Dead Scared

Berkshire, nineteen years earlier

THE MOTHER STARTED howling as the coffin sank. The father, almost as green as the foliage on the coffin lid, took hold of her more firmly and a collective shudder ran through the mourners. This was always the moment when it hit home. To put someone you loved so much into the ground. To lose your only child. At thirteen years old. How did you deal with that?

‘The days of man are but as grass, for he flourisheth as a flower of the field,’ said the minister. ‘For as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone.’

The seventeen-year-old boy, in the smart, blazered uniform of a good public school, looked at the perfect rectangle of the grave and pictured the still, cold face of the boy inside. I did this, he said to himself. There were thunderclouds overhead and he wondered perhaps if guilt would hit him hard and hot, like a strike from a lightning bolt.

Since the news that young Foster had hanged himself one Saturday morning in the dorm while the rest of the school were watching an inter-house cricket match, he’d been waiting for the guilt. He’d seen the horror-struck faces of his co-conspirators, the ones who’d helped him make Nathan Foster’s life a misery for the past twelve months, but, unlike him, had never really expected it to come to this. They were feeling it already, it was written all over their faces. Shame and contrition that would eat away at them like a parasite in their guts for the rest of their lives.

Any time now it was coming for him too and it was going to hurt. Like a physical pain, he imagined it, a vicious cramp squeezing in on his heart, or maybe like maggots nibbling away at his brain. He knew, from the faces of those who were almost as guilty as he, that guilt was going to be bad.

‘Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground.’

Good God above, his English teacher was snivelling. Who’d have thought old Cartwright had a shred of compassion in him? Around the grave, mourners were throwing handfuls of earth on to the coffin like they didn’t have two perfectly good sextons with ruddy great shovels less than a hundred yards away. One of the undertaker’s staff was standing directly in front of him, holding out the box of soil. No choice but to dip in his hand, take hold of stuff that felt damp and slimy, and step forward for one last look. I did this, he said to himself, as he opened his hand and the soil fell directly on to one perfect white rose.

Shadows were spreading fast around the crematorium garden. The day was getting colder and those with umbrellas were glancing down at them, as though to check they were still there. Maybe guilt would be like a heavy downpour from above, the first drops hardly noticeable, but gradually seeping through him until his entire being was drenched in it. Maybe guilt was slow to begin but relentless, building a momentum of its own once it got going. The boy took a deep breath and waited.

‘In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.’

The service was done and the caterwauling mother being led away. There’d be questions to face, now that the funeral was over, but he had it covered. They’d had time to sort out their stories and he’d been careful to cover his back from the start. There’d be no repercussions, he’d made sure of that. Just the guilt to be dealt with.

‘Come along, Iestyn.’ A warm hand was on his shoulder. Cartwright was touching him again, with the same hand he’d just used to wipe snot away from his dribbling nose. ‘Dreadful business, lad. We’re all feeling it.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ The boy turned and stepped a little way to the side so that the teacher’s hand fell away.

‘Think we might be lucky with the weather after all,’ said Cartwright, as they walked across the short, grassed area to follow the other mourners back to the car park.

Overhead, there was a sudden break in the clouds and the summer’s day became warm again. Ahead of Iestyn and his teacher, sunshine was streaming down upon the small, black-clad procession that made its way up the hill. Iestyn watched and saw sadness and confusion drifting behind them like the smoke from a tar boiler.

I did this, he said to himself, as the warmth from the sun washed through him, making him feel alive, happy, even blessed. And he smiled.