Two nights before, the boys had turned up to decorate the coffin, armed with memorabilia, computer printouts and photographs, PVA glue, felt pens, paint and scissors. Andrew had cleared space in the conservatory and found a wallpaper table to put the coffin on. The event took on a party atmosphere, helped along by the pizzas and six-packs of beer that the boys had brought.
The collage grew: riotous, lively, spreading over the sides of the coffin. One of the girls, an art student, used paint to connect the different images together, spirals and tendrils and leaf shapes.
A map, thought Andrew. There should be a map. He went to find his ordnance survey maps of the Peak District. He selected the one that included the little campsite where they had gone for weekends when Jason was small, and the hills where they’d hiked in later years until Jason rebelled and started sleeping all morning whenever he was off school.
Andrew had cut a large shape from the centre of the map and pasted it on to the lid as one of the boys told a story about getting lost with Jason on the school outdoor pursuit camp when they were in Year 6. How they had followed a stream downhill, sure that once they reached the valley they could trek back along the road to the base. But the stream had led down to a farm. Fields full of llamas and ostriches like somewhere in South America, and it turned out to be the wrong valley, and the farmer had to ring the outdoor pursuits centre and get someone to come and pick them up.
Andrew laughed and glanced round for Jason, wanting to catch his eye and share the joke. His heart shrank.
He hadn’t wanted the decorating session to end, but it did, and the young people left, and with them went their energy and brilliance and noise, and aspects of Jason.
In the chapel they gave testimonials and played music. Felix played a piece on the flute. Andrew gritted his teeth and hardened his heart as ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ filled the space. There were other tunes, other brave speeches, and then they left the chapel and paraded through the grounds to the woodland: the coffin, the mourners, someone carrying the rowan tree, the watering can, the spade. A motley crew, Andrew thought as they gathered around the grave. Trestle tables had been set up to take the coffin while they prepared the straps that they would use to lower it into the hole.
The mist was still rising in the woods as the weak winter sun met the dew. People wept and laughed and exchanged teary smiles and blinks of recognition. Without too much trouble the coffin was lowered into place, and the humanist minister gave a brief address and read a poem that Val had chosen. Felix played the flute again while Andrew and Val manoeuvred the tree into place just near the head of the grave in a second, much smaller, hole and covered the roots and watered them. Jason’s friends filled the grave with soil, and that was when Andrew felt close to breaking down. He held it in, a giant hand throttling his neck, pressing on his chest. Val trembled beside him. He put an arm around her. She was wearing a veil. ‘I’m going to cry my eyes out,’ she had said to him earlier. ‘It’s either that or sunglasses, and in sunglasses I’ll end up looking like some B-movie Mafia matriarch.’ They had told people to wear whatever they liked. Some had gone along with it, sporting vibrant colours, but most clung to the safety of sombre shades.
The reception was wonderful. People relaxed and mixed. His father had insisted on paying for a free bar, and it wasn’t only youngsters that took advantage of the fact. His nephew had sorted out a laptop loaded with music, and people could pick tracks to play. There was a wall of photos of Jason and the people who loved him. The food kept coming.
Close to eleven o’clock, Val caught up with him. ‘There’s a taxi coming.’ They’d agreed to leave the car and collect it the next morning.
They slipped away. The temperature had plummeted, and Andrew’s teeth were chattering by the time they got into the cab.
The driver was a young Asian lad. He struck up conversation as he pulled away. ‘Good do?’ he said blithely.
Andrew squeezed Val’s hand, felt his eyes prickle. ‘Great, thanks,’ he said, and gave their address.
Louise
Louise started back at work. She couldn’t afford to miss any more shifts. She might be able to get a hardship payment from the union, but she hadn’t had time to look into it.
Most days she worked eight till four so she could have some time with Ruby and visit Luke in the evenings.
Deanne came to the hospital. She was only just back from Christmas with her husband’s family in Wales. Louise had texted her, and they’d spoken on the phone several times. ‘Oh Louise, oh God,’ she’d said when she set eyes on Luke, and her eyes had glittered.
Louise hugged her friend and closed her own eyes against the grief.
‘Can he hear you?’ Deanne pulled away and looked at Louise, who shrugged. ‘No idea. No one has. We talk to him anyway. Ruby made a tape.’
‘How’s she been?’
Louise gave a breath out. ‘Brilliant really. But something like this…’ The enormity of it hit her again. She frowned and shook her head, determined not to cry. What did it mean for Ruby? Her brother so hurt, the uncertainty, the new routine of snatched meals and hospital visiting. ‘She’s got her audition soon. She needs to practise.’
‘She’ll get in,’ Deane said. ‘They’d be mad not to take her.’
‘I think she’s worried about going, if she does get a place. She’ll be boarding during the week.’ Her throat ached, the pressure building inside, the urge to let go and weep, which she had fought so hard.
‘Home at weekends?’
‘Oh yeah. The fees are means-tested and there are grants and stuff. The woman said we’d be fine on that score. She’s bought this wig.’ Louise smiled, still sniffing, pedalling back from the brink. ‘Dark crimson. She looks amazing.’
‘She is amazing. Do you want me to have a word with her? Buck her up a bit?’
‘No, ta. I need to do it. I’m not going to let this spoil things for her. It’s all she ever wanted, Deanne.’
‘I know.’ Deanne took her coat off, went and sat down. She stared at Luke. ‘It’s a crying shame,’ she said.
That was all it took and Louise was gulping and sobbing and the stupid, bloody tears were spilling through her fingers.
‘Louise! Aw, babe.’
Louise was up, half blind, seeking the door, the sorrow hot and fierce inside her. Deanne followed her out, hugged her close.
‘I didn’t want to bloody cry,’ she said when the worst of it was over, when she could no longer breathe through her nose and her lips were all swollen.
‘Course you need to cry,’ Deanne said. ‘You’re not a saint, Louise. You’re flesh and blood. With all this… Jesus.’ She rubbed Louise’s back.
‘I didn’t want Luke to hear me crying. He’s going to wake up, Deanne. He’s going to get better. If he can hear, what’s he going to think? Crying doesn’t help anyone.’
Deanne sighed. One of the nurses came along the corridor, smiled as she passed them by. Once she was out of earshot, Louise said, ‘Declan knows who did it – the main one. You remember Declan?’
‘Dopey Declan?’
‘Yeah. Apparently Luke had a set-to with this lad Gazza. Pulled him up for threatening a girl at a party. Gazza went for him and Luke tripped him up, took a photo and sent it round. Declan’s told the police; needed a kick up the bum from me first.’
‘Oh God,’ Deanne said. ‘I need a smoke.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Deanne looked, her face fell. ‘You haven’t?’
‘Something’s gotta give.’
It was dark outside, the sky a sickly blend of sulphur yellow from the city lights and leaden grey. The air was cold, still, trapping the smell from a brewery and the high, acrid exhaust fumes.