I noticed there were one or two photographers and persons with notebooks or mini-cassette recorders, no doubt journalists from both the local and national newspapers. It wasn’t just my death that was big news; it was to do with the fact that I was one among four suspected of being murdered by the same killer. It was the serial killer who was the real news, but my funeral would help fill extra space. I also spotted another photographer taking shots of the crowd, but he did not look like the other photo-journos—he’d bothered to wear a dark suit and black tie. I realized he was a police lensman, there hopefully to catch a shot of anyone acting suspiciously, a loner, someone who was not part of the general gathering. The police were looking for their killer here and I began to scan the mourners more intensely myself.
Nobody looked out of place to me though. I did spy the two police detectives who had attended the scene of crime at the hotel. Coates and Simmons, if I remembered correctly. Then someone else caught my eye, a lone figure standing on a small grassy knoll beneath a tree, perfectly still as he watched proceedings. Now this was the odd part.
Although he was at least three hundred yards away, somehow I knew he was looking directly at me. He was tall, but his figure was vague, kind of washed out as if he were a faded colour reproduction on thin film. Despite that, there was something familiar about him; I knew I’d seen him somewhere before. Thing was, I couldn’t remember where.
And as I observed him, he raised an arm as if waving to me. Then he was gone. Vanished. A true ghost you might say.
23
Andrea didn’t hold a proper wake for me. It was more of an exclusive reception back at the house, only a chosen few amongst the mourners invited. I understood perfectly: what wife would want a big memorial party when her husband had been murdered so vilely? Speaking for myself, I wasn’t in the mood for one either. All I wanted to do was get close to Primrose, put my invisible arms around her, and whisper in her ear: “Don’t worry about Daddy.”
It was a suitably sombre affair, and to my relief and, I’m sure, to Andrea’s, people soon made their excuses and began to leave. At least now, in the house, I was the subject of most conversations, particularly when they were between my wife and guests. I caught some nice comments about myself and began to wallow in the discovery that I was a pretty good guy, a brilliant art director who could also produce slick but smart copy headlines and had a keen sense of humour. I started to like myself a bit more—my former self, that is. Sydney Presswell was one of the first to leave and I had to smile. Typical Sydney; business took precedence over all else, even the death of a friend and colleague. It was a weekday after all (although I had no idea what day it was now) and I kind of admired him for his pragmatism. I wondered if they were still going to pitch for that new banking account and decided no, there wouldn’t be time enough to bring in another creative team, brief them, and produce first-rate work. Maybe he and Oliver would let it go out of respect for me. Ollie certainly wouldn’t be in any condition to see it through.
Others soon followed and I sat on the stairway outside the lounge and watched them depart. Although not all the mourners who had attended the funeral had been invited back to the house, the lounge had been full to overflowing and some of the guests had spilled into the kitchen. I’d kept my eyes on Primrose through the lounge doorway for most of the time as she sat on her granddad’s lap in an armchair; her face wan, cheeks grubby from wiped tears. I noticed that my mother had not returned from the crematorium, obviously having cadged a lift from someone or, more likely, had herself dropped off at the first tube station or taxi rank along the route. Andrea had been a tower of strength, going from group to group, making sure everyone had something to eat—tiny sandwiches and vol-au-vents—and enough to drink—sherry or hard liquor, as well as tea and soft stuff. Occasionally, I would see Oliver squeeze her arm for support and I mentally thanked him for being there for her. Our argument seemed so pointless now, so unimportant, and I deeply regretted our parting on such a sour note.
I noticed Andrea now having a quiet word with Primrose, then taking her hand to lead her from the room. Pushing myself against the wall (nearly through it, actually—I still hadn’t fully mastered my new-found capabilities) so that they could pass by without touching me, I saw their faint auras close up, and they were dull, greyish in tone, no vibrancy to them. I hadn’t known that misery could be so palpable. As soon as they were past, I followed them up to Prim’s cheerful little bedroom, with its old Shrek and Little Mermaid posters on the walls, bookcase full of brightly coloured jacket spines, dolls—lots of dolls—arranged in civilized repose on top of a pine cabinet, yellow wallpaper with tiny blue flowers matched with blue-and-yellow curtains. Usually it raised my spirits just to walk in there—not even the small Ventolin inhaler on the bedside cabinet would spoil my mood—but this day was not a normal day. Tears flowed again as soon as Prim lay on the narrow bed and Andrea murmured soothing words as she pulled off our daughter’s shoes.
“Why did Daddy have to die, Mummy?” Prim asked in a small, plaintive voice.
I could go on and tell you all that Andrea said in reply and more questions asked by Primrose, but I’m not going to. Enough to say they were in this vein: Why did God take away the second-most important person in the world to her? Why is God so cruel? Is Daddy happy where he is now, and if he is, why? Doesn’t he miss us? Will he come and get us soon? It’s not just heartbreaking to relate, it’s soul-wrecking too. And pertinent, you might think. Because there are no good answers to any of those questions, and there’s nothing that can remove or even alleviate the pain that those left behind have to endure. I began to get very angry. Not only did I have no satisfactory answers to those questions—and I’d always believed you found out the truth of things once you left this mortal coil—but I could not have reassured Prim even if I did. I was, myself, completely in the dark as to my state, my future and my purpose. Oh yes, my purpose. I did believe there was a reason for my condition—everything had a reason, a meaning, call it what you like—but I had no idea what mine was. So, as I say, I began to get angry.
I paced the room, raving to myself, while Andrea tenderly stroked our daughter’s forehead. She found Prim’s favourite comfort teddy, Snowy, and tucked it into her arms. My raging came to a temporary halt as I embraced both Andrea and Primrose in my own arms, frustrated that I could not hug them tight, squeeze them so hard that they would have lost breath. I don’t think I’d ever loved them both as much as I did at that moment. Nevertheless, their mood sank into me and now I had never known such despair.
Finally, Andrea gave Primrose one last hug and kiss, then left her lying on the bed, Snowy (what else would the aged teddy be called? Greyie?) hugged close to her chest, her eyes closed as if ready for sleep. But where was her comfort rag, her “Bit of Blank”? She would need it when she woke or stirred, but as hard as I searched the bedroom with my eyes, I could not find the short length of pink silk anywhere. I remembered she’d had it with her in the chapel and realized it must still be in the pocket of her coat hanging in the cloakroom downstairs. I called out to Andrea, who was tip-toeing towards the door, but of course, she didn’t hear me. I couldn’t fetch it myself and I groaned in frustration, called to Andrea again to no avail. Never had I felt so useless, so inadequate.