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 the mourners who had attended the funeral had been invited back to the house, the lounge had been full to overflowing and some of the guests had spilled into the kitchen. I’d kept my eyes on Primrose through the lounge doorway for most of the time as she sat on her granddad’s lap in an armchair; her face wan, cheeks grubby from wiped tears. I noticed that my mother had not returned from the crematorium, obviously having cadged a lift from someone or, more likely, had herself dropped off at the first tube station or taxi rank along the route. Andrea had been a tower of strength, going from group to group, making sure everyone had something to eat – tiny sandwiches and vol-au-vents – and enough to drink – sherry or hard liquor, as well as tea and soft stuff. Occasionally, I would see Oliver squeeze her arm for support and I mentally thanked him for being there for her. Our argument seemed so pointless now, so unimportant, and I deeply regretted our parting on such a sour note.
I noticed Andrea now having a quiet word with Primrose, then taking her hand to lead her from the room. Pushing myself against the wall (nearly through it, actually – I still hadn’t fully mastered my new-found capabilities) so that they could pass by without touching me, I saw their faint auras close up, and they were dull, greyish in tone, no vibrancy to them. I hadn’t known that misery could be so palpable. As soon as they were past, I followed them up to Prim’s cheerful little bedroom, with its old Shrek and Little Mermaid posters on the walls, bookcase full of brightly coloured jacket spines, dolls – lots of dolls – arranged in civilized repose on top of a pine cabinet, yellow wallpaper with tiny blue flowers matched with blue-and-yellow curtains. Usually it raised my spirits just to walk in there – not even the small Ventolin inhaler on the bedside cabinet would spoil my mood – but this day was not a normal day. Tears flowed again as soon as Prim lay on the narrow bed and Andrea murmured soothing words as she pulled off our daughter’s shoes.
‘Why did Daddy have to die, Mummy?’ Prim asked in a small, plaintive voice.
I could go on and tell you all that Andrea said in reply and more questions asked by Primrose, but I’m not going to. Enough to say they were in this ve
in: Why did God take away the second-most important person in the world to her? Why is God so cruel? Is Daddy happy where he is now, and if he is, why? Doesn’t he miss us? Will he come and get us soon? It’s not just heartbreaking to relate, it’s soul-wrecking too. And pertinent, you might think. Because there are no good answers to any of those questions, and there’s nothing that can remove or even alleviate the pain that those left behind have to endure. I began to get very angry. Not only did I have no satisfactory answers to those questions – and I’d always believed you found out the truth of things once you left this mortal coil – but I could not have reassured Prim even if I did. I was, myself, completely in the dark as to my state, my future and my purpose. Oh yes, my purpose. I did believe there was a reason for my condition – everything had a reason, a meaning, call it what you like – but I had no idea what mine was. So, as I say, I began to get angry.
I paced the room, raving to myself, while Andrea tenderly stroked our daughter’s forehead. She found Prim’s favourite comfort teddy, Snowy, and tucked it into her arms. My raging came to a temporary halt as I embraced both Andrea and Primrose in my own arms, frustrated that I could not hug them tight, squeeze them so hard that they would have lost breath. I don’t think I’d ever loved them both as much as I did at that moment. Nevertheless, their mood sank into me and now I had never known such despair.
Finally, Andrea gave Primrose one last hug and kiss, then left her lying on the bed, Snowy (what else would the aged teddy be called? Greyie?) hugged close to her chest, her eyes closed as if ready for sleep. But where was her comfort rag, her ‘Bit of Blank’? She would need it when she woke or stirred, but as hard as I searched the bedroom with my eyes, I could not find the short length of pink silk anywhere. I remembered she’d had it with her in the chapel and realized it must still be in the pocket of her coat hanging in the cloakroom down-stairs. I called out to Andrea, who was tip-toeing towards the door, but of course, she didn’t hear me. I couldn’t fetch it myself and I groaned in frustration, called to Andrea again to no avail. Never had I felt so useless, so inadequate.
Andrea paused at the door and, one hand on the handle, looked back at Primrose. Our daughter was already asleep, exhausted by the trauma of the past few days. Andrea left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
I sat on the floor by the bed, pretending to stroke Prim’s hair and her back, almost believing I could feel her as I whispered words of comfort, hoping that somehow my words – or at least the sentiment behind them – would get through. Pretty soon, she was giving out tiny snores, but I stayed with her, continuing to whisper, telling her over and over again how much I loved her and that she shouldn’t be afraid, Daddy was okay and he was with her even though she could not see him. At one stage, her eyelids flickered and she murmured ‘Daddy’, but she was quickly away again, fast asleep, slowly and unknowingly coming to terms with my death. One day at a time, I told her. It will eventually become all right. You’ll always miss me, I hope, but the hurt will lessen and eventually fade. Never completely, but enough for you to carry on with your own life without this debilitating heartache. God, I loved her so much, and the thought of what I was losing almost tore me apart.
Although I wasn’t tired myself, I closed my eyes, content just to be with her for a while. Eventually, her chest rose and sank rhythmically and her grasp on Snowy loosened as she fell into a deeper sleep. I opened my eyes and looked out the window: it was getting dark outside.
Rising from the bedside and giving Prim one last simulated kiss, I went to the door and passed through it. There was that fleeting and odd moment of seeping through thin air and atoms (did I actually pass through the air between the atoms? I briefly wondered, remembering that nothing in this world of ours – of yours – is truly solid. Maybe that’s the secret of insubstantial ghosts walking through apparently substantial walls or doors), the sensation of being part of the door itself, then I was on the landing outside my daughter’s bedroom. I could hear the low tones of voices below, the sound indicating that most of the guests had left. Silence followed, then voices again. One was Andrea’s. I walked along the landing and turned the bend leading to the stairs. Rather than glide, I took the stairs one at a time, as if my life was normal and I had just finished reading Prim a bedtime story, ready for a vodka tonic, or perhaps a brandy, before dinner. That would have been nice. That would have been so nice. But that wasn’t the reality. No, surprise, shock, dismay and misery were the reality. My past life had not quite done with me.
They were kissing. Andrea and Oliver were in each other’s arms and they were kissing.
I froze there and gaped.
It wasn’t a kiss of condolence. It wasn’t a platonic kiss between old friends. It was a ravenous, lustful kind of kiss. The tongue-swallowing kind. The kind Andrea and I hadn’t shared for the last three or four years.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stared through the open door into the lounge and my knees almost gave way. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. My wife and my best friend. With me hardly dead five minutes. Was I crazy? Had my loss of body at last driven me crazy? It couldn’t be true.
They broke apart and it was only small consolation that Andrea was doing the pushing.
‘No, we can’t,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It isn’t right. Not so soon.’
Isn’t right? Not so soon? What the hell was she saying? It was . . . it was obscene!
‘I’m sorry, Andrea.’ He wouldn’t release his grip on her though. ‘I couldn’t wait any longer. It’s been such a rough few days.’
‘How the bloody hell do you think it’s been for me?’ she shouted back. ‘I never . . . I never wanted anything like this.’
His voice was anxious, but relatively calm compared to Andrea’s. Still he did not let her go.
She put her hands against his chest. ‘I loved him, Oliver. You must understand that. I still loved him.’ There was a slight catch in her throat.
‘Yes, I know.’ He was looking intensely into her eyes. ‘But it wasn’t the same. It was never the way it is with us. Even when you first went to Jim, you still loved me.’
He tried to pull her close again, but Andrea resisted. I wished she’d resisted a few minutes ago.
‘Primrose might come down,’ she told him, her efforts to break away feeble.
‘She’s dead to the world. Sorry, shouldn’t have put it that way. But the poor little mite is exhausted. She’ll sleep through the night if you’ll let her.’
Finally, Andrea did manage to free herself. Oliver attempted to grab her back.
‘No!’ This time her objection was fierce and Oliver took a pace backwards.
‘All right, Andrea.’ He kept his voice low, as if he might really wake Primrose. ‘It’s just been difficult keeping away from you when you’re going through so much.’
‘How ironic is that?’ She spat out the words contemptuously, but I knew they were directed at herself as much as my so-called friend. ‘What we’re doing is disgusting.’
Well, I went along with her there.
‘You don’t mean it, Andrea. Just because he died in such a terrible way doesn’t mean what we have isn’t right.’
Isn’t right? He thought cheating on me was right? Before, I hadn’t believed my own eyes; now I couldn’t believe my ears. This hypocritical, two-timing bastard was justifying their treachery.
‘But . . .’
He shook his head to stop her saying any more. ‘You needed me a few moments ago. Those were your true feelings, Andrea.’
‘I need you now, but that’s not the point. It’s too soon, it’s too wrong.’
‘How long do I have to wait?’
‘I . . . I don’t know, Oliver. We have to give it time. We have to think of Primrose too.’
‘And our friends? Your mother and father? His dreadful mother?’
My dreadful mother? Only I had the right to call her that.
‘We have to do the proper thing for now.’
‘You never stopped loving me, did you?’ His eyes were wide, eyebrows raised. That old Oliver little-boy-lost look. Never failed. I’d seen him use it on men as well as women so many times, albeit in different circumstances. Had I ever honestly liked him?
‘We shouldn’t even be discussing it. He was your best friend – don’t you feel any guilt?’
‘Of course I do! I always have!’ He was angry too. ‘But you should never have left me in the first place. You used Jim against me.’
‘Of course I didn’t! How can you say that?’ Andrea glanced towards the staircase as if afraid her raised voice had roused our daughter. For a moment, she seemed to be looking directly at me.
Then the doorbell rang, making all three of us jump.
Andrea opened the front door. On the doorstep stood DS Simmons and DC Coates. They must have followed the funeral cars back to the house, waiting outside until they thought everybody had left.
The taller of the two, Simmons, appeared to be spokesman. ‘Sorry to bother you on this sad occasion, Mrs True, but is Mr Oliver Guinane still with you? We’ve been waiting some time for him to leave so that we didn’t need to disturb you.’
Andrea looked behind her, her mouth open in surprise. Oliver was standing in the doorway of the lounge and only a few feet away from me.
‘It’s all right, Andrea,’ he said, ‘leave this to me.’ His voice was calm, but I couldn’t help noticing there was an edge to it. Natural enough, I suppose, when two unfriendly-looking policemen confront you. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked politely. Now I noticed how pale his face was.