Read Online The Light of Day: A Novel by Graham Swift - Free Book Online
Authors: Graham Swift
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part, we go our way. There aren’t any laws, there aren’t any rules. We’re not here to follow each other, to guard each other’s lives.
14
I turn into the cemetery. It’s past an Asda superstore. There’s a slip road, a roundabout, a gateway. Then, inside, you double back along a narrow straight avenue. A sign says 10 mph, as if you might speed. As if the contrast with the frantic A3 wasn’t obvious. Here everything is slow. Not to say still.
Putney Vale. In this dazzling light the gravestones look like bits of confectionery, wedding cake. But there’s the black taste in my mouth. The grass glitters, cobwebbed with melting frost.
I remember the way. Along the avenue; park near the crematorium, which is already doing brisk business. A cluster of mourners emerging, another party gathering, waiting in the car park, nodding to each other, looking at me as I pull in as if I might be one of them. The inevitable comment, among the few comments available: a beautiful day. A beautiful day for it. Cold but beautiful.
The crematorium doing a roaring trade. But he didn’t want to be burnt. He’d specified, apparently. You wouldn’t think it: a man of science, a doctor. His little bit of superstition.
I step out, take my coat and scarf and the roses from the back seat, lay the roses for a moment on the roof of the car. The emerging funeral party, spreading out, looks cautious and dazed, like a coach party on a mystery tour finally put down at its destination.
I pick up the flowers and start to walk. It’s not far but it takes me, by paths lined with trees, to where I seem to be the only soul around. Living soul. The leaves on the trees are bright as paint. The frost-chewed flowers on the fresh graves look like leftover party decorations.
It’s a plain grave: a polished granite slab. It still looks as if it was put there yesterday. The name, and the dates. You’d say to yourself: not a long life. There’s nothing to indicate it’s the grave of a murdered man.
I step nearer, slowly—as if there’s some line, some edge. I want to feel at least calm, at least considerate, but I feel the hate rising up, the same sudden mad hate—maybe it’s even fiercer—that I felt a year ago.
The grass where the frost has melted looks rinsed clean.
I pause, step forward, take the flowers from their paper, crumple the paper into my pocket, then lay them quickly, no fuss. No gestures, no words (what should they be?) muttered under my breath. But I can’t just turn away. I have to stand and look for a while, my chest working up and down, though I’m only standing still.
The second time.
I came. I came again. I’m here, for her sake. I marked the day.
I’m paying respects, if that’s the right phrase, when what I’m really doing is hating him, accusing him.
Look what you’ve done, look what you’ve done to her. Look what you did—letting her go and do
that
to you.
The sun’s shining down on me and I’m black with hate.
Perhaps in eight years, nine years—or however long it takes—when she’s served her time, I’ll come here and I won’t feel it. I’ll come in peace—or I won’t come at all. I’ll have served my time.
The bunch of roses lying there looks like some accident, some freak. I think of the girl in the florist’s. Her smile.
“Think of all the reasons . . .”
The son—Michael—arranged it all. Two years ago, or not quite. All the way from Seattle, on compassionate leave that lasted over three months. I don’t know how many times he saw Sarah. I know he did see her, and I think it was bad, I don’t think it was compassionate. And I know I was jealous, because Sarah, all that time, wasn’t seeing me, wasn’t sending me any word. Though who was I, after all? A detective, hired for the day. I wasn’t a son.
I know he saw her lawyer. What does a lawyer say to a son in such circumstances? I know he took his dad’s side. Why shouldn’t he? Like Helen took mine.
And of course he never
14
I turn into the cemetery. It’s past an Asda superstore. There’s a slip road, a roundabout, a gateway. Then, inside, you double back along a narrow straight avenue. A sign says 10 mph, as if you might speed. As if the contrast with the frantic A3 wasn’t obvious. Here everything is slow. Not to say still.
Putney Vale. In this dazzling light the gravestones look like bits of confectionery, wedding cake. But there’s the black taste in my mouth. The grass glitters, cobwebbed with melting frost.
I remember the way. Along the avenue; park near the crematorium, which is already doing brisk business. A cluster of mourners emerging, another party gathering, waiting in the car park, nodding to each other, looking at me as I pull in as if I might be one of them. The inevitable comment, among the few comments available: a beautiful day. A beautiful day for it. Cold but beautiful.
The crematorium doing a roaring trade. But he didn’t want to be burnt. He’d specified, apparently. You wouldn’t think it: a man of science, a doctor. His little bit of superstition.
I step out, take my coat and scarf and the roses from the back seat, lay the roses for a moment on the roof of the car. The emerging funeral party, spreading out, looks cautious and dazed, like a coach party on a mystery tour finally put down at its destination.
I pick up the flowers and start to walk. It’s not far but it takes me, by paths lined with trees, to where I seem to be the only soul around. Living soul. The leaves on the trees are bright as paint. The frost-chewed flowers on the fresh graves look like leftover party decorations.
It’s a plain grave: a polished granite slab. It still looks as if it was put there yesterday. The name, and the dates. You’d say to yourself: not a long life. There’s nothing to indicate it’s the grave of a murdered man.
I step nearer, slowly—as if there’s some line, some edge. I want to feel at least calm, at least considerate, but I feel the hate rising up, the same sudden mad hate—maybe it’s even fiercer—that I felt a year ago.
The grass where the frost has melted looks rinsed clean.
I pause, step forward, take the flowers from their paper, crumple the paper into my pocket, then lay them quickly, no fuss. No gestures, no words (what should they be?) muttered under my breath. But I can’t just turn away. I have to stand and look for a while, my chest working up and down, though I’m only standing still.
The second time.
I came. I came again. I’m here, for her sake. I marked the day.
I’m paying respects, if that’s the right phrase, when what I’m really doing is hating him, accusing him.
Look what you’ve done, look what you’ve done to her. Look what you did—letting her go and do
that
to you.
The sun’s shining down on me and I’m black with hate.
Perhaps in eight years, nine years—or however long it takes—when she’s served her time, I’ll come here and I won’t feel it. I’ll come in peace—or I won’t come at all. I’ll have served my time.
The bunch of roses lying there looks like some accident, some freak. I think of the girl in the florist’s. Her smile.
“Think of all the reasons . . .”
The son—Michael—arranged it all. Two years ago, or not quite. All the way from Seattle, on compassionate leave that lasted over three months. I don’t know how many times he saw Sarah. I know he did see her, and I think it was bad, I don’t think it was compassionate. And I know I was jealous, because Sarah, all that time, wasn’t seeing me, wasn’t sending me any word. Though who was I, after all? A detective, hired for the day. I wasn’t a son.
I know he saw her lawyer. What does a lawyer say to a son in such circumstances? I know he took his dad’s side. Why shouldn’t he? Like Helen took mine.
And of course he never
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