by Jim Kelly
He walked away, along a path which led towards the row of pines which shrouded the public graves. There was a spot here, on the edge of the cemetery, where they buried children. Most of the graves held flowers and toys. A single grave lay open, a trestle beside it, artificial turf set around on three sides. A ditch marked the boundary with the fen. Even now, at the end of an arid summer, there was water flowing slowly by, heading north. This spot felt more like the open fen than graveyard, the black soil running into the distance.
Dryden heard them coming and was ready but he hadn’t expected David Yoruba to carry the coffin. He set it on the trestle. A Catholic priest stood mouthing prayers to himself, Carney, the undertaker, at his shoulder.
Gill Yoruba came to Dryden and took his hand. ‘Thank you. You found her for us. Should I ask how?’
‘Trust me,’ said Dryden.
They heard gravel scatter behind them and Humph appeared, sweating, a clean handkerchief in one hand.
‘They’re taking David after we’ve buried her,’ she said. ‘The tribunal found against him. They’ll go to Brize Norton, then a flight back to Niger. I’ll follow. He wants you to deal with the documents he left you?’
Dryden nodded.
‘We don’t know what will happen. But this is a comfort. It’s a place to come back to.’
The shadow of the priest slid over the coffin.
David Yoruba lowered the coffin using linen tapes, and then they sprinkled earth in the grave. Humph rearranged his feet at the edge as if he might fall over. Dryden went last. He held the handful of peaty clay for several seconds then raised it up high, letting the dust slip through his fingers, mixing earth and sky.