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TWO;
MASSES OF BLACK

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Wren

Wren's grief ebbs like the tidal wave of people washing ashore at St.Peter's. And she finally feels the warm embrace of grief, that Chardonnay had previously numbed her to. When Earl had delivered the news, she had been staring at the liquid sloshing in her trembling hands. The word shot had wrung her body with the hairs on her nape standing in forfeit to fear. She had felt his metallic and unforgiving eyes drilling silently in her head, challenging his prey, waiting for her to make another mistake. So she gripped the glass ardently and took a sip of her Chardonnay. Doing nothing was better than his judgement to her almost every erroneous action.

But in retrospect, even that had been a mistake. Being a mother herself, she had mistaken in denying herself the overwhelming grief of another mother to annihilate her senses. And then another kind of judgement had rested in his pewter eyes. Cold, harsh judgement that cut against her head. She should've let a tear roll down. But no, she had gulped down the fear and shock, and instead lathered her lips, mouth and throat with the velvety tropical grape wine. 

"Aye right, that's a terrible thing to happen. Just awful, especially here."

It had come out as a whisper, as if voicing out such a terrible thing would be blasphemous on its own. A little boy shot in Marlborough. Elia Harte's son, a sweet woman with a sweet son. She had always come to each game, often bringing a cake she had baked on the respective days.

"Earl, isn't he Junior's teammate?"

She was answered back with a door closing softly. Then nothing. No tears. No fears. Just the pressing cold.

And now she continues to mull over why she decided not to embrace all the emotions now whirling inside her chest. The grief, fear and shock is warm, too warm, a burning building engulfing her inside out. And each tide of humans enveloping the grounds feels like a wave of flame wracking her.

Her skin feels clammy against the metallic cross resting against her breastbone. Sweat lines her palms as she stares at the sea of black dresses and sullen faces. She can feel the gloom settling heavily across the natives, a certain heaviness that wasn't seen in any mass after death, not even for dear old Sister Ursula's. This time, this death was bloodier, more lethal, it sang a song of murder. Of a little boy being robbed of life.

"I'll be leaving for London after Mass. Jared will be at your disposal."

The seatbelt clicks open and then his door opens, replacing the air with the cold outside. She nods all the while staring at St.Peter's primitive structure.

"Darling, let's go."

She doesn't look at him as she clicks open her seatbelt but she knows he's waiting by the door, hands folded in his slacks so people won't see his fidgeting fingers. But who would even care to look at them right now? Today is a day to honour the dead boy, but most of all, the grieving grey souls. Today the Jensen's will fade into the masses of black clothes and bleached faces.

She clicks open the seat belt and the door to her left closes softly, his every movement soft and faraway. Like whistling of leaves in winter.

As she stands out on the pavement, she waits for him to sidle against her. And he does. As she closes the door with her back to it, his arm slides against her waist and his body's warmth feels comforting in the aimless chilling winds of Autumn. Her grief burns her from the inside and his touch scorches her from the outside. She absolutely loves the burning sensation.

Despite the heavy gloom settled across the church's property, she feels her chest unfurl in a morning stretch with having him close, him to touch her, him to drown her in endearments, to be with the man she fell in love with long ago. She would've felt guilty, had it not been for her renewed love of façades and appearances that allowed her to be a wife to him. Instead, she gets a thrill out of it, a deep seeded satisfaction hidden behind hollow gaps, cold eyes and chipping walls.

"He was Junior's captain."

And with that she's pulled to walk along the pastoral grounds with her hand in between the crevices of his palms.

He still loves me, he does.

And with that singular narrative, she lets her husband walk her in the building overflowing with misery and an overshadowing tenebrosity.

_____

She swallows the last remnants of the sacramental bread, cleaning her mouth and hoping the taste of strawberries eaten in breakfast still strongly reside. She knows pinning her hopes for her husband to give her a thorough kiss, to get a chance to taste the strawberries coating her mouth are in vain. There will be no kisses. There never are anymore.

Her eyes flit through the ground and take in the mellow sounds of the citizens conversing in whispers, silent as not to anger death in a time like this. A time when a boy dies without blaming his body's betrayal to him.

"Wren! How are you darling? Where's Olivia?"

A smile stretches her lips upwards, and as she turns, she regards Ayesha Vogel in all her brown skin and dark grey dress glory, contrasting the pale skies in obsequiousness, drawing attention to her unwarranted beauty in a land of pale skins and ominous eyes. Wren knows that had she not been charmed by Ayesha's equally lovable and yet affront straightforwardly nature, they would've been the kind of women that would've been vouyers; revelling in each others naked misery any time. But Wren loves this woman like a great friend, knowing no secrets hid beneath such smiles and tender gazes.

"I didn't want to bring Olivia to a funeral, especially after Ursula's."

Ayesha smiles with a wicked gleam in her brown eyes and links her arms through the curve of Wren's elbow.

"I'm going to be honest, I love that girl of yours to death. Especially after her scene at Ursula's. I must say, that must've been the only time anyone ever laughed at something slightly related to that cow. Don't- Oh Bollocks!"

Wren keeps her feet grounded as she pulls the other woman, preventing a fall to the soiled ground.

"Are you alright?"

Wren keeps her firm hold and thanks Jesus for the fact that no one had paid heed to the uncharacteristic almost-fall of her friend.

"I'm fine! I'm fine! Didn't see the bloody rock. Although I must admit, I'm slightly tipsy too." Ayesha confesses.

Wren balks at the woman who is now looking around, pretending not to have admitted to being potentially drunk on St.Peter's grounds. Ayesha is to put it lightly, a barmy woman. But It has to be admitted, it is largely hilarious, even if absurd on epic proportions. She wonders what the people around them would have to say about such despicable behaviour.

"You better sober up, I just spotted Elia and we need to talk to her."

"Oh fuck. Do you have mints Mrs.Holier-than-thou? Also, hope someone is with Olivia darling. There is after all, talk of a killer on the loose."

She shakes her head as they walk towards Elia, who herself is currently surrounded by sycophantic proclamations of grief and sympathy. And of course with the traditional out-doer fashion of remembering the boy they had little to do in their life with.

"Elia darling..."

Wren watches people automatically part as Ayesha literally glides through the throng of covertly envious hearts. She herself feels a little envious of her effortless grace. She follows her lead with mutterings of excuse-me's, pardons and frigid sad smiles to reach to Elia.

As she finally rests her gaze on Elia, her eyes immediately water. She sees her eyelids resting against dark grey shadows accumulating salty remnants of her boy's grief, her trembling hands fisted in Ayesha's grey fabric.

Bloody hell, God please don't ever reduce me in a position like this. Please.

As she sends the mental invocation, she watches Ayesha smother the mother with her embrace and sweet voice.

"I know darling. I know. Just let it out, there there..."

"You smell like a bottle of Sherry."

Elia moves back as she gazes at her friend with a puzzled face.

"Needed the Dutch courage darl-"

"-and what about me? Fuck you Vogel! Fuck you! I should be stinking like Sherry or the pits of a pub. Not you! Bloody hell, I'm the one who lost my boy...I hate this...I'm so-"

"-sshh I'm sorry. Come on, we'll get you drunk. You can do whatever you want darling. I know it's the absolute pits and honestly woman, drink if that's what you want to do."

Wren averts her eyes as she sees Elia sob with ugly sounds and returns Ayesha's embrace with a fervour unknown.

"Let's get away from here. We'll go home. Okay?"

Elia nods and with that Ayesha guides her through the masses of black and straight to a black Mercedes hugging the curb. Just when she's about to move towards the car, she feels a hand curl around her shoulder. As she turns, she offers a sympathetic smile to the man.

"Please take care of her. This has been too hard...too bloody hard."

Wren hugs him as she nods against his chest and feels his tears drip on her forehead.

"I will Nick. I promise." Her voice cracking up at the last syllable.

She leaves a chaste kiss on his cheek and leaves him to follow the other two women in her car.

She texts Junior with a hurried demand to meet her in the car and without further stalling from the crowd, hurriedly walks to the SUV where Jared leans against the passenger door. Instantly, he opens the back door of the car and after she's seated safely, he walks around to sit at the driver's seat.

"Where to Mrs.Jensen?" He asks as he shuts the door at his side.

"Wait for the children."

He simply nods and as per her command, waits. While they wait, the crowd disperses, ridding the church of dark accoutred clumps. Her gaze follows the group of men nearing the front. Nicholas Harte seems to be the epicentre of the circle, his face discerning with the sunken red rimmed eyes, his countenance looking like cracked stones trying to hold its pieces together. His unwavering concern, his voice breaking at the overwhelming  emotions for his wife's goodwill had dried the very tears in her eyes. She belatedly realises she is envious of Elia; a woman who had suffered loss of an unaccountable form. Wren knows she couldn't get more pathetic than this.

She wonders if her husband would care about her if they were to face a tragedy as horribly dark as this. Would he care and ask her friends to help her? Or would he be too occupied with the workings of his feelings and blithely ignore his wife's courting of death? She knows she wouldn't survive such a thing? Never again. This would be the final call. The final nail on her coffin. And she's sure Earl knows that.

Would he revel in my misery?

She doesn't know if it's probable. Not at all. But she does know that she'd choose a sadistic man than the one she's been sharing her bed with.

She'd choose the man with unbolted loathing and having the capability to bring pain to her any damn time. Anything that does not equate to a blank countenance with hollow eyes, as hollow as a stranger's gaze. The stoic face that reminds her of days when she would lie and stare for hours with her eyes roaming across the cracked ceiling on account of nothing except for tending to the familiar emptiness beating beneath her ribs. The slow stutter whispering in her ear; nothing ever happens, nothing ever happens, nothing ever-

Cold assaults her mind to toe as the car door opens and the twins slide in the car.

"Drive to Mrs.Vogel's house Jared."

A nod and then the car moves on the tarmac surface.

"Where's Dad?"

She turns to find Earl's blotchy face staring at her. It's a face full of youth, emotions and streaks of pain. Her son's resemblance to her husband at times catches her off guard. The sudden exposure of emotions on a somewhat familiar profile a pleasant gift to torture.

"He's left for London." She replies.

Averting her gaze, she leans her head against the seat and finds Eloise's body slumped in the passenger seat. Curved towards the window, as if trying to jump from the vehicle with the seatbelt the only restraint. Her platinum wet strands map against the door, starkly contrasting to the interior. She doesn't even hear her breathing and marvels at the ability of her daughter to keep herself from even indulging in the world outside of her mind. She hopes the shower masked the usually palpable smell of alcohol at bay-- also the only indication of Eloise's presence.

The car ride passes away in consensual quietude until it arrives in front of a detached bricked house on High Street.

"Giselle's going to take an early off, so take care of Olivia. Make sure she eats dinner. I think there's pot pie in the fridge. Just heat it up darling. Goodbye." She states with a note of finality.

As she exits the SUV, puzzlement takes ahold of her as Eloise also exits the car and closes the door with a soft thud. Before Wren can even ask her anything, she runs across the path and straight through the wooden driveway gate, disappearing amidst the trees shrouding the Vogel property.

"I texted you explicitly that both of you are to go home. Did I not make myself clear?"

She kneels down as she glares at Junior. He gives her a weak smile in return to the displeasure coating her question.

"You know her so just leave it be Mum. I'll take care of it all."

"What is she even doing here? Should I be aware of something?" She inquires with a shake of head.

"No you bloody don't. Please just stop-"

"You better hold your tongue young man. You don't have to turn barmy like your sister."

With an irritated sigh, she bangs the door and makes her way to the house. As she does, she repeatedly opens and closes her fists, calming her mind and ditching all thoughts pertaining to the previous envy she felt.

It was a moment's weakness. I can hold myself better. I will fucking hold it.

_____

"Alex told me that Philip was talking to Commissioner about prioritising this case over others. What's the chap's name? It's the guy who basically took Willow's job! The sexist pricks in this town God! Yeah so his name went like...Zac? Wait! Yes, got it! It was Xavier. Philip had a talk with him about it. I mean we all do want the job done quick. Honestly, I get that we all want this horrible killer behind bars but the way they give hope to Elia and Nick is dreadful. Let them grieve bastards! This is just dreadful. Do you want more of it? My boss gave me a Pinot Noir in London, in flimsy hopes of getting me in bed. I couldn't decline the wine, so I took the wine and nicked his wedding ring. But of course, I mailed it to him. So his poor wife must've gotten an anonymous letter with a ring. Honestly the bastard."

Wren follows the spiel with a perfunctorily nod.

"Would you like more?" Ayesha asks as she shakes the black glass bottle.

"No thank you."

"Suit yourself. I'm going to get pissed tonight."

Another nod as she watches her fill three quarters of the humongous wine glass. Ayesha drinks wine in peace and as soon as the glass finishes, it's as if all the collections of thoughts pour out of her. Wren knows that she has a little time for peace. Which she can devote to her daughter's silent presence without being distracted.

"I'm going to go check on Elia."

Ayesha merely nods as she sips her poison for today. And with that Wren slips outside the drawing room.

The drawing room despite its abundant lighting and space feels relatively claustrophobic as she breathes air that isn't tainted with perfumes and inebriated exhalations. She walks in the living room with its wide area connecting to varying places; another sitting room, a kitchen, a bedroom and a staircase. She sees no one but decides to abide by her word to Ayesha and walks across the living room and crosses the threshold to the spare room where Elia is passed out after inhaling a single serving of Sauvignon Blanc-- her personal favourite.

She finds Elia in the same position as before, exhaustion wrapped around the woman who had a hand across her stomach and another spread across the sheets beneath her. Her previously pulled up bun is open and tendrils map around the pillow. Wren can feel her grief palpitate  even from her numbed form.

She draws the door to her and closes it. Her footsteps move on their accord and then end up at the base of the staircase. Before she can even begin to rethink her actions, she takes off her ballet flats and then starts moving upward.

Upon reaching the second floor, she stares at the surroundings-- flummoxed and ashamed. She feels like a burglar, a thief, a woman cheating on her daughter. She should be happy, grateful and not nosy for Eloise. This is a celebratory step for her. She should go back home and drink champagne for her covert celebration of her daughter's new step. Then why is she creeping through someone's house and trying to find out what her daughter is up to? Is this curiosity or concern? Maybe both. Maybe paranoia. Maybe she's being barmy.

Because if there's one thing she knows, it's that she's not as sane as a normal woman.

Just as she is about to turn around, she hears an unmissable sob that tears her body in half. It assaults her from the inside out, a chill snaking its way across her spine and clenching her heart with a hardness that is all too familiar. Before she knows, she's at the door of a room at the right corridor and she's listening to the soft cries.

Then she hears voices.

"I...I don't know what to do."

It's Eloise; a cry enunciated in each word.

"We'll figure something out. Come here. I'm sorry for screaming at you."

The second voice belongs to a boy. She knows it's Jonathan Vogel.

"I deserved it."

"No you did not. I'm so fucking sorry. Do you want tea?"

"Ok."

"Great. I think Mum made cherry pie. She's awful at baking but it'll be edible. Plus they're cherries and I can't ever turn down cherries."

She hears footsteps and she starts backing away. She turns around and just as she's about to run down, she hears a final sentence that makes her world go a little dizzy and white.

"And Louise...don't think the worst. Your presence does not equate to his death."

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