comfort him. But it was his dad’s job, not Terry’s. Even if his dad didn’t want it.
A
had not been into church since the day when it all began, but it brought back no memories. This new-town church was red brick and squat, tacked on to a town hall and leisure centre. The sign outside was solid and bold, freshly painted. Fresher than the decrepit-looking vicar, with his greasy grey curls and pocked cheeks.
Reverend Long shook the hands of Terry and
A
’s dad, clearly unsure which was the parent of this boy. He managed to squeeze sympathy into his smile for the adults, but
A
could see he just wanted the funeral to be over.
The three fathers followed the coffin-bearers in, and
A
followed them all. There were a few more people inside the church. Mostly from his mum’s new work,
A
supposed. New work, new identity, new town, new church, new life. She had a new life now, if you believed in that stuff.
The choir sang the ‘All Creatures Great and Small’ song. It was like a creature itself, a many-legged, many-backed white beast. Being a school day, it was mostly made up of the retired and the half-witted, over-enthusiastic substitutes.
A
couldn’t remember his mother ever having been religious; but she had enjoyed repeats of the television series about the vets. He pictured his mum and him curled side by side on the sofa. His dread of a new week at school had always spoiled Sundays, and at the same time made him savour every second. There were no Sundays left now. They were all piled into a wooden box with brass handles.
A
sat between his dad and Terry on the front pew. The vicar climbed the three steps to his oak soap box, and swallowed a burp, before saying: ‘Dearly beloved.’
This minister, who didn’t know
A
’s mother, spoke of things about his mother that
A
didn’t know. Things about her life before he was born, and since he’d been gone. Things that his dad must have told the vicar to say, things that left a space where a child should have fitted.
The Jesus behind Reverend Long’s head was full of space as well. Like the church itself, it was modern and simple and probably cost a lot more than it looked like. The cross was just two planks nailed together; and the figure of Christ on it was fashioned out of a single length of barbed wire. Like the thorny crown had spread all over his body. There was something frightening about the gap between the wire ribs, and the legs dangled spastically; badly made, as if the sculptor was already bored with his creation when he got to them.
A
pushed his hands into his empty trouser pockets, twisting the spiral of unravelling material that he’d discovered at his trial. It had been his security blanket, that spot in his pocket; at a time when security was all around him, and nowhere to be found. One of the papers described him as ‘nonchalant and arrogant’ at the end of the first week.
A
’s lawyer must have known this wasn’t true, but he was afraid the boy’s body language was wrong, and
A
had to keep his hands on his lap for the rest of the month in court. It didn’t make much difference to the jury.
The hole was deep. Six feet is not far up, but it’s a long way down. Brown water lay at the bottom, and a worm struggled to escape it.
A
wondered if the worm would be better off not fighting. Drowning was supposed to be quite pleasant, if you just let yourself go.
A
had gone into a gasping hiccuping state, where the tears no longer came. On the whole he preferred crying. When he cried he was less able to think about the pain.
A
’s mother had always told him that she wanted to be cremated when she was gone. She’d said she wanted her ashes thrown from Hartlepool pier, where his father had proposed. She hadn’t talked to
A
about it at all when she knew she was dying. He supposed she’d changed her mind. But he didn’t like the idea of her being eaten. Of the worms tugging themselves through her.
The bearers lowered the coffin down to plug the slit
A
had not been into church since the day when it all began, but it brought back no memories. This new-town church was red brick and squat, tacked on to a town hall and leisure centre. The sign outside was solid and bold, freshly painted. Fresher than the decrepit-looking vicar, with his greasy grey curls and pocked cheeks.
Reverend Long shook the hands of Terry and
A
’s dad, clearly unsure which was the parent of this boy. He managed to squeeze sympathy into his smile for the adults, but
A
could see he just wanted the funeral to be over.
The three fathers followed the coffin-bearers in, and
A
followed them all. There were a few more people inside the church. Mostly from his mum’s new work,
A
supposed. New work, new identity, new town, new church, new life. She had a new life now, if you believed in that stuff.
The choir sang the ‘All Creatures Great and Small’ song. It was like a creature itself, a many-legged, many-backed white beast. Being a school day, it was mostly made up of the retired and the half-witted, over-enthusiastic substitutes.
A
couldn’t remember his mother ever having been religious; but she had enjoyed repeats of the television series about the vets. He pictured his mum and him curled side by side on the sofa. His dread of a new week at school had always spoiled Sundays, and at the same time made him savour every second. There were no Sundays left now. They were all piled into a wooden box with brass handles.
A
sat between his dad and Terry on the front pew. The vicar climbed the three steps to his oak soap box, and swallowed a burp, before saying: ‘Dearly beloved.’
This minister, who didn’t know
A
’s mother, spoke of things about his mother that
A
didn’t know. Things about her life before he was born, and since he’d been gone. Things that his dad must have told the vicar to say, things that left a space where a child should have fitted.
The Jesus behind Reverend Long’s head was full of space as well. Like the church itself, it was modern and simple and probably cost a lot more than it looked like. The cross was just two planks nailed together; and the figure of Christ on it was fashioned out of a single length of barbed wire. Like the thorny crown had spread all over his body. There was something frightening about the gap between the wire ribs, and the legs dangled spastically; badly made, as if the sculptor was already bored with his creation when he got to them.
A
pushed his hands into his empty trouser pockets, twisting the spiral of unravelling material that he’d discovered at his trial. It had been his security blanket, that spot in his pocket; at a time when security was all around him, and nowhere to be found. One of the papers described him as ‘nonchalant and arrogant’ at the end of the first week.
A
’s lawyer must have known this wasn’t true, but he was afraid the boy’s body language was wrong, and
A
had to keep his hands on his lap for the rest of the month in court. It didn’t make much difference to the jury.
The hole was deep. Six feet is not far up, but it’s a long way down. Brown water lay at the bottom, and a worm struggled to escape it.
A
wondered if the worm would be better off not fighting. Drowning was supposed to be quite pleasant, if you just let yourself go.
A
had gone into a gasping hiccuping state, where the tears no longer came. On the whole he preferred crying. When he cried he was less able to think about the pain.
A
’s mother had always told him that she wanted to be cremated when she was gone. She’d said she wanted her ashes thrown from Hartlepool pier, where his father had proposed. She hadn’t talked to
A
about it at all when she knew she was dying. He supposed she’d changed her mind. But he didn’t like the idea of her being eaten. Of the worms tugging themselves through her.
The bearers lowered the coffin down to plug the slit
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