Decay Inevitable

“Sorry,” she said. “But maybe you’re right. You’re much too soft for us lot. Get on and be a poet or something. Grow your hair.”

“I’ll keep in touch,” he said, leaning over and kissing her cheek, a gesture that mildly surprised them both. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

“If my new partner’s a spanner,” she warned, “I’ll send you a phone call so vicious you’ll need to wear armour to deal with it.”

He waved as she drove away, and she was shouting: “Be a dandy, a folk singer. Be a beautician! You northern ponce, you!”

HE SAT IN the car for five minutes before realising he had to get closer to her.

Wishing he had dressed in something more befitting the occasion than a jumper and jeans, Sean stepped through the kissing gate in the church wall and followed a narrow gravel path around the side of the tiny stone building. Tensing himself against a sight he knew he had seen in countless films and three or four times in the course of his work, Sean peered into the graveyard, feeling the weight of grief coming off the stones like something palpable, like heat. Around two dozen mourners had turned out to see Naomi buried. Already they were positioned around the grave: four of them facing Sean, the rest in various degrees of profile or with their backs to him. He moved off the gravel path and pushed through the willows to a spot where he could hear the occasional comforting phrase from the priest. Severed or faded names emerged from moss as he padded through the stones, together with dates and touching, if clichéd, couplets. He tried to maintain his focus on the group in front of him – and keep himself hidden – but the ancient call of the stones was too great. He gradually became aware of two things: that there were a couple of other attendants to the funeral, as furtive as he; and that he was being watched.

Had he not left the path when he did, the two men would have seen him. They had followed his route along the path and were now standing twenty feet away from Sean, on the spot he had just vacated. An instinct told him to be grateful for this. One of them was fiftyish, with talcum-white hair en brosse. His eyebrows and moustache were dark flat thickets; Sean could not see the eyes they protected. He stood like a suited barrel, hands in front of him, occasionally rubbing his chin against the knot of his tie. His companion was younger and more relaxed. His suit did not fit, and Sean could see the body beneath it labouring to catch breath. His face was scrubbed and scraped pink; his hair was like candyfloss, his eyes owlish and sore-looking.

A gritting sound: the lowering of the coffin. Sean watched as Naomi disappeared by degrees. The slow burn of self-hatred he had felt since the day of his blunder flared. It mattered not one bit that the pathologist’s report indicated she had been dead long before he and Sally arrived on the scene. He felt responsible. As he pickled in these sour juices, he saw someone, not ten feet away on the other side of the fence, watching him from the leading edge of a field of towering grass.

She was a small girl with long brown hair, clutching a perished sponge doll whose supportive wires were exposed in several places. The girl’s dress was a thin affair of plain sky-blue material. He could see her vested body through it. Her dark eyes watched him – not without humour – as he hunched in the protection of the trees. His main concern was that she would expose him, either to the mourners, or to the men standing to his right. But gradually her stare seemed to solidify in the brittle morning air, impaling him with something warm and comforting, so that presently he felt as though he and the girl were the only living creatures in miles.

She didn’t appear shy at all, nor was she intimidated by the location or his posture of stealth. She made no attempt to communicate with him, other than to give him a gap-filled smile. She anticipated his shooing gesture by a second, turning and barging into the shield of grass quickly enough to have him wondering if he had imagined her. But no, the shimmer of grass betrayed the course of her movements. He watched her progress until, unexpectedly, the shiver of grass ceased when she must have been only a third of the way across the field.