Singled Out by Simon Brett Page A

trouble was that his last sentence was true. Through all his bitching, Rob was absolutely devoted to his mother, and though he joked about her advancing senility, it clearly terrified him. How he would react when the old woman finally died Laura did not dare contemplate.
    â€˜You going to spring a mother on me too, are you?’ Rob asked suddenly.
    â€˜No. No, my mother’s dead. Died when I was in my teens.’ Laura didn’t elaborate. Partly this was from instinctive caution, and partly because she did not want to stir up the confused emotions thoughts of her mother always prompted.
    There was a silence. Then Rob said dreamily, ‘Maybe you and I
should
get married.’
    It was an old joke between them. His sexual orientation and her desire to be single offered the occasional dream of a platonic cohabitation. ‘Two old women growing even older together,’ as Rob put it, ‘bitching about all the men we fucked, and every now and then having furious rows because we wanted to fuck the same one.’
    Laura would play along with the joke, but it was Rob’s fantasy, not hers. Much as she liked him, she valued her single state too highly to succumb to his possessive presence. Whereas for him the dream did offer an opportunity to stave off the terrible loneliness of the ageing queen.
    On this occasion Laura limited her response to an affectionate ‘Maybe’.
    Rob recognized it as a mild rebuff and looked hurt. He looked even more hurt when, shortly afterwards, Laura drained the last of her wine and said she must be going.
    The Friday was markedly colder, one of those face-tingling late October days which bring a sudden reminder of winter’s proximity. Kent drove them down from London to Southampton. They took the ferry to the Isle of Wight and went straight to the crematorium.
    They said little on the journey. Kent confirmed that he was still working on the Melanie Harris case, but gave no further information.
    Laura did not mind the silence. Their shared childhood had not involved many words, a factor which had perhaps strengthened the bond between them. Inside the family home words had been dangerous, words might have prompted painful reactions. And outside their home silence had been the rule, silence about anything that mattered, silence that maintained the myth of middle-class family normality. So being silent with Kent was familiar, even restful. And she felt that being with her gave him some kind of satisfaction which would have been spoiled by words. Words could only emphasize the differences between them, the divergence of their lifestyles and ambitions. Silence bonded.
    When they got out of the car at the crematorium, the icy wind slapped at their faces. It carried an invigorating tang of the sea. Laura felt energized. In spite of the appalling memories stirred by the occasion, she experienced an optimism, a sense of change and progress growing within her.
    There were few people at the service. The prison governor introduced himself to them and introduced them to a couple of prison visitors, whose rigid smiles bespoke their determination to make the best of the situation, as they had of many other situations. None of the other prisoners had requested permission to attend the service, but then it was unlikely that Richard Fisher would have made many friends during his incarceration.
    When the coffin was brought in – a moment Laura had been dreading – she found herself able to look at it dispassionately. The polished wood had become emblematic, anonymous. Whether or not it actually contained the remains of her father, sewn up again after the post-mortem, seemed unimportant. He was dead. He had no power to hurt any more. The shiny wooden box held no fears for her.
    The optimism within her grew to a positive glow of well-being. She had escaped the past. The future was hers.
    The officiating clergyman, snuffling with a slight cold, maintained the anonymity of the