Resurrection. The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles: Volume One.

Chapter Eight

José suddenly felt weak. ‘What? Why? I’m fine, you told me yourself not four hours ago!’

‘Please, señorAlmonte. Could we step into my car?’ He indicated a white Mercedes parked beside him. A man got out from the driver’s seat and opened the back door for him.

‘But I’m fine,’ said José.

‘Please, señor Almonte, if you would just get into the car. There’s something I need to show you.’

José’s legs felt numb. He walked slowly to the car. He hesitated, then got inside. The doctor got in after him and pulled the door closed. The driver got back into his seat and started the car. ‘Where are we going?’ José asked.

‘To the clinic, señor,’ Dr Morales nodded to the driver and the car moved off.

‘But my test ... my test was clear.’

‘I’m sorry señor, but there’s been a little confusion.’

‘What do you mean, “confusion”? Oh my God! Are you telling me there’s something wrong?’

Dr Morales smiled. ‘Oh, no, your test results are exactly what were hoping for: you’re all clear.’

José covered his face with his hands and sighed with relief, ‘Oh, thank you.’

‘But, unfortunately,’ Dr Morales continued. ‘You are going to die.’

José lowered his hands, his expression confused. ‘Sorry?’ He suddenly became aware of a strange smell in the car. He hadn’t registered it earlier as he had been consumed by dread and anxiety, but now it tingled in his nose, a chemical smell redolent of hospitals. He was about to ask what it was just as Doctor Morales provided the answer by pressing the chloroform-soaked handkerchief over José’s nose and mouth. José lashed out, but there was no room for leverage – the doctor was upon him, pushing him down with all his body weight. José tried to call for help, but already he was falling away, as if Doctor Morales were pushing him through the upholstery and down into a soft black oblivion beyond.

David sat on a patio chair on the balcony of John’s bedroom, smoking a cigarette and watching a tiny grey lizard. The lizard lay absolutely still in the shadow of one of a group of pot plants. David leaned closer; it looked dead. He reached out tentatively and touched it lightly with his finger. It was smooth and dry and cool to the touch. Then quite suddenly, it woke up and scurried off, disappearing into the shadows between the other pots.

David dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. He felt exhausted. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face.

John’s words came back to him, saying that Lydia had an agenda of her own. What had he meant by that? He’d said she was evil, a bad seed. But that didn’t make sense either: evil was the family business. It was like the head of a family of jockeys complaining that a kid was a bad seed because they were great on horseback. Surely a Flinch that lacked evil would be a bad seed.

Conchita stepped out onto the balcony behind him. She laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about anything now, David. It will all be taken care of.’

He looked up, confused. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘The funeral: arrangements were made weeks ago. John will be taken away and cremated. Afterwards, his ashes will be stored with your father’s and Martin’s alongside the Master.’

David sat back and frowned. ‘You mean in the cellar? In Underwood’s crypt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’