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Authors: Nathan Dylan Goodwin

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‘Thanks, I
bought it this morning,’ she answered.  ‘It was this or the PCSO
uniform.’  His father laughed, not realising that she literally now owned
two outfits.  Morton was actually amazed that she hadn’t made more of a
fuss about the loss of her colossal clothing and shoe collection, but she
simply shrugged and said she’d get some new ones on the insurance.  Very
un-Juliette.  It was probably shock or something.  Pretty soon it
would hit her.  Then she’d hit him.

After twenty
minutes, the three of them had exhausted their supply of polite conversation
and Morton told his father that they needed to go.

‘Make sure
Jeremy knows where to find me.’

‘We will,’
Juliette said, pecking him on the cheek.  ‘Take care.’

‘It’s not me
you should worry about, it’s the others!’  Another of his father’s great
quips.

‘He looks
okay,’ Juliette said, as they left the hospital.  ‘I thought from what
you’d said he was going to be much worse than that.’

‘I think
flat-lining is medically considered
pretty
bad, as things go,’ he
answered, still convinced of the inevitability of his father’s demise.

 

Morton wondered whether or not you could
be fashionably late to a funeral.  They were late, fashionably or
otherwise.  They’d left in good time and with every intention of attending
the final service of the man they barely knew (or didn’t know at all in
Juliette’s case), but Morton had suggested that they take a detour to see the
destruction the explosion had wrought.  Police tape sealed off their
house, although it could no longer be described as a house; it was simply a
pile of unidentifiable, smouldering rubble.  If Morton hadn’t known
better, he would never have believed that an entire house and all its contents
could be squashed and compacted down into the heap of nothingness in front of
him.  He then understood the term ‘razed to the ground’.  Juliette
had recognised the PSCO standing guard behind the cordon, shepherding away
inquisitive neighbours and nosey rubberneckers.  The PCSO had been
surprised to see Juliette among the curious crowds, until she had told him that
the pile of wreckage used to be her home.  He told her that the murmurings
among the fire department were that Semtex
might
have caused the
explosion.
  

‘At least it
might make them investigate it if they suspect Semtex,’ Morton had said, as
they hurried to the church.  He had fully expected another cover-up and
anticipated ‘Gas Explosion Shock!’ as the headline in next week’s
Rye
Observer.

Morton found a
parking spot on Tenterden High Street, just in front of the town hall and they
hurried along past the
Woolpack Hotel
into the side of St Mildred’s
Church.  Morton couldn’t imagine a saint being named Mildred
somehow.  She sounded like an aged, plump, wartime housewife with too many
kids on her hands rather than the patron saint of something meaningful. 
Maybe she
was
the patron saint of aged, plump wartime women.
 

The standard
exterior of the church belied the vastness that Morton and Juliette found
inside, as they snuck in a few rows from the back.  The size of the
building amplified the indisputable fact that only eight people had turned up
for Peter Coldrick’s funeral (and that included the vicar and Peter himself),
his plain wooden coffin carefully balanced on a trestle in the centre of the
aisle.  Soraya was at the front with another woman who had exactly the
same hair style, whom Morton presumed to be her sister.  Two rows behind
them was an elderly couple.  Morton suddenly felt a pang of guilt for
attempting to squirm out of attending.  Then there would only have been
five living people here.  He had a sudden, unwelcome flash of his own
mother’s funeral, much of which was a blur to him.  The lasting image that
he had was of the open casket, her waxy face plastered in foundation and
eye-liner by someone who had evidently never known her in life and her
abhorrence of make-up.  At least her funeral had been well-attended. 
Standing room only.

Whilst the diminutive
vicar, sporting an obvious hairpiece, waffled through a generic funeral prayer,
Morton speculated at how many people his funeral would attract.  More than
eight, he hoped.  Was fifty a good number to aim for?  It would
depend on when he finally died, since it was natural for your circle of friends
to dwindle down to your own armchair if you hung on for long enough. 
Still, the way things were going with the
Coldrick Case,
he might not
need to worry about longevity.

As the
congregation pathetically, and almost inaudibly, stood to sing
The
Lord’s
My Shepherd
Morton made a guest list for his funeral.  He started with
immediate family - his father (assuming that he could cling to life himself),
Jeremy, Aunty Margaret, Uncle Jim, cousins Jess and Danielle - then moved on to
his friends and former work colleagues.  By the end of the lamentable song
he reckoned he could scrape forty attendees.  Maybe a few extra with
partners, husbands and wives.  Juliette, on the other hand, would fill
this church twice over.  Her funeral would be like the ones you read about
in the papers where it’s necessary to erect a screen outside for the wailing
mourners to observe the service.  The papers never reported tragic
funerals like this one which comprised only those who felt obliged to turn up.

With the song
over, the vicar returned to the pulpit and read monotonously verbatim, and
without once looking up from his script, a chronology of Peter Coldrick’s
life.  There was nothing new or noteworthy in the eulogy, just a concentration
on his skills and dedication as a father.  Then he called on Soraya.

Morton noticed
Juliette suddenly sit up and take an interest and he wondered if she’d just
nodded off or if it was due to a twinge of jealousy.  He was convinced
that the only reason Juliette had agreed to come to the funeral was to see if
Soraya posed any threat to their relationship.  She didn’t, of
course.  There was something about Soraya which meant he would never have
gone for her even if he were single.  She was attractive enough, maybe
even slightly out of his league in that regard, but there was something about
her that made him not be attracted to her at all.  Something he couldn’t
actually put his finger on or name.

Juliette seemed
satisfied that Soraya posed them no danger and resumed looking around the
church, as if she were on a nice day out and happened upon an unlocked, ancient
church and was glad of a moment’s respite from the midday sun.

Soraya’s
tribute to Peter was remarkably composed, reiterating his devotion and
commitment to Finlay.  She ended her speech by asking the congregation to
sing Peter’s favourite hymn,
All things Bright and Beautiful
. 
Morton wondered how Soraya knew what Peter’s favourite hymn was, since, by all
accounts, he had no history of religion in his life.  It seemed a curious
thing to have been discussed in a relationship that had barely developed beyond
the conception of a child.  What would Juliette say his favourite hymn had
been if he were suddenly to be shot in the head? 
He
didn’t know
what his favourite hymn was.  After three verses of
All Things Bright
and Beautiful
all Morton could come up with was
Morning Has Broken
–
was that what it was called?  And it was hardly a favourite; he’d last
sung it when he was ten years old.  He really was going to have to tell
Juliette what he wanted at his funeral.  Definitely no hymns.  Or
religion.

‘What’s my
favourite hymn?’ Morton whispered.

‘What?’

‘What’s my
favourite hymn?’

‘How the hell
should I know?’

Fair enough,
Morton thought.  It was hardly something that he could hold against
her.  What was
her
favourite hymn?  His mother’s was
Abide
With Me
and Morton could still hear the haunting organ music in his head as
her body disappeared behind the red velvet curtains for cremation.  He’d
wished then, as he wished now, that they’d buried her.  The idea of his
mother on fire appalled him.  At least if she’d been buried he’d have a
grave to visit.  Two days after her funeral he and Jeremy were parcelled
off to Aunty Margaret’s for a week so that their father could scatter the ashes
in the New Forest, apparently as per her request, something he still questioned
to this day.

The vicar
approached the pulpit.  ‘And now I’d like to ask Peter’s best friend,
Norton Farrier, to say a few words.’ 
Norton
?  His heart began
to race as he made his way to the front of the church, though he couldn’t
fathom what actually there was to be nervous about since he would be speaking
to a near-as-damn-it empty building.  Had Soraya told the vicar that
Morton was Peter’s best friend, or had the vicar embellished the pitiable truth
to create a more sociable, affable and incorrect Peter Coldrick?

Morton tugged
at the flexi-arm of the microphone so that it was level with his mouth. 
He took a deep breath and surveyed the congregation, who looked as emotionless
as if they were at a dreary matinee performance of an am-dram play.  Given
the congregation in front of him, he wondered if the reading he had chosen was
either wholly inappropriate or had hit the nail smack on the proverbial
head.  He was about to speak when he noticed a stocky man with a crew cut
silently sneak into the back of the church and sit in the row directly behind
Juliette.  Definitely not a friend of Peter Coldrick’s.  Morton
didn’t know what to do.  People were starting to stare at him.  He
had to do the reading.  He cleared his throat and began. 
If you
Should Forget Me for a While
by Christina Rossetti.  If you should
forget me for a while, and afterwards remember, do not grieve, for if the
darkness and the shadows leave a vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
better by far that you should forget and smile than that you should remember
and be sad.’

He stared out
into the congregation but the man with the crew cut had vanished.  He
ignored his hastily prepared, woolly notes that he had intended to read about
‘the wonderful man’ that was Peter Coldrick.  He was more interested in
finding this menacing visitor.  He searched the shadows at the back and
sides of the church but couldn’t see him.

‘Okay,’ the
vicar said uncertainly, advancing towards the pulpit, ‘thank you very much for
that, Norton.  I’m sure nobody in this room will forget our dear brother,
Peter anytime soon.’  Morton left the platform and returned to his seat.

‘Where did that
man go?’ Morton whispered.

‘What man?’
Juliette said.

‘He just crept
in and sat behind you.’ He wasn’t sure why but she turned just to be sure there
was nobody there.  It wasn’t like PCSO Juliette Meade 8084 to miss
something like that.  Morton began to wonder if he’d imagined it. 
After all, it was a long distance from the back of the church to the
front.  No, there had definitely been somebody there.

‘Did you get a
good look at him?’

‘Average
looking with short hair.’

‘That’ll make a
memorable e-fit,’ Juliette whispered.  ‘Not Daniel Dunk, then?’

‘No,’ Morton
said with certainty.

The
congregation stood for the final benediction.
 

‘Lord our God,
You are the source of life. In You we live and move and have our being. 
Keep us in life and death in Your love, and, by Your grace, lead us to Your
kingdom, through Your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord.  Amen.’

‘Amen’ Morton
and Juliette said, slightly out of kilter with one another.

‘There now
follows a private service at the crematorium,’ the vicar hastily leapt up to
announce.  Morton wondered if it were actually possible to have a more
private service than this.  He hoped that since Soraya hadn’t mentioned
it, Peter Coldrick’s best friend, Norton might be excused from the cremation. 
The old couple shuffled along the aisle towards them and out the back of the
church.

‘Come on, let’s
get out of here,’ Juliette said, and they made their way out into the late
afternoon sunshine.

‘I need to talk
to you about my funeral,’ Morton said.

‘What?’

‘Morton, hang
on,’ a voice called from inside the church.  It was Soraya.  She
burst out onto the steps.  ‘I just wanted to say thank you for doing the
reading, it was lovely, really.  Peter would have been very
touched.’  She looked at Juliette and smiled.  ‘You must be
Juliette?’

Juliette
offered her hand.  ‘Pleased to meet you, despite the circumstances.’

‘Likewise. 
I took his advice,’ she said, nodding her head to Morton, ‘and moved in with my
sister but I think he’s being a
teeny
bit overdramatic. Oh, which reminds
me, here’s her address.  It’s only the other side of town.’

Morton shook
his head, taking a small yellow Post-It note with a scribbled address on
it.  ‘I wish I were being overdramatic, Soraya.  They blew up our
house yesterday.’  He realised how theatrical that had sounded but there
was no way of playing it down.

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