Read Sweetie for Free Online Page A

her daughter’s coffin – that white glossy coffin with the big bold brass handles, lined inside with white silk to cushion her girl while she slept.
    After Chantal’s father Darren had formally identi -
    fied her body, he’d spoken to Paul and made it clear that under no circumstances was Michelle to see her daughter. Chantal’s face had been horribly disfigured by the attack, and the husbands – past and present –
    agreed that this was a sight that could push Michelle beyond the limits of her endurance. That she was holding up at all, despite all the tears and outbreaks of rage, was something of a miracle. This was a pain like no other she had known, a grief so deep and fathomless that it weighed down her body like lead.
    Her breathing felt laboured and she kept sighing heavily, but somehow she managed to carry on living.
    Michelle forced herself to stand up and stretch, then sat back down again from the effort of it all. She wondered briefly if she could get away with not going to the funeral, but the sound of feet thundering up the stairs and the little girls bursting through her 34
    bedroom door made her sit up straight and paint on a smile. By the time the carriage arrived at 10.30 she was dressed in black, toenails freshly painted, grim-faced but determined.
    The funeral cortège moved slowly through the streets of the small community. Behind the horse-drawn hearse, two little girls, two young boys, two women and two men walked slowly with their heads bowed.
    This was Chantal’s family. Michelle, her second husband Paul, their daughter Trinity, and Aisha from her previous relationship with Darren Robinson.
    Robbo, too, had remarried. By his side walked Chantal’s step-mother, Charmain, and her two sons, Darren Jr and little Max.
    The sun beat down remorselessly and the black horse struggled to pull the hearse down Columbia Road, its body etched with sweat and black plumage weighing heavy on its head. Patches of white foam appeared around its muzzle as it drew the dignified black carriage that carried the body of Chantal Robinson.
    Following on were four large cars full of family and friends, all with their faces covered with hands or handkerchiefs to hide red swollen eyes. Grief had ripped through the Foster and Robinson families and the whole close-knit community. The police were present to show that they supported the families and were determined to find the perpetrator. Neighbours 35
    and friends lined the street in respect and sorrow, and groups of schoolgirls broke the silence with their wails and sobbing.
    Traffic came to a standstill as the funeral cortège crossed Bethnal Green Road into Brick Lane near where Christ Church, one of Hawksmoor’s finest churches, stood.
    Michelle stepped into its cool interior and was amazed to find that every pew was filled to bursting; there must have been over four hundred people in that church, even the galleried area upstairs was full.
    She didn’t know most of the people’s names but recognised many faces. Local people had turned out en masse to express their shock and sorrow at such a young life being snuffed out so brutally. She hesitated before walking up the aisle to the front pew, taking in the sight of all those people in front of her; in that moment she knew that she would survive, that the human spirit could not be killed by the evil action of one man. She felt the love in that church and let it carry her towards her place near the altar as she held the hands of her two surviving daughters.
    The service passed in a blur, afterwards Michelle could hardly recall it, she’d been staring so intently at the coffin bearing her beloved girl, and praying so hard that God would keep Chantal safe in heaven until she could join her. Michelle was only fully present for the hymn ‘Lord of the Dance’, when she’d 36
    had to smile at the memory of Chantal singing it as a young child, the first hymn she’d ever learned in infants’ school. She would belt it out,