Famie closed her eyes, felt Charlie’s hand on hers. ‘It’s Seth’s. They prioritized the post-mortem.’ She kept her eyes closed, realized how much she wanted Charlie to say yes. ‘If you’re not missing a lecture or anything,’ she added weakly.
Charlie laughed. ‘Do you ever stop your bloody parenting?’ she said. ‘Anyway, yes, I’ll be missing a lecture and a tutorial.’
Famie opened her eyes and smiled. Shrugged.
‘But you’re coming anyway?’
Charlie nodded. ‘But I’m coming anyway.’
Famie had been to six funerals before: her mother, three grandparents, an old school friend and a journalist colleague. Cancer (twice), dementia, heart attack, overdose and a land mine. They had all been unbearable, a time to rage against the injustice and indignity of life, and now, in a back row of the overflowing Palmers Green mosque, she raged again. The setting was different, her modest dress and head-covering were different, but the raw anger was the same. Eyes closed, she gripped hold of Charlie’s hand for support.
Seth Hussain had managed to combine gentleness with a forensic toughness that had won people’s admiration across IPS and throughout journalism – the turnout was testament to that. He had been a loyal friend then a devoted, if reticent, lover. He had been sweet and beautiful, and then some maniac with a knife had taken him away. She suspected the silent prayers were giving fulsome praise and thanks to a God Seth hadn’t believed in, and she gripped her daughter’s hand tighter.
Maybe funerals become an accumulation, thought Famie. It wasn’t just Seth she was grieving for but all the others she’d lost. There was too much unfinished business here, too many people she missed. Whatever the truth of it, Famie could barely bring herself to look at the coffin. She had many wonderful images of Seth in her mind, she didn’t need them sullied by his death.
Instead, she glanced along the rows of mourners. Most of her last shift were here. Tommi then Sam caught her eye and nodded. Young Sophie Arnold had overdone the head-covering and almost disappeared into a voluminous grey scarf. EMEA editor Ethan James sat nervously inspecting his fingernails, and next to the Met Assistant Commissioner, head bowed and hands shaking, sat Andrew Lewis. In twenty-four hours he seemed to have wasted away, his jaw slack, his cheeks sunken. He looked as though he could crumble at any minute, she thought.
She glanced towards the front. The first few rows were all men, some dressed in the traditional ghutra headscarf and robe. An ornate chair had been set closest to the coffin, occupied by a clearly uncomfortable man in his late thirties. Black suit, rounded shoulders, clean-shaven. Long black hair tied up in a bun. Although they didn’t look similar, she was sure this was Seth’s brother Amal. The brothers had barely spoken in recent years but Seth had had some old photos. The man in the chair fidgeted, glanced around. He nodded at some mourners on the front row. Famie looked at her feet. If Amal was checking who was attending his brother’s funeral, she’d rather go unnoticed.
Famie felt Charlie lean closer. ‘Life is pain, Highness,’ she whispered. She paused, then added, ‘Anyone who says differently—’
Famie finished the line for her: ‘… is selling something.’ She smiled and nodded. Where would she be without Charlie? Their favourite, much-quoted line from the movie The Princess Bride. She nodded towards the imam in his finery and whispered back, ‘And do you think he’s selling something?’
‘I do, Highness, yes,’ she said. ‘You want to go?’
Famie considered briefly whether it would be seen as disrespectful; whether she should stay for the burial, say a few words to Amal. Probably, she thought, but right now she didn’t care. Famie nodded gratefully and they eased their way apologetically down the row.
‘Pub,’ she said as soon as they’d stepped outside the mosque. Famie breathed the air as though she’d been underwater.
‘Taxi,’ said Charlie, and they negotiated the cordon of police and press. Cameras pointed, flashlights flashed, and Charlie hailed a passing cab.
They bailed as soon as they thought they were far enough away from the mosque. The first café they passed sold wine and chips. ‘Here,’ said Famie. ‘We’ll finish the service in here.’ They ordered Pinot Grigio, coffee, pizza, salad, fries, toast and cheesecake from a slightly nonplussed waiter and sat holding hands across the table. Famie poured two generous glasses of wine and raised her glass.
‘This is how Seth would like to be remembered,’ she said. ‘With some shitty wine which has been made just about bearable – let’s say sanctified – by great company.’
Charlie raised her glass, clinking it against Famie’s. ‘To Seth, then,’ she said, holding her mother’s gaze. ‘You two did this a lot, didn’t you?’
Famie nodded. ‘We did.’
‘He was special?’
Famie sighed, then smiled. ‘He was special.’
‘Mum, I’m so sorry.’
Famie smiled again. ‘It was over a while back, but it was good while it lasted.’
‘So you didn’t want to stay at the funeral longer?’ asked Charlie.
Famie took a bite out of a slice of pizza, gulped some more wine. ‘I went. I sat. I wore the right clothes. I didn’t complain about the patriarchy.’
Charlie laughed, and clinked her mother’s glass again. ‘Fair enough. Did you know his brother?’
Famie shook her head. ‘Seth didn’t talk about him much, said they were very different. I asked about him sometimes but it never went anywhere.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I need to seriously pace myself.’
Charlie looked puzzled. ‘Why so?’
‘One down, six to go.’
Charlie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re going to all of them?’
‘I am,’ said Famie. ‘I realized as we walked into the mosque. There’s something at stake here, Charlie. If there’s anything I believe in, it’s journalists being able to be journalists without being intimidated. And if some murderous fuckers want to take us out then the very least I can do, the very least, is to stand with my kind. Stand with my people.’ She dipped some chips in a small pot of ketchup, then waved them in front
