silk trim at one end was left. She clung to the remnant as if the whole blanket, her comfort blanket, still survived, taking it to bed with her every night, nowadays even a little thumb finding its way into her mouth as she softly rubbed the silk fabric against her cheeks and nose. Naturally, she had it with her on this grimmest of days, but I could tell it offered small comfort.
Next to her, my mother sat stony-faced. As usual I felt I’d let her down, but today I didn’t give a damn. Today I cared only about those who truly loved me.
By the end of Sydney’s sentimental eulogy (he praised me for having far too many exemplary qualities) I was at the back of the altar, head in hands, and blubbing like a fool. I guess we’ve all wondered what our friends would say about us when we were gone and on this miserable autumnal day I was finding out. His words didn’t swell me with pride but, as before, they humbled me. Love for my friends, each and every one of them in that chapel today, expanded within me almost to bursting point. It was both beautiful and an infinitely sad experience.
There was silence for a while as the priest asked the congregation to think of me and how much I had meant to their individual lives. My wails would have filled the chapel if they could have been heard. I would have been an embarrassment. Then the worst part.
Somewhere out of sight, someone pushed a button and the coffin, which was positioned on a unit at the side of the altar, began to trundle backwards, velvet curtains behind it smoothly opening. The rumble of small rollers turning was minimal and, in any case, was soon drowned out by the piece of music that accompanied my last journey. It was a modern piece, but head and shoulders above any of its contemporaries, and I’m sure Andrea chose it because she knew it was a favourite of mine, one of the most soulful songs ever sung, REM’s “Everybody Hurts”. It would bring a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes at any time, but God, at my own funeral—I lost it completely.
I went from one side of the altar to the other, throwing myself at the moving coffin, bawling in despair. Please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me! You don’t know what you’re doing! I’m not dead, I’m not dead!
Nobody could hear, and nobody would believe it anyway. But by God, I believed! At that moment I truly thought that nothing was irreparable, nor irretrievable; I could be saved, it wasn’t hopeless!
I beat my fists on the coffin lid (funny, but my fists never went through the wood; it was as if my mind would not allow them to, that I was still clinging to some form of reality as I knew it, and this, in itself, fashioned my abilities) and I called out, crying for them to stop the service, save my body. Naturally, no one took any notice.
The coffin was moving away from me and I didn’t like the darkness beyond the curtains. As soon as the coffin was out of view and the drapes closed behind it, it would be placed inside a furnace to be incinerated by gas fires, and I didn’t want to be present when that happened. It would be the final confirmation of my bodily demise, after which I’d be completely lost. Irrational, maybe, but as long as my body was still around, I felt I still had some connection to the world I knew and loved.
But it rumbled onwards to the raw, emotive voice of Michael Stipes, and so I realized it truly was the end of me as a person. I fell to the floor in utter despair and when I looked pleadingly at my family, all I saw was their faces contorted with grief, their tears flowing freely, shoulders convulsing. Even Mother had silver trickles falling from her eyes. In the second row, Sydney was stoic, while Oliver’s head was lowered, his eyes closed. Never had I seen my former business partner and friend look so thoroughly wrecked.
My own head dropped and I was on my hands and knees before the disappearing coffin. I sensed the curtains close and I envisaged the gas jets flaming into life. I didn’t want to think about the rest of it.
I was the last one to leave the chapel although, of course, the last person to leave didn’t know that. I wept copiously, allowing myself the emotion, aware that I would never function properly (however that might be in my present state of being) until I’d shed the worst of my tears. But finally, even I had had enough and I longed for my wife and daughter again.
Moving down the centre aisle, I passed an old boy who’d just entered and was collecting the order of service leaflets. He must have been in his late seventies and by the look of him—he was bent and frail, yellow-skinned—he might well have a more serious appointment at the crematorium before too long. Now I might have been wrong, but I’m sure he shuddered as I went by, and as I turned to look back, he seemed to be peering, squinty-eyed, directly at me. He gave a little shrug and continued to pick up the leaflets as I wondered if those close to death themselves could perceive or “sense” things that others could not. It was odd, but I had more immediate thoughts on my mind. Perhaps just my presence by Andrea and Primrose’s side would somehow give them subconscious comfort. I could only hope and wish.
Outside, the crowd had fanned out and conversation was rife, although quiet and respectful, some of the mourners examining the tribute wreaths and bouquets that had been carefully arranged against a wall. I even heard subdued laughter break out here and there, no doubt relief that the worst was over. I hoped it was some funny but affectionate anecdote about me that had caused the merriment. I wanted them to remember the good times, but to my surprise and, I’m embarrassed to admit, to my slight chagrin, hardly any conversations overheard as I drifted among them, careful not to touch, were centred on me and what a great guy I’d been and how much they’d miss me now that I was gone. Sure, I was mentioned, but almost in passing. The weather and the latest government smoke-and-mirrors fraud got more air time than I did. I didn’t expect a great wailing and gnashing of teeth, but I’d have liked a bit more talk about good ol’ Jim and his talent and sense of humour, stuff like that. Maybe there’d be more gratifying remembrances later, back at the house. I certainly hoped so.
I noticed there were one or two photographers and persons with notebooks or mini-cassette recorders, no doubt journalists from both the local and national newspapers. It wasn’t just my death that was big news; it was to do with the fact that I was one among four suspected of being murdered by the same killer. It was the serial killer who was the real news, but my funeral would help fill extra space. I also spotted another photographer taking shots of the crowd, but he did not look like the other photo-journos—he’d bothered to wear a dark suit and black tie. I realized he was a police lensman, there hopefully to catch a shot of anyone acting suspiciously, a loner, someone who was not part of the general gathering. The police were looking for their killer here and I began to scan the mourners more intensely myself.
Nobody looked out of place to me though. I did spy the two police detectives who had attended the scene of crime at the hotel. Coates and Simmons, if I remembered correctly. Then someone else caught my eye, a lone figure standing on a small grassy knoll beneath a tree, perfectly still as he watched proceedings. Now this was the odd part.
Although he was at least three hundred yards away, somehow I knew he was looking directly at me. He was tall, but his figure was vague, kind of washed out as if he were a faded colour reproduction on thin film. Despite that, there was something familiar about him; I knew I’d seen him somewhere before. Thing was, I couldn’t remember where.
And as I observed him, he raised an arm as if waving to me. Then he was gone. Vanished. A true ghost you might say.
23
Andrea didn’t hold a proper wake for me. It was more of an exclusive reception back at the house, only a chosen few amongst the mourners invited. I understood perfectly: what wife would want a big memorial party when her husband had been murdered so vilely? Speaking for myself, I wasn’t in the mood for one either. All I wanted to do was get close to Primrose, put my invisible arms around her, and whisper in her ear: “Don’t worry about Daddy.”
It was a suitably sombre affair, and to my relief and, I’m sure, to Andrea’s, people soon made their excuses and began to leave. At least now, in the house, I was the subject of most conversations, particularly when they were between my wife and guests. I caught some nice comments about myself and began to wallow in the discovery that I was a pretty good guy, a brilliant art director who could also produce slick but smart copy headlines and had a keen sense of humour. I started to like myself a bit more—my former self, that is. Sydney Presswell was one of the first to leave and I had to smile. Typical Sydney; business took precedence over all else, even the death of a friend and colleague. It was a weekday after all (although I had no idea what day it was now) and I kind of admired him for his pragmatism. I wondered if they were still going to pitch for that new banking account and decided no, there wouldn’t be time enough to bring in another creative team, brief them, and produce first-rate work. Maybe he and Oliver would let it go out of respect for me. Ollie certainly wouldn’t be in any condition to see it through.
Others soon followed and I sat on the stairway outside the lounge and watched them depart. Although not all
