‘So you do it by boat?’ I say. ‘By ship? I looked into travelling here by ship, remember? Maybe that’s cheaper. Slower, but cheaper. I think it would be. I could ask for an advance from my boss.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘It isn’t cheap enough.’ She looks up at Dad and says, ‘God, I hate that a decision this important and personal comes down to money. We don’t have friends or relatives we can ask. Most of them are worse off than we are. Why the hell . . . what’s wrong with . . .?’
He looks down at the floor again. ‘So – what? We just leave her here?’
‘No, my love,’ says Mum, swallowing hard. ‘We can have a kind of a service here in New York.’
‘We can’t bury KT here, Mum. We can’t leave her here on her own forever.’
‘It’s a crematorium service, Moll,’ says Dad, putting his arm on Mum’s shoulder. ‘A cremation close to here near Brooklyn. Beautiful place called Fresh Pond – they explained it all to us. It’s like a chapel. We can do things the right way, and then fly back with Katie, with the urn, her ashes. All four of us together, just like we wanted.’
‘Cremation?’
‘It’s not what we talked about, I know that,’ says Dad. ‘We’ve always been buried in this family, on your mum’s side and mine. But it’s the only way.’
‘Her ashes?’
‘We can spread them in the garden at home, sweetie,’ says Mum.
Dad coughs.
‘Or, if we have to sell the house, then we’ll spread them in the churchyard in the village. I’m sure the vicar would say a few words. He’s always been very kind.’
I shake my head and say, ‘It’s a lot to take in, Mum.’
‘I know. We’ve had a long day and we still don’t know when the medical examiner will hand her back to us. We should get an update on that tomorrow and then we’ll book a time for the crematorium.’
‘The police don’t want to keep her longer? For forensic tests?’
‘I don’t know, Molly. Paul, what did the detective say?’
‘Martinez told me once the . . .’ He lowers his voice. ‘Once the autopsy is complete, cause of death established, we’ll get her back with us soon. It won’t take long. This week.’
‘We’ll have her back soon,’ says Mum, a tear running down her cheek. ‘I think I need a lie down. I don’t feel well.’
They nap, and I take the time to scan news channels for any updates.
When Mum and Dad are ready we go eat soup and bread in the diner. The quiet pace of the room is comforting. We don’t talk much; we just eat. Too much to process in one day.
They say goodnight and go to bed. I give them my Louisville Slugger. They’re not surprised. They know me. Mum accepts it with a weary smile, probably just to appease me. Then I sneak out and buy a bubble tea from Jimmy and he says, ‘I still got your bag, I haven’t looked inside.’
‘You can look inside if you want.’
‘I don’t want.’
I walk down Fifth Avenue past the New York Public Library, past the Empire State Building and past the Flatiron Building, until I reach Murray Hill Tactical.
There are no other women in the shop. From the sale section I buy a self-defence belt made from reinforced leather with a solid bronze buckle. A guy with a handlebar moustache says, ‘Yeah, that’ll break a car windshield with one swipe, so imagine what it’d do to a perp.’
I ask what else I can carry in New York City and he blows air through his teeth and says, ‘There ain’t much, truth be told. You can’t have a firearm, obviously. I can sell you a mil-spec torch with a strobe at three thousand lumens – that’d temporarily blind a bad dude. How about that?’
I need to be able to defend myself. My parents. ‘I’ll take two.’
‘I haven’t told you the price yet.’
‘How much?’
‘Sixty bucks a pop.’
‘I’ll take one, then.’
‘No law against walking round with a bat and a ball but you gotta have the ball, see. That’s important. You haven’t got a baseball on your person and you’re in big trouble.’
‘Pepper spray?’
‘You go to a licensed pharmacy and get yourself a pocket-size bottle of capsicum self-defence spray. Not expensive.’
‘I will.’
‘Anything else?’
‘How about this?’
He shows me a 140-decibel attack alarm. ‘Only seven bucks on special.’