Something You Are (27 page)

I blinked, hard, starting to feel light-headed from the drugs. It felt good, these brief holidays from serious thought. It crossed my mind that Mark would like her.

‘Are you OK?' I asked. ‘You know, the rent's going to run out soon.'

‘Then I'll be packing, won't I? I'm sick of this place anyway, and it feels weird with Meds dying upstairs and… I mostly sleep down here now anyway. I believe in ghosts, right, but I would freak the fuck out if I had to see him drifting about with his endless fucking insulin shots. He'd be the worst haunting ever.' She paused. ‘I miss that lad a bit. I miss Ems something rotten… What a waste, man, what a waste.'

I had considered telling her about Pat and Clare, but decided there was little point. I kept thinking, ‘Let it go. Let. It. Go.' It was a waste. She had no idea how much of a waste it had been.

I pulled her closer against me.

She let out a snort of amusement, but went along with it.

‘How are you spending the holidays?' I said, on the verge of dropping off.

‘Dunno, the usual?' She gestured a lot when she spoke, up into the air. ‘I'll probably get pissed on WKD, watch
Love Actually
and cry.'

‘Sounds fine to me.'

‘Oh, and do a bit of a dancing in front of the mirror with a hairbrush.'

‘Funny, I was going to do
exactly
the same thing.'

She punched me on the arm, laughing. ‘Ha, you big gay.'

We arrived too late for introductions, but it gave me the excuse I needed to sit at the back unnoticed. There were flags everywhere, rows and rows of people wearing uniforms with medals pinned to their chests.

I saw Mark scanning the congregation for Harriet and my parents as we sat down; he had a David Attenboroughesque fascination with where I had come from, much like me with his background.

‘He doesn't look much like you,' Mark whispered.

I followed his gaze to the picture of Tony, many rows in front, and was shocked by the recollection of his features. His face had become a blur to me in recent months. I tried to feel something, but couldn't. I even tried to recall specific memories, from the times when I was young and still fond of him, but they didn't work.

‘Yeah, he looks like Mum,' I said. ‘Got the blond hair. The fucking pretty boy, Harri used to call him.'

I tried to catch a glimpse of Harriet but gave up. My suit was irritating me.

An imposing man in military uniform cleared his throat to say something, and started reading a poem.

‘“You risked your life for others, each and every day…”'

‘Fuck's sake,' I muttered.

‘What?'

‘I just knew this was going to be shit.'

I got the impression that Mark hadn't believed me when I'd told him in the car why I hadn't wanted to come. He thought my reluctance was some kind of symptom of grief and not genuine resentment.

Harriet and I would never be afforded this level of
air-brushing
.

Mark looked perplexed.

‘Talk about mythologizing,' I said, by way of explanation.

I could hear Mum crying already. It was an unfamiliar and distressing sound, dragged out of my memory. The last time I had heard Mum cry was when one of my uncles had died, her younger brother who lived in Inverness. I'd been young, ten or eleven, and only heard it through her bedroom wall. At that age I didn't even believe parents were capable of swearing, let along crying.

‘“And we loved and respected your courage, more than you understood…”'

I could smell flowers and taste copper.

The man's voice reverberated against stone.

I felt like ripping one of the fake plastic wreaths out of someone's hands and strangling him with it.

I remembered the day it had happened and I had come home, shaking so much I was unable to even use my key. Tony had looked up and down the street, hand around the sleeve of my coat lest I make a run for it. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ…' he had said, before dragging me inside.

I remembered being yanked up the stairs and into the bathroom, hauled into the bath and hosed down, being told over and over again, ‘You don't tell Mum and Dad about this, you hear me? How could you have been so damn stupid! You don't tell anyone! You don't tell anyone!'

I remembered that he had washed the blood off, thrown
the clothes away and forced me to recite an alibi. I had cried until my head hurt, and did as he ordered. But when Dad got home from work I still told him everything.

Tony stopped speaking to me, and didn't start again for over three years, when I was out of incarceration. He didn't even visit, so total was his sense of betrayal. The way he had seen it, he had tried to help me and I had thrown it back in his face.

‘“Your efforts will impact generations…”'

As far as my parents were concerned, any attempted cover-up had been mine, and they would never know any different. If I had known from a younger age that your job as a human being was just to lie like everyone else, then maybe my funeral would have stood a better chance of looking like this.

‘“Through lives saved and all the good you did.”'

There was a commotion at the front, muffled voices…

Mark sat up straighter to catch a glimpse of any drama.

Harriet was walking back up the aisle with a hand covering her eyes, ignoring the startled eyes following her. She was wearing a black dress and high heels that she didn't look used to walking in.

On her way out of the door she kicked over one of the stands holding the hymn books.

I hovered, half on and half off my seat, before following her at a jog.

Harriet had stormed off across the graveyard, pausing only to take her high heels off and throw one of them at a headstone. She lit a cigarette and sat down on a tomb with her back to me.

Shivering, I zipped my coat up over my suit and called out, ‘Hey, I want my money back!'

She turned, and rolled her eyes.

‘I was expecting pyrotechnics, to be honest,' I said, sitting on the tomb beside her. ‘Gi's a cigarette?'

She handed me one and lit it for me.

I was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

‘You OK?'

‘Fuck, no…' She sniffed. ‘I fucking
hate
him, Nic. I can't help it. Listening to all that just makes me feel
literally
sick. I couldn't stay.'

Of course she wasn't crying over Tony. Fury was the only thing that could get tears out of her, even as a child. It was as close to human feeling as she got.

‘I like to think he'd rather we just went out and got hammered anyway.' I glanced down at the name of the man we were sitting on. ‘Is this technically disrespecting the dead? Mr… Lionel Charles Carthew.'

Mark climbed on to the tomb next to me, lighting his own cigarette with an amused expression. ‘Na, I think he likes the company.'

‘Harri, this is Mark. Mark, this is Harri, my sister.'

Harriet craned her neck around me and stuck out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, finally. Sorry about this vomit-fest.'

‘Na, I love a good funeral.' Mark took a drag and gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘And by funeral I might mean free buffet.'

‘Free bar too, it's a bloody rave.' Harriet winked at me. ‘He's cool.'

‘So you're not saying anything?' I asked.

‘No, the army lads have got it. Plus, I couldn't possibly finish a eulogy. I'd keep gagging on the smell of burning martyr.' She kicked her heels against the stone and I saw the beginning of a ladder by her big toe. ‘Hey, how are things going with that married woman?'

I exchanged glances with Mark.

‘Didn't really come to anything, Harri.'

‘Sucks… It's true though, they never leave their wives, or husbands, whatever. You're better off well shot of anyone married, trust me.'

It was strange, thinking about Clare here. She belonged so solidly in fantasy that I couldn't superimpose her image on to anything real, like my family, or other locations. In a way, it made sense that in dying she had got what she wanted; she got to carry on as fantasy, without age, without failure…

I had kept the picture of her that I had drawn. That was all I had left. It was tucked into the back of another notepad, in a drawer, under another notepad. Just in case.

‘God, I know,' I said. ‘You have no fucking idea.'

I saw Mark smile to himself, but he said nothing else on the subject.

For the next half an hour the three of us chatted nonsense and finished a packet of cigarettes between us. Mark was the first to notice when people started coming out of the church.

The coffin came first, being carried to the car by his fellow pilots, ready to be driven to the military cemetery.

‘You want a lift?' I asked Harriet, slipping down from the tomb on to the wet grass. ‘It's no trouble.'

‘Can't say no. It's got to be better than driving with Dad.'

I couldn't help checking her eyes as she answered me, searching them for any dilation out of habit, but there was nothing. I knew better than to draw attention to it, but I was impressed.

We walked back towards the congregation after Harriet found her shoes, and I started psyching myself up for an exchange with Dad. I hoped, if only for Mark's sake, that it wasn't too embarrassing.

‘Don't worry, he'll probably go easy on you,' Harriet said, as if my thoughts were visible on my face. ‘It was my turn to be the public disgrace today.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Just taking one for the team.'

I was surprised by how many people I didn't recognize. Even the ones out of uniform were strangers. I wasn't aware that Tony, or my parents, had known this many people.

I caught Dad's eyes through the crowd without meaning to, and grimaced rather than smiled.

‘Did you bring garlic?' Harriet said to Mark, snorting.

‘More like silver bullets…'

‘I left my bag in the church, I'll be with you in a sec.' She patted me on the back, as if to wish me luck, and left us.

I watched Mark, looking people up and down with interest. I was glad he had agreed to come. Not just because he was driving and allowing me to get drunk, but because it was a relief to be around at least one person who I knew would keep their cool. He was unshakable; a total fucking lighthouse.

‘Is that your mum?' he said, with a nod.

Mum was standing a few feet away, being accosted by two ladies who I assumed, from their Scottish accents, were friends of hers. In the moment of silence before she reached us I found myself face to face with Dad.

There was an awkward silence, but we managed to shake hands.

‘You had nothing to say?' were the first words out of his mouth.

‘No, I… It was great as it was.'

‘We didn't think you were going to come. Harri said you didn't sound certain on the phone.'

‘Yeah, well, you could have always called me yourself.'

He glared at me, went to move on, but spotted Mark.

‘Are you going to introduce us, Nic?' he said.

‘Dad, this is Mark. Mark, this is my dad.'

I could tell from Mark's smile that he hated him on sight, but it looked convincing enough to anyone else.

‘Your friend from work?' Dad said.

‘Yeah.'

‘Is work OK?' He looked me over, taking in the suit and the Rolex replacing his watch on my wrist. ‘You OK for money?'

I considered telling him where to get off, but it was never the right time or place. I could barely summon the anger towards his act any more; all I felt was pity.

‘Thanks, but I'm fine.'

He nodded at me, and carried on.

Mark raised his eyebrows at me, but said nothing.

It struck me that, somewhere, both sets of parents must be organizing a funeral for Pat and Clare Dyer. Possessions would be dispersed and the house sold off. I couldn't imagine anyone else in that kitchen when all I remembered it for was the blood on my forearms and slow twirls over glass. I wondered who would take the statue, or whether someone with sense would smash it to fuck.

‘You all right?' Mark said.

He probably thought too well of me for it to cross his mind that I would still be thinking about her. He expected me to be thinking about Tony, or my dad; about something more appropriate, but she was like a disease in the blood.

‘Yeah… Yeah, fuck. Let's go. At least there's brandy at home.'

He grinned and put an arm around my shoulders as we walked towards the road. ‘Brandy's for
heroes
, Mr Caruana…'

I laughed, searching my pockets for another packet of cigarettes as we passed another car flying the Union Jack.

‘I hate carols,' I said, taking out my lighter. ‘And you know what else? I fucking hate poetry too.'

Mark smiled, saluting the flag.

‘Oi.' Harriet came up behind me and slapped me across the shoulder. ‘This mate of yours is still in there, said he wants a word.'

I frowned. ‘What?'

‘When I went to get my bag there was a young guy hanging around. Glasses, kept needing an inhaler – ring any bells? Said he was there to remind you about something. I said you were outside, but—'

I was already running back towards the church, away from the cars and people and their bemused expressions. Freezing air stung my face until I'd sprinted inside, but inside there was nothing but silence and empty pews, an altar and a gold cross.

It had been difficult to sleep recently, with the nagging awareness that Tristan knew where I lived. I found myself searching for a glimpse of him out of our windows, on the tube, in the overhead mirror, looking through the windscreens of cars behind me…

I walked down the aisle, treading quietly, watching the figures painted on to the stained-glass windows. The men looked down on me, their expressions serene and their eyes, sad. In front of me was Tony's picture.
The fucking pretty boy
.

‘Tris?' I said, listening for a reply amongst the echoes, a puff from an inhaler.

Nothing.

Let it go? Like fuck…

‘Tris!' I raised my voice, feigning bravado to hide the unease. ‘Come on!'

I reached the first row of pews and something had been left on the seats. Tony's eyes followed me as I sat down opposite a book of psalms, but he was the only witness. I picked up the white plastic bottle and peeled off the paper that had been taped around it, taking another glance around the church.

It was no use. He was gone. It was as if he didn't need exits. I half expected to see him watching me from the scenes painted on the windows.

The note said,
The Chinese enjoyed the spectacle of death, Jim had decided, as a way of reminding themselves of how precariously they were alive
.

Precarious, indeed. I smiled thinly.

It was a bottle of lye.

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