Prologue
The blood is not the first thing their eyes are drawn to. They look around them as if in shock, eyes wide and disbelieving, hands running through hair as they take in the overturned chairs, the table on its side by the window, the sausage rolls scattered across the floor, pastry flakes coating the floorboards. Red liquid drips down the wall, the dark glass of a bottle clustered on the floor beneath, and the stem of a wine glass clatters against the floorboards, finally coming to rest against the side of the bar.
The staff hide behind the thick wooden barrier. They are not paid enough to deal with this; minimum wage and the odd free lunch is not enough for them to be involved in the events that are unfolding before them. One woman has a phone pressed to her ear, her mouth moving as she sounds the alarm, calls for help. A man with a tea towel slung over one shoulder turns to take a nip of whisky straight from the bottle, his fingers trembling as he sets it back down with a thud.
The air is eerily silent, the call to the authorities ended, the cordless phone hung up with a beep that echoes around the room. The air is full of breath, chests rising and falling in the silence. The door swings open suddenly, the wind catching it and throwing it against the wall, and something in the air skitters, the crowd jumping in unison. But still no one speaks. Still, no one moves.
Outside, the rain lashes at the windows, the early December chill invading the room through the door, the hinges creaking as it blows open and closed. The sky is leaden, clouds full of the promise of never-ending rain. A flash of lightning illuminates the room, bringing to life the faces of the people who sit or stand or lean against the wall, hearts beating wildly. They do not look at one another. They stare at the floor, or at their trembling hands. Anywhere but at the face of their neighbour. They are family, friends, acquaintances. They have had coffee together, dinner parties, arguments. Some were present at the birth of others; some went to school together; some made vows to have and to hold, for better, for worse. Some made vows to get revenge for past wrongs.
Another lightning strike ignites the picture of the person they have come here to honour, the flash lighting up the features of the deceased, the dead man whom they all have in common. It is a good photo, they thought as they’d filed into the room hours before. It shows him as he was. Husband, father, grandfather. Friend, colleague, teammate. Taken too soon, a tragic loss. These are still the thoughts of some as they stare up at his face, one grey streak through the front of his hair, the usual twinkle in his blue eyes. He was a handsome man, even in his fifties. Always a hit with the ladies, that roguish charm never leaving him. He was a generous friend, a good man.
The thoughts of others are not so charitable. Ex-husband. Estranged father. Tormentor. So many versions of the truth; so many versions of one man held in the minds of others.
A wail cuts through the air and heads snap up, eyes drawn towards the closed door at the end of the room. A child cries out, Mummy! and another voice shushes them, lifting them up and holding them close. Another wail, low and full of pain, animal-like, or is it the wind again, howling to be let in? All eyes are now on that door, on the trail of blood staining the floorboards, the scarlet handprint on the cream wall.
Sirens. The world turns blue as tyres crunch over the pebbled beach beneath the pub, small stones skittering. The next cry is drowned out and heads turn away now, towards the approaching vehicles and the people who have come to save them. Wipers battle against the furious rain, the water bouncing off the top of the blue flashing lights. The room is lit up by them, the faces of the mourners turned pale and ghostlike. A door opens, slams. Footsteps running up the stairs, boots pounding against the wood. The cavalry has arrived. The open door suddenly slams shut, as if barring their entry, and the people jump again, their nerves jangling.
As a gloved hand presses against the glass of the front door, the door at the other end of the room is flung open, a woman appearing in the doorway. The cavalry step inside, water dripping from their boots, their gaze casting over the crowd until they settle on the woman, and they move towards her, their eyes fixed on the blood on her hands.
‘In here,’ she says, her eyes wide and full of fear. ‘Please, hurry.’
Part I
The Funeral
1
The Celebrant
This will be his last funeral.
James has had enough, has seen too much, and he cannot bring himself to carry on. It was not the child last month, the six-year-old boy killed by a drunk driver; it was not the twenty-four-year old woman who died of breast cancer, leaving behind a four-month-old daughter. It was not even his own father, eight years before, taken by the respiratory disease that ravaged him for almost a year. No. It was not a funeral that has happened which has spoiled his taste for the job, but rather one that will happen in the near future.
His mother has been dying for three years. It is an odd term, he thinks, dying. Are we not all dying? From the moment we are born, we are moving closer to our death, some slowly, some hurtling like a train, the length of our lives already determined as soon as we take our first breath. James has seen a lot of death, has helped friends and family to honour and celebrate the lives of their dearly departed, but he knows he could not bear that one.
Dementia has already taken her from him, turning her from the energetic, enthusiastic woman he has known and loved his entire life into an unrecognisable shell. The woman who took him in when he was two, abandoned on the front steps of her church like an unwanted kitten, and loved him as if she had chosen him herself.
‘You were given to me,’ she often said, her eyes watery, her fingers wrapped tightly around his. ‘It was meant to be.’ And though he did not believe in God or fate, he believed in his mother’s love for him, and that had been enough.
He knows it is unusual for a fifty-eight-year-old man to still live with his mother. He knows it is unusual for a man to do everything with his mother, and for them to still be so close. But she is all he has left, the only one who has always accepted him for who he is, and he needs to bask in her love for as long as he can.
James clears his throat, shuffling the papers in front of him. He has put his all into this funeral, all except his heart, but he intends to see it through. He reads his words back to himself, the notes written during his last meeting with Fiona, the widow of the deceased. He has known Fiona Asquith, née Woods, for almost forty years. They met while they were both studying – she in her first year, he in his third – at a society meeting and pub crawl. It was summer, he had one final exam left to sit, and he already had a job lined up for September. He remembers her huge hair, backcombed within an inch of its life and set with an entire bottle of hairspray. And her smile. It was a kind smile, open and full of warmth, and he found himself talking to her for most of the night, laughing like they were already old friends.
They went home together, back to the flat he shared with his friend, but not for the usual reason. When he was fifteen, James realised that he loved women, but not in the way his friends loved them. He was most comfortable around women; he enjoyed their company, even preferring to spend time with them over his male friends, but he was not attracted to them. And while he thought Fiona was beautiful – a wonderful, captivating soul – he was not attracted to her either.