John Harvey: Last Rites

Derek’s glance went from the direction in which his wife was looking toward the open chapel doors, through which the clumsy sounds of the organ could already be heard. “It’s too late. They’re starting.”

“Then tell them … explain …”

He gripped her more tightly, one arm along her back, edging her forward. “He’s got held up somewhere, traffic, you know what it’s like. Roadworks, most probably. He’ll be here, you see. Now, d’you want to borrow my hankie? No? Okay, stiff upper lip then, here we go.”

Derek, serious-faced as he led her into the chapel and down toward the empty spaces reserved for them in the front row beside Sean and Sandra; the vicar standing at the center waiting, smiling now his careful smile of welcome, and everyone else leaning forward, not wanting to be seen staring but concerned, inquisitive, staring all the same. And with each step he took beside her, proud at her bravery, Derek thinking if there was any such thing as justice then Michael would not be serving life nor anything like it, Michael would have been taken from that place and hung by the neck until dead, dead as his father before him. “Okay, now?” he whispered as Lorraine stood beside him. “Okay, sweetheart?” And squeezed her hand.

The crematorium car park was full to the gills and they had to pull over against the grass verge, temporarily blocking the way. When Evan switched off the engine, the sound of singing could be heard, muffled, from behind the chapel doors.

“You take him,” Evan said, sitting round in his seat. “I’ll deal with the car. Go on. Before it’s too late.”

Preston leaned forward. “The cuffs,” he said. “I don’t want to go in there wearing no cuffs.”

Evan hesitated.

Alongside Preston, Wesley shook his head.

“Do it,” Evan said decisively. “Uncuff him.”

Disbelief in Wesley’s eyes.

“We’re wasting time.”

Out of the car, Evan moved in quickly on Preston, stopping close enough that their bodies were almost touching. “I’m trusting you,” he said. “Don’t let me down. When it’s over, you stay inside, wherever you are, let everyone else leave. That’s when the cuffs go back on. Agreed?”

Preston held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once, Evan hesitating, waiting perhaps for thanks that didn’t come. “Okay,” Evan said, stepping back.

Wesley walked with Preston toward the chapel doors, keeping approximately half a pace behind, Evan standing his ground until they had stepped inside and the doors had closed again behind them. Then, without looking either to left or right, he got back into the car and drove it slowly up toward the road.

If this goes wrong, he was thinking … And then, if this were my dad, here in my shoes, this situation, what would he have done?

It was Derek who noticed Michael first, glancing round at the sound of the heavy doors squeaking to a close. Michael standing quite still for a moment, blinking at the change of light before starting to walk slowly forward down the center aisle; the black man-his guard, Derek supposed-who had come in with him, remaining where he was. The congregation was singing a psalm about passing into the golden yonder.

Lorraine sensed Michael’s presence before she saw him, recognizing, perhaps, the weight of his footsteps, clear along the cold tiles. Like a slow wave, voices broke around her and she, almost alone, continued singing, unable to turn her head for fear she was wrong.

“Hi, Lo.” He repeated their old joke greeting close into her ear and something clutched and swept through her stomach, and then it was his hand steadying the small blue hymnal that shook between her fingers. “Budge up.”

To Lorraine’s left, Derek moved along to make room, edging the children closer to the wall; Lorraine standing there with Michael’s shoulder touching hers, his elbow hard against her upper arm. The warmth of him. Lorraine terrified she might cry out, faint.

The last sounds of the organ echoed to a halt and the vicar stepped forward, head raised, waiting for silence before beginning to speak.

“We are here to celebrate the life of a remarkable woman; one to whom life presented a more than usually difficult path. A path which many of us would have found too arduous or too long, yet one which Deirdre traveled with great fortitude and grace.” The voice was oddly high and clear, somehow both old and young. “She was a valued member of the community, a willing worker, and, as the presence of so many of you here today testifies, a loyal and much-loved friend. Perhaps above all, though, we will remember her as a devoted mother, the loving and strong center of her family, a rock of consolation and forgiveness which held firm in the face of adversity of a singular and most terrible kind.”

Lorraine sensed Michael tense beside her, heard his breathing change, a low clearing of his throat. Behind them, the chapel was silent, poised. For a moment, she thought that Michael might be about to move, step forward, speak. Then she realized that he was crying, making no effort to disguise it, tears that curled around the corners of his mouth, ran without let or hindrance down his face.

“If there is one thing,” the vicar continued, “we should remember most about the life of Deirdre Preston, it is that, no matter what the pain she suffered, no matter the magnitude of sorrow and sadness she was forced to face, she never once sank into despair, she never lost her faith.

“Now, in silence, let us each remember Deirdre in our own way, and let us pray for her soul, now and everlasting …”

Lorraine and Michael, standing there together: Michael staring upward, the ceiling blurred by tears; Lorraine bent forward, eyes closed, long fingers winding restlessly in and out, sobbing. Happy.

“I’ve already fucking told you,” Billy Scalthorpe insisted, his voice a raw whine against the backdrop of overlapping conversations. “How many more fuckin’ times?”

Carl Vincent shifted his weight on to his other foot. “How about once more?”

“Okay. Mark’s walkin’ out, right? Me and Adam, we’re arguin’ the toss up at the counter, Adam wants Coke without ice, and what they’ve give him is Coke with ice. Anyway, I turn me head, gonna shout to Mark to hang on, right? And there’s these two blokes come at him from both sides and before you can fuckin’ do anythin’ they’ve shot him in the fuckin’ head. Legged it out of here like they was in the fuckin’ Olympics.”

“Into a car, yes? There was a car waiting?”

Scalthorpe shook his head. “I didn’t see no car.”

Three different witnesses had spoken of a black four-door saloon, a Ford, most probably an Escort.

“But you saw them, the pair who attacked him?”

“Course I fuckin’ saw ’em.”

“You recognize them?”

“What?”

“These two, you knew who they were?”

“’Course I never.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Never seen them before?”

“I dunno.”

“Then you might have?”

“Yeh, I might. S’pose I might.”

“But you claimed not to have recognized them.”

Scalthorpe shook his head in amazement. “They was fuckin’ runnin’ away. All I saw was the backs of their fuckin’ heads, wa’n it? Fuckin’ baseball caps, arse to front, like they all wear.”

“All?”

“You know what I mean.”

Scalthorpe held Vincent’s stare for a moment, then blinked. A rosary of tiny white spots circled his mouth, mingling here and there with wisps of fledgling mustache. Vincent smiled: the two attackers were black, most probably a similar shade of black to himself. Yes, he knew what Scalthorpe meant. And if a leading sports commentator could claim, without embarrassment, not to be able to distinguish between one black soccer player and another, what else could he expect?