Gerald Seymour: A Deniable Death

He could see into the hearse, but only a little of the box was visible. Normal times there was a tight-pinned Union flag on it. It was shapeless and camouflaged. There seemed to be a thousand tags of green and black, soft brown and sand-coloured tabs of material woven into it. The dirt was obvious and the mud stains and… The woman, Liz – first wife – held her daughters close to her, all weeping, and Ellie had stepped off the pavement into the road and put the palm of her hand on the glass. Abigail had her face turned away as if she couldn’t halt the tears and didn’t want it known. Len stood tall and the director was at attention, stiff. His man had slipped on an old military beret and saluted. Doug Bentley’s arm was dragged down and his standard shook. He realised he had the weight of Badger to support, and did it. He thought the man so wrecked that he should have been in a hospital bed, not cold on the street of Wootton Bassett.

The stick was swung, the feet pivoted, the top hat went again onto the funeral director’s head, and he walked. The hearse followed him.

There were little shouts, could have been from the bikers: ‘Well done… Well done, mate… Well done, my boy… Well done.’

A few clapped.

The voice beside him was soft, little more than a murmur: ‘Not in your name, Foxy, and not in mine.’

The standards were raised and the order was given for them to fall out. He could take the pole from the slot without toppling the man, but the weight slackened. He separated the pole into its sections, furled the standard and stowed it. He heard little bursts of talk. The blue lights were down the street and moving away, and while he watched them they seemed to speed. The pavements were clearing fast, and there was the roar of Harleys, BMWs and Triumphs as the bikers went. The women were arm in arm, coming back to the Cross Keys and the bar and. .. He’d lost the others, Abigail and Len, the director, and the bodyguard that an important man warranted, and the policeman who had done the traffic control.

The one he had supported, Badger, threaded his way through the thinning crowds and walked badly, as if he had big blisters. He seemed to sway and the light lessened on his back.

Doug Bentley watched him as far as he could, then headed for the car park behind the big supermarket and the library, where his taxi would be waiting. He felt he had been there, wherever it was, and that he had lived through it, whatever had happened there, and was humbled to have been a part of it. He imagined sand and dirt and burning heat.

The clock on the tower struck midnight. A new day had started.

The man was gone, like it was a job done, and the High Street was empty. The night closed on him.