Chapter 15.
The funeral’s at two. Just enough time to get there, say goodbye to my mortal remains, and get to the pub to have a few beers before Jason turns up. Perfect. I wonder how many people will be there.
Three. If you exclude the priest, and me, there’s three people there. Brilliant. And one of them’s Patience. We skip saying anything in the church, because no one’s got anything to say. Not even the priest, who stumbles and mumbles his way through a few words, gets my name wrong, or forgets it, and reaches under his stand for a hip flask when he thinks no one is looking. He ushers us outside, and Patience grabs my arm, links hers into mine and shuffles with me on the cold stone floor of the church towards the door and out into the graveyard.
It’s a cold spring day, black clouds above us casting everything into a black and white glow as we walk to the end of the graveyard, our small procession, following the priest through the twists and tangles of weeds, covering the gravestones, through a small, forgotten path towards the dead, forgotten bits of grass at the end. We seem to have to walk an amazingly long way, through overgrown bushes and in and out of trees, until we get to a small, empty patch of land next to a broken stone wall that separates the churchyard from the countryside beyond.
We stand together, there’s no grave, only a small shallow of earth that’s been dug up, and a small box that the priest carries in front of him. A black plastic box with the ashes of John Paris inside. The ashes of John Paris and the soul, I guess, of Mark Forth. It starts to rain as the priest stops, standing in front of the hole and looking awkwardly around at us. He nods at me, and casts a dubious look at Patience. I guess because she’s wearing a flowery summer dress, with light colours and happy flowers, I’m guessing, on it, though I’m not the best judge of flowers. She gives him a huge smile and tugs on my arm. She’s seriously heavy and I can feel my feet dragging down into the muddy grass of the graveyard just from supporting her. I’m wearing smart black shoes and can feel the mud start to seep into them, into my socks. I glance at the other people there for the first time. A man , in his thirties I guess, long black hair and a greasy face like he was still a teenager, like his clothes; a long black leather coat over tight black trousers and a black t-shirt. He keeps glancing over nervously at me, at the priest, and at Patience, and keeping his distance from the last person there, a woman who just looks so out of place.
She’s good looking, not beautiful but she has something compelling about her, something in her face that makes me watch her, and reminds me of something, something on the edge of my mind that I just can’t seem to get. She’s dressed well, a smart black jacket over a dress and fancy shoes, and she’s looking at the priest as he stands there, uncertain. She looks bored, detached, as if she doesn’t care, as if she doesn’t want to be there, and I wonder why she is there, wonder what has brought her here. The rain is coming down harder now, Patience is pushing against me, as if she wants to keep warm, shelter herself from the rain. You can even see the priest’s hands shaking, his black robe shivering, as he looks over us, eyes darting from one to the other, hoping that someone is going to say something. The woman doesn’t care, doesn’t even seem to notice the eyes on her as she taps, taps, taps, silently on her wristwatch. She glances at it, then glances up, as if she has to be somewhere else, as if the funeral is just a minor inconvenience, like the rain wetting her hair and clothes.
Eventually the priest seems to realise he’s going to have to do something. He coughs and says in a low, dull voice “Would anyone like to say anything about John Paris before we lay him to rest?”
He glances at the woman, but she eyes him coolly, and doesn’t say anything. Out of her handbag she takes a packet of cigarettes, removes one and places it in one of those cigarette holders that you used to see sophisticated Russian women use. She places it to her lips and blows out a perfect smoke ring, before looking away, bored.
The priest gulps and turns to look at me. I clear my throat then realise I don’t have anything to say. Patience squeezes my arm.
“Oh, don’t ask him, father, he didn’t know him, he just helped him die” she says. Everyone looks at me, and then Patience giggles, “Oh no, I didn’t mean that, what I meant was that he was the doctor that looked after him when he died. Such a lovely man to come to the funeral and pay his last respects” she sniffs. The priest looks gravely at me. “Thank you, my friend, for making the effort. As you can see, John didn’t have a lot of friends, he was a little lonely and a bit of a loser…” (for God’s sake, not the priest as well)… “so it’s good to see that, even for people like him, there are people who look out for him.”
Patience lets go of my arm, smiles and claps, the rest of us all seem to look down at the sodden earth. The priest kneels down and gently places the box into the hole, then, painfully, gets back up, and kicks earth into the hole, just covering it. You can still see the edges of the box poking through.
The priest sighs. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. May the soul of John Paris find peace wherever he is now, a peace he obviously didn’t find in this cruel and godforsaken life.” Even I realise these are strange words for a priest, but I don’t know what to say, I don’t have anything to say. The priest takes one last look at the remnants of the hole, and trudges off back where to where we came from. The woman drops her half-finished cigarette into the hole, on top of the box, letting it smoulder in the rain, and is gone.
The other man nods at me and steps over, closer. Through the rain his face is a little blurred as he speaks. “Don’t have a ciggie I could have do you? I would have asked the Ice Queen but…” he trails off, not needing to explain. I nod and fish out a packet, and my last three cigarettes disappear as we stand in the rain, smoking. “Do you know who she was?” I ask.
The man nods sadly. “Well, I don’t know a lot, cos I didn’t really know John, but she was kind of like a friend of his… sort of…”
“Oh really, dear?” asks Patience. “She didn’t really seem his type. She was very…. sophisticated.” The man wraps his arms around himself to keep warm. “Yeah, well, I think he had kind of a thing for her, you know…And I dunno. Nah, he never really got anywhere with her, course you can see that can’t you, I dunno, maybe she felt guilty.”
“She didn’t look very guilty, darling” says Patience. “Looked like she was bored out of her mind. Stuck up bitch” and she laughs.
“Yeah, well, like I say, I didn’t really know John, just a bit that I heard, innit. I was hoping that his brother would be here, you know, Mike?” he says hopefully, looking at me, but I can just shrug.
“Oooh, don’t get me started on Mike…” says Patience. The man glances at her. “All right then, I won’t. But he was my mate, way back, I was hoping that he’d be back for John’s funeral. Haven’t seen him since he left, you know, years ago. After their mum and dad died. I’m really surprised he’s not here, to be honest. Him and John were dead different, but he always looked out for John. You know, at school, when he was being bullied, and at home, with their dad. You know, don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but their dad was a fucking psycho.” He sighs, drops his cigarette onto the sodden earth and stamps on it. “Poor fucker, John, probably best off where he is, never had an easy life. Anyway, maybe I’ll try some of the pubs, see if I can find Mike. Maybe he is around to pay his respects. Nice to meet you.” And he follows the path back into the undergrowth, and is gone.
“Well” sniffs Patience, “perhaps we should warm ourselves up with a nice hot cup of cocoa in front of a warm fire. I look her up and down. “Sorry, got an appointment this afternoon” I say, relieved. Well, so maybe I didn’t have any friends, but at least I can say I’ve been to my own funeral.
Kings of the Night Page 22