by Peter Laws
How sad is this? LOL Only person at a funeral. #YOLO
Funerals reminded him of a simple, shitty fact: that when it comes down to it, we all die alone. Every one of us. No hand to guide us. No soft whisper in our ear to say you’re home, little one, you’re home. All those relationships we grow and nurture over a lifetime are just hurtling daily towards this.
Cold, quiet, in a box. On our own.
He was starting to bum himself out so he shook his head and checked that his phone was still on silent. There were no messages from Larry Forbes, but he hoped that by the end of the day Worthington might have come up with something from the Holmes 2 computer search. He slipped the phone back in his pocket, then sat on an old wooden chair near the entrance. Like a kid waiting to see the head teacher.
The strains of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ moved through the wood and then Chris started to preach a sermon. Usually at these things (when there was no family present) the undertakers and care staff just wanted things over with quickly. Shove ’em in, hit the switch, go pick up the next box. A sort of fast-food, Ronald MacDonald version of death. He’d seen vicars follow suit and sing one verse of a hymn, pray the Lord’s Prayer as quick as the terms and conditions on a cinema ad, and that was it.
It turned out that Chris was different. He took his time, even to an audience of one. Two if you counted the guy in the box.
He started to speak.
‘One of the most positive-thinking songs in the world’ – he spoke loudly, with confidence – ‘has got to be “Pack Up Your Troubles”. We all know how it goes. “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile”. In both world wars and beyond, it’s been the anthem for hopefulness and looking on the bright side. I bet our deceased friend, Reginald Arthur Keech, sang it many times in his life, growing up in Basildon, through his years at the Boys’ Brigade, and especially through his times fighting in the Royal Navy. All those years at sea. And maybe he sang that song recently, as he battled the toughest enemy of his life, bowel cancer … and lost. But still, that song would have given him comfort, as it did for millions. What’s the use of worrying? It says, it’s really not worthwhile.
‘And how true that is. Jesus said it himself: worrying and stressing in life won’t add a single hour to it. In fact it will take life away. Yes, stress will literally shave the days off us. We keep heartache in and it chews us up. Unreleased, unexternalised, it becomes the cancer of the soul. But let me ask you. Is it really so easy to grab our tragedies, our sadness, and pack them up in that old kit bag? I’m afraid it isn’t.
‘You see, it’s a little known fact that the man who wrote the music to “Pack up Your Troubles” was called Felix Lloyd Powell. And in 1942, he dressed himself in the uniform of the Peacehaven Home Guard, took his rifle and shot himself through the heart.
‘For him he found that his old kit bag simply wasn’t big enough to hold all the sorrows of this world. And no amount of singing or whistling that ditty was going to make that bag any bigger.
‘Felix Lloyd Powell took his own life, and let me tell you … I shudder to think where he whistles that tune now. Because it’s not just suicides that go to hell. The truth breaks the heart … it’s anyone who doesn’t have faith. Who’s never felt the loving touch of Christ’s forgiveness. Making them new. God forbid that we end up in that position.’
Chris stopped speaking and there was a long pause. So long that Matt wanted to push open the door just to see if everyone hadn’t run off. But then it started again.
‘But, you know, Jesus Christ has a kit bag big enough to hold every sorrow. Cos he is a man of sorrows. He said if we are born of water and the spirit we will inherit the kingdom of God. And we’ll live with him for ever.
‘So it’s my ardent prayer that Reginald Arthur Keech will have thrown his soul deep into the arms of Christ. And perhaps he did. Who knows which angel might have come to him in those final moments. When his heart stopped, did his new home begin? Was he transported from this decaying ball of rock to the glorious beyond? Because, after all, heaven is healing. The only healing that matters, in the end. If he took God’s hand and let the Almighty wash him clean, then we know that as we mourn Reginald on this dark, lonely earth he now sits by the Lord’s right hand, charting new waters, new seas. And he smiles, smiles, smiles.
‘But if he didn’t turn to Christ then perhaps he appears to us today as a warning from the Lord. The proverbial head on a stick, like warriors used to display on the old roads. But not from a God of hate or malice: from one who longs for his people to renounce their sins and escape the lake of fire.
‘So where will you pack up your troubles?’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘I guess I’m speaking to you, Penny, since you’re the only one here. Will you pack up your troubles in a flimsy bag that only has room for one catchy little song? A happy little tune, which came from the pen of a fatally depressed man who ended his own life in despair? Or will you give your troubles to the creator and saviour of the universe, who can hold every song, both happy and tragic?
‘Choose him. Always, choose him. For with him, death is not the end. Merely the end of the beginning. But without him, it is the beginning of something else. An eternal storm. It’s not popular to talk about, these days. But, by God, it’s the sad, sad truth.
‘And so may the blessing of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit be with us all, ever more. Amen.’
There was a moment of silence, and Matt listened to the words of Chris’s sermon echoing in his head, the hell-obsessed rhetoric that kept springing from this church, not to mention the insistence of heaven being some place ‘out there’, some celestial cloud world where believers were shipped after their hearts stopped. Didn’t these guys even read their Bibles? Didn’t the texts tend to say that heaven wouldn’t be elsewhere, but would be this very earth? Renewed. Weren’t they aware that much of the fiery chasms and pitchfork-prodding images of hell came more from Hollywood and Dante and Milton than the Bible?
But at exactly the same moment as his theological posturing his mind was flashing up a depressing image of Lucy and Amelia and Wren and him, trousers rolled up to their ankles, skeleton feet lolling in the lake of fire.
Wow, he thought, crematoriums make me Gothic.
The strains of the organ began. And exhausted from last night, he found himself standing again, tilting his head towards the melody.
He recognised the tune as Chris’s tinny voice hummed out of the speaker like a wasp.
A shiver ran through his skin.
The song of Arima Adakay, reaching for him from the noodle-covered floor. And the song of the schizophrenic Ian Pendle, singing as he sat there stark naked in Matt’s mother’s armchair, fingers painted in the crusty brown-red of her life, chewing the ragged slug of her top lip.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now I’m found,
Was blind but now I see.
Matt closed his eyes and felt the tiredness from last night plunge his feet through the carpet. It was impossible not to drop into the memory of that day. Impossible. And the echo of Pendle’s mocking voice started to sing into his head as he went down, as sure as if the man’s bloodied lips were pressed against Matt’s ear with that same tone of smug entitlement.
The Lord has promised good to me,
My hope he will secure.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.
Pendle waving at him with a happy face (happy because he saw himself as forgiven), waving from somewhere up above Matt as he fell down some bottomless pit in the floor. And as Matt breathed in he was amazed and disgusted at how much the black metal studs that ran through the wooden panels in here smelt like his mother’s blood.
The music surged.
You’ve never dealt with this.
He pushed his fingers into the bridge of his nose, and squeezed. And there he was.
Is.<
br />
Landing with an ankle-snapping bump into Dunwich Village Hall, at his mother’s funeral. Standing up and finding he’s twenty-five and everyone’s wincing and putting down their teacups to see the spectacle of it. As his mum’s friend from church, Sylvia, is distraught, losing it in fact, she’s leaning across a serving plate filled with sausage rolls, jabbing her fingernail at him, saying, ‘You know the real reason, don’t you? The real reason why your mum took Ian Pendle in?’
Her husband, tugging at her to stop. ‘Sylvia … leave the lad alone.’
‘I will not, Barry. He should know.’
Matt’s own voice, uneven, watery. Little more than a whisper, ‘Know what?’
‘Matt, she took Pendle in for you. For you! Cos you’d been ranting on the phone to her, hadn’t you?’
He pressed the bridge of his nose harder, the skin turned white. The hymn, the memory, was seeping through the wall of the crematorium and crawling up his legs.
‘You told her that church was a waste of time, didn’t you? That it never did anything practical for people. Too much praying, not enough doing … that’s what you told her. Wasn’t it?’
‘For God’s sake, Sylvia, the lad’s just buried his—’
‘She took him in for you, Matt. Don’t you get that? She didn’t want to, because she was terrified, but she did it for you. To show Christians could care, that she was as brave as you. She thought you might stick with church because you’d see your old mum trying to make an actual difference. And look where it got her.’
‘Sylvia!’
‘See what you did, Matt?’ Sylvia sobbing now. ‘To the best friend I ever had? But you’ll run from this, little Matthew Hunter. You’ll run. Because that’s what you do. Like your dad, you always run.’
A sudden tap on Matt’s shoulder shot a charge through his body.
Chris Kelly swam into his vision.
‘You look pale.’ Chris said.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Are you ill? Would you like some water?’
‘We need to talk, Chris.’
The blonde woman came wandering out of the chapel area, her face gaunt, and Matt spotted a damp line where a tear had fallen down her cheek. She reached over to Chris and shook his hand.
‘Are you okay, Penny?’ Chris said.
She hesitated before touching his hand. ‘I suppose you tell it like it is, Pastor.’
‘Somebody has to. See you in church on Sunday?’
She clearly had no idea how to answer that because she seemed to nod and shake her head at the same time so that it just moved in an awkward circle. Then she hurried out. Raced out in fact. They watched her leave and it was only when the door was fully closed that Chris spoke. ‘Did you listen to the service?’ He motioned towards the chapel. ‘You were here the whole time?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the sermon, did you hear that?’
‘Every cheery word.’
‘That’s good. You should hear those things, and from the white of your cheeks it looks like it made you think. Maybe the Holy Spirit got you a little, ey?’ Chris smiled softly and started to gaze around the chapel foyer. ‘It’s a pretty little place this, isn’t it? I own it, by the way. Well, the church does. I often come down here and sit. It’s a great place to pray and ref—’
‘A body’s been found. This morning.’
The smile that had been plastered on Chris’s face since he’d spoken to Penny slowly started to sink. Matt counted the seconds until he said something.
Six.
‘Is it Tabitha Clarke?’
‘We aren’t sure yet. But we think it might …’ Just then Matt paused. Deliberately. To leave it hanging. He felt like a game show host, We’ll tell you the identity of this week’s cadaver, right after this break. ‘We think it might be Isabel Dawson. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Chris. But it looks like she threw herself from the falls last night.’
Chris’s expression didn’t change. He waited for a long moment then he started to do something odd.
He walked backwards.
One step, then two, then three. A pause, then four. Distancing himself until he was a few feet away.
‘Chris?’
He said nothing.
‘Chris? Did you hear what I said?’
Chris’s lips were so dry that when they finally went to open they peeled apart, as if they might make a sound like Sellotape. But what came out of the emerging hole wasn’t speech. Instead, he sang. His voice was tuneful, but tiny and weak.
‘Pack up your troubles … in your old … kit bag …’
‘Chris?’
‘… and smile … smile … smile.’ His eyes were grey, staring through Matt like he was made of water, then he said the words, rather than singing them: ‘What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile.’
‘Chris, how about we sit down.’
He started to shake his head and then pulled a trembling hand to his mouth. He bit the nail of his little finger, peeling the white tip completely off, tearing a little into the skin. Then he let his arm drop down again. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘I never said it was.’
Silence.
‘Chris?’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘I told you. I didn’t say—’
‘But do you want to know something?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know who did do it. I know who dragged Izzy up there and pushed her off.’
Matt took a step toward him. ‘You’ve got to tell me, Chris.’
Chris lifted the little finger again, now holding a bead of blood where he’d torn the skin. Then he curled the other fingers back so the bloody one pointed towards Matt. ‘It was you.’
‘What?’
‘You did it.’ Chris moved closer, little finger prodding forward. ‘You did it. And maybe people should know.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The second you burst through that door the other day, you sealed her fate. Not me.’ His eyes flicked to the floor then back up, shimmering with tears. ‘She wasn’t even baptised.’ Another bite of the fingernail. Pulling off a full line of skin. ‘My God, what have you done?’
‘Chris, this isn’t my—’
The sudden shout that sprang from Chris’s lips made Matt’s eyes flicker. ‘Suicides go to hell! They all do!’ Then Chris just wiped away a tear, turned on his feet and headed to the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To call her mother. And to pray for Izzy’s soul. Though I know it’s too late.’
‘I told you, we don’t even know if it’s definitely her yet.’
‘Oh, it’s her. I know it is.’ He turned back and actually smiled. ‘And you know it too, don’t you? So I’ll pray for her unbaptised soul. And I’ll pray for you too, Matt. You’re my friend but … but maybe you shouldn’t have come to Hobbs Hill. Maybe it was a mistake bringing you here. Because you’re running too far from him and you’re letting the demons in.’
‘What demons?’
‘I can see one. It stands with you.’
‘What demon?’
‘Since I saw you at the Purging, and ever since. I saw a shape with you. A figure. I hoped I was wrong.’ His eyes flicked across Matt’s shoulder and he seemed to shiver. ‘Matt, it’s with you right now.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘I think the dark has its eye on you, Matt. But I pray that God can wash your hands of …’
‘Of what?’ Matt was the one shouting now. ‘Wash my hands of what?’
‘Of the blood.’ And then, quietly, with tears in his eyes. ‘Of all that blood.’
It came quick, the lunge towards Chris, the grabbing of his shirt and pushing him against the door, with a slam of wood. The hissing, breathy words, directed straight into his face. ‘You don’t know me,’ Matt barked at him. ‘You don’t know me!’
All that blood. Pooling in plates of lamb and carrots.
His fingers scurryi
ng up Pendle’s chest, just so he might reach his throat. Where he could grab and press and kill. Press his boot in till he heard the pop.
Matt gasped at himself, and uncurled his fingers from Chris’s shirt. But Chris had already pulled himself free and had flung the door open. It cracked against the wall and the sound shocked Matt out of … it. Whatever it was.
Chris marched over to his car, a new-looking Insignia, which was parked in the designated minister’s space. And Matt watched it jerk back hard in reverse. The driver’s window came down and when Chris’s head appeared, there were tears running down his cheeks. ‘Don’t you realise, Matt … that God gets angry? He gets very, very angry.’ And his face was identical to how it had been in the back of that bus, all those years ago on the night of frost and soft, falling snow. There was fear in his eyes, but he could tell it wasn’t for himself.
It was for Matt.
Chris looked back at the road and surged the car forward, racing off up the lane. The engine screamed as it rushed through the heavy iron gates of the crematorium.
Matt just looked at the tips of the trees swaying in the breeze, and felt his own shallow breath drawing in an unexpected smell. The rotten food and vinegar stench of Arima Adakay.
He blinked a few times. Confused. Assuming this was all just exhaustion.
It’s not like he blamed himself for Isabel’s death. If anything, Chris Kelly’s specialist therapy had pushed a psychologically vulnerable woman to the edge. Literally. But that sickly echo of ‘Amazing Grace’ mocked him; it pushed its accusing fingers deep into the tapioca mush of his brain. Bringing everything down to the only sentence that mattered. In all of it.
She took him in for you, Matt. To please you.
He looked down at the carpet and for a moment he thought if he were to turn around, he might see something was with him after all. Something that had crawled out of Arima Adakay and followed him home.