's boiled."
"You're a fucking bully, Karen, you know that?" he smiled faintly, nevertheless. Karen had a sixth sense for knowing when he needed to be kicked or comforted. She was the closest thing he'd ever had to a sister - although he seemed to appreciate her attitude a lot more than her real brother did.
"I made the Prime Minister the man he is today," she retorted, looking completely straight-faced.
"What - a spineless, wet-behind-the-ears, woman-fearing eunuch?"
She laughed but her amusement died quickly as a moment later he began swearing hard enough to make a sailor blush. "What?" she asked quickly.
"Fuck! I knew I'd forgotten something!" the mugs clattered onto the table in front of her, although fortunately without spilling their contents everywhere, as Daniel began to cast about frantically for the phone.
"What?"
"The funeral!" he found the phone and hurried back to her.
"Next Thursday, I know. Stop panicking, Daniel. It's all sorted and everyone knows."
"Everyone except David!"
"David doesn't know!" She stared at him.
"Fuck!" He flicked through his address book. "I don't have his new fucking number."
"Here," she grabbed her handbag and began to dig through it. "God, where the hell did I put my address book?"
As Daniel juggled the phone impatiently in his hands, she gave up and upended the bag onto the kitchen table: purse; phone; painkillers; crumpled receipts; notepads; pens; pencils; sunglasses. A London street map; a crime novel by some author he didn't recognise - no, make that two novels. Loose keyrings without any keys attached; her actual keys; feminine products he didn't want to investigate too closely; perfume; deodorant; wet-wipes; travel soap; and, for some reason, a small toy.
The toy squeaked in protest as it landed on the table.
He stared at the amount of objects that flooded onto the work surface in disbelief. "Christ, woman, is that thing a bottomless pit? You could fill Loch Ness with all that!" He picked up the sunglasses, wondering what on earth she was carrying them around for in November, then he looked at the two novels. "'Wrecked on the High C' and 'Midnight Oil'" he mumbled aloud to himself. "Both by James R. Bennett. Never heard of him. What's he like?"
"Haven't read them." Still digging through the pile, Karen didn't look up. "He's a friend of Sarah's, she dumped them on me to read."
"Humanitarians, teachers, novelists, charity workers, architects, Prime Ministers... is there anyone in London you don't know?"
"I haven't met the Queen," she responded absently. "Found it!" She held up her address book triumphantly, then began to dig through it quickly for David's number, before handing it across to him.
He grabbed it off her and quickly dialled the number. Not entirely sure what to expect, he was answered promptly by the calm, professional voice of a mature woman.
"Hello, this is the Prime Minister's office. My name is Mary, how may I help you?"
"Thank fuck he's still got you as his secretary!" Daniel burst out in relief, flicking on the speakerphone so Karen could hear as well. "Mary, it's Daniel. I need to talk to David ASAP. It's about the funeral."
There was a pause before Mary finally responded, her voice just a shade uncertain. "He's not in the office right now. If you're willing to hold I'll see if I can track him down for you."
"Thanks Mary," Daniel said gratefully. The phone went silent, obviously Mary had muted it at her end. He looked at Karen who was diligently packing away the mess she had made into her abyssal handbag. Daniel paced impatiently as Mary took her time returning to the phone, and watched Karen bravely drink her too-sweet tea. "How fucking hard can it be to find the bloody Prime Minister?" He growled after five minutes had passed.
"You know David - he's like a chameleon when he doesn't want to be found."
"You're right," he sighed. "I shouldn't be surprised."
He was beginning to think his phonecall had been completely forgotten when the phone finally buzzed back into life. Expecting Mary's voice, he was almost weak-kneed with relief to discover it was actually David after all.
"Hey, Daniel, what's up?"
"What on earth took you so long?" Karen interrupted.
"Karen?" There was a pause. "I'm on speakerphone. Great." There was a faint sigh. "Sorry about that, Westminster's a huge place to try and track people down in."
"You're at Westminster?" Karen shot Daniel a baffled look. "Aren't you supposed to be in Downing Street by now?"
"What can I do for you?" The change of subject was abrupt enough to make even Karen blink.
"Funeral details." Daniel took control of the conversation, his voice remaining as businesslike as possible. "Next Thursday, 10am, St. Andrews in Wandsworth. Can you make it?"
"Of course I can," the response was immediate. "How are you and Sam holding up?"
"I'm fine," Daniel said shortly. "Sam's... not really talking about it yet."
There was a sudden whispered conversation on the other end of the phone that the pair couldn't quite discern. Then David gave a faint exasperated sigh. "Daniel, are you going to be able to deal with extra bureaucracy securing the premises for my pres---" He trailed off mid-sentence and the phone went silent.
"He doesn't normally do that, does he?" Daniel muttered to Karen. She shook her head, eyes wide but David responded before she could speak, his voice strained.
"Did you say Thursday? As in the 20th?"
"Yes, 10am." Daniel could feel a cold knot of apprehension tying itself in his gut. His old friend's tone didn't sound good. The question didn't sound good.
"That's the date of the State Opening of Parliament," David said very softly.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
David didn't answer immediately. He obviously wasn't joking, and it brought the conversation to a crashing halt for one simple reason: neither a funeral nor a State Opening of Parliament could be easily rearranged - especially not for just one man, no matter how pivotal that man might have been. Daniel didn't even want to consider the logistics involved in either one.
"This is an awful situation." David said at last.
Daniel sighed. "It's not your fault, David. Harry can't make it either - he's got a meeting with a fuckload of African ambassadors regarding some fair trade negotiations."
"If I could.."
"David, quit bellyaching!" Daniel ordered. He could see what was going to happen. It was annoying that two of his oldest friends couldn't be there but Joanna had planned for every contingency except two - Harry's business expanding its influence and trading contracts to three new African countries and David becoming Prime Minister. He knew David well, however, and was certain the man would suffer excessive guilt-trips for months to come if Daniel didn't nip it in the bud right now. "Joanna wouldn't want the country to grind to a halt just for her sake and you know it. Make sure you get her the biggest bunch of pink curcumas you can find and, since she voted for you, concentrate on fixing the mess the last Government made."
"Right." David's voice seemed strangely uncertain.
"You know what curcumas are, right?"
"I have bought flowers for women before, Daniel - thank you," David sounded both amused and indignant.
"You haven't had a girlfriend in four years, David. I'm amazed you remember the process at all." Daniel muttered.
"Thank you so much for reminding me how long it's been. I appreciate it," was the sarcastic response.
"Your fault, David. Half the country's madly in love with you, the other half fancy women. Pick someone and stop being so fucking fussy."
There was a distant knock followed by a soft feminine voice, barely audible in the background. "Prime Minister, the Home Secretary needs a word with you as soon as possible."
"Excellent timing, Annie," they heard the Prime Minister mutter to her in relief.
"Yeah, yeah, fuck off and ignore the real people like you sleazy politicians always do after elections," Daniel told him.
"Daniel, I am very sorry I can't make it but I can promise you the curcumas."
"Keep that promise and we'll call it quits. Go. Have fun."
"Right," was the slightly disbelieving response. "Karen, I'll talk to you soon."
"No you won't," Karen muttered absently as her brother hung up. She looked at Daniel as he sat down next to her.
"Fuck," he muttered in despair and buried his head in his hands.
Karen smiled sympathetically and rubbed his shaking shoulders but she didn't say anything: it was the first time since Joanna's death that he had cried.