Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

He and Val were like those early mappers. Each charting their own course, not even agreeing which way was up or down.

He stretched, then turned the engine on, reversed the car and set out for the funeral parlour. Glad to be sheltered in the encroaching dark.

The coffin had arrived. Val had put it in their conservatory. ‘This time of year,’ she said, ‘and they still do same-day delivery.’

We never sleep , he thought. No two-week Christmas breaks for those in the funeral business. There’d been a strike once, he remembered, of gravediggers, headlines about the dead lying unburied, corpses rotting, families distraught.

‘I’ve told the boys to come round tomorrow teatime.’ Jason’s closest friends, the lads he’d been at the pub with that last night, heartsick and passionate with all the righteous intensity of youth, wanted to be involved in celebrating Jason’s life. Val, with her customary zeal and focus, had been researching options for humanist ceremonies, eco-friendly coffins and woodland burials. She swiftly involved them in the details and asked if they would like to decorate Jason’s cardboard coffin. Now it was here, plain, dun-coloured, grotesque. Andrew went out and got the rowan tree, carried it in and stood it beside the coffin.

The phone rang. He moved to get it, but she said, ‘Don’t answer it. It’s the newspapers. They’ve been ringing every ten minutes. Over and over. I spoke to Martine, she said to ignore them, not to say a word. They’ll give up eventually.’

‘What if Mum or Dad wants us?’ The phone rang on and on.

‘I’ve told them to use our mobiles for now.’

They paused and listened. The phone sang out for another five rings, then stopped. ‘I’ll take it off the hook,’ he said.

‘I’ve tried that – it does that horrible siren noise after a bit.’

He looked at her, then went into the hall. He unplugged the base station and the telephone jack. ‘Sorted,’ he called out. ‘I’ve disconnected it.’

She didn’t answer. His neck prickled. He walked back through to the conservatory. She was sitting down on one of the rattan chairs, head in her hands, her shoulders moving as she wept.

‘Oh, Val.’ Tears started at the back of his eyes. He moved to her, moved to hold her, her crying raw and guttural and accompanied by a rocking motion. He held her and tried to soothe her, whispering in her hair. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, love. Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.’ Knowing that he couldn’t make it right, couldn’t kiss it better. That all he could do was be there and walk beside her. Even if they were making the journey in different ways, disagreeing about the direction, they must walk on because there was no other choice.

They clung to each other like that until she quietened and his feet had gone numb and his shoulder and top were damp with her tears.

He didn’t know what to say, how to move them back to the business of living, of dealing with the dead. In the end, he resorted to the basest practicalities. ‘Tea, something to eat?’

She shivered, looked at him. Grey eyes lucid and naked, red-rimmed. ‘There’s a shepherd’s pie, it’ll microwave.’

He squeezed her shoulders and clambered upright, the burn and bite of pins and needles sizzling in his legs.

She’d rallied by the time he’d got the food on the table, though he noticed she ate little as she updated him on the progress she’d made for the other arrangements. How she’d asked Jason’s friends to choose some music, but told them it would be nice to include the Bobby McFerrin song ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ . ‘Remember?’

‘Lovely,’ he said, but there was a lance in his heart.

That holiday. Driving down to Cornwall with a compilation tape that Andrew had made playing loud. All of them singing that song, rewinding it time and again for Jason, who was seven. In the wake of Val’s parents’ deaths, a horrible year, the mantra seemed tailor-made for them all. Jason had made a video on the camcorder to go with the music. Stop-motion Plasticine cat and mouse, meant to be dancing, swaying their heads to the laid-back beat, but getting the movements right had proved too difficult. The end result was hilarious, had Jason breathless and Andrew and Val in stitches.

Jason had got car-sick on the drive home. Andrew thought that navigating with the road atlas would entertain him, but before they’d reached the M5, Jason was pasty-faced and they had to stop. Val had blamed Andrew. ‘Everyone knows reading causes car sickness; what were you thinking?’ Then Jason had been sick in the car, once they were on the motorway. The reek of it was horrible and Jason was crying, and they had to wait to get to the services to try and clean him up a bit.

‘Andrew?’

‘Sorry?’ Had she said something? What had she said? He saw a flicker of displeasure.

‘The stuff for Colin’s there. I’ve emailed the text, but he wants the actual picture to scan for the cover.’

‘Right.’ Colin was doing the programme for the service. He ran a print and design company and had everything to hand. ‘I’ll take it over now.’

With nightfall and clear skies, the frost had come. Andrew scraped the ice off the car windscreen, shaving delicate white curls on to the ground.

His neighbour Robert came out of his house and paused when he saw Andrew; he half raised an arm in greeting, a muddled look on his face, then let his arm fall, nodded and strode off. Not knowing how to deal with me, Andrew realized. Embarrassed, uncomfortable.

He was almost at Colin’s when he heard his phone. He checked it once he’d parked. Missed call from LOUISE. He felt a tilt of surprise. She’d left voicemail. He pressed to retrieve the message, wondering if something had happened to Luke.

‘Hi, Andrew, it’s Louise Murray here. There was something I wanted to tell you. Ring me when you can. Bye.’

Andrew hesitated. He could ring now, but then he’d still have to go in and give Colin the file. If it was more bad news, then it might be better to call afterwards.

Colin insistedhe sit and have a coffee with him and Izzie. Their kids came through and each hugged Andrew, a simple act of fondness that threatened to unseat him.

‘How’s Val?’ Izzie asked.

Andrew shrugged and gave a rueful smile. ‘Keeping busy. I suppose after the funeral, that’s when it will really hit home.’

‘And the photofits?’ asked Colin. ‘Have they any leads?’

‘We’ve not heard. But someone must know who they are. The simple fact that there’s three of them going round together. People must know.’ But he was aware that there were cases where no one came forward. Where the wrongdoers were sheltered, protected, helped to get away with it. Could he have done that? If Jason had done something wrong, would Andrew have covered for him, told lies and hidden the truth? He couldn’t imagine it, not for something serious. Would he have seen Jason locked away?

He changed the subject, told Colin and Izzie which of the wider family were coming on the day.

Colin cleared his throat, messed with his coffee mug.

Now what? Andrew thought.

‘Mum and Dad, they’d like to do more,’ he said.

Andrew frowned.

‘They feel helpless. They’re devastated.’

‘Join the club,’ Andrew said.

Izzie blinked, taken aback.

‘Sorry,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s just… there isn’t… I can’t…’ Inarticulate, he rubbed at his head.

‘They were glad to have you there, they were worried about you leaving so soon. Mum feels like Val takes everything on herself. Perhaps too much,’ Colin said.

‘It’s just her way,’ he answered. ‘She needs to do this.’

‘But if there’s anything Mum-’ Colin persisted.