One of Us Is Dead

2 Friday 23 September 2022

WTF???

Taylor could not take his eyes off the man as the service proceeded, interminably. There were two cheesy poetry readings by — according to the service sheet — Barnie’s nieces, and another that Taylor liked, about not being dead but just in the next room, which was read by a woman in a veil, Barnie’s ex-wife, Debbie Martin (she’d kept her maiden name even when they were married), though several lines were drowned out by a baby screaming.

These were followed by a tribute given by a dapper man of around forty, who in a virtuoso performance of pure fiction, interrupted again by the baby, portrayed the deceased as pretty much just one miracle short of sainthood. The sun had come out and its rays shone through the stained-glass window behind the pulpit, creating a halo effect around the man’s head.

Maybe Barnie would be canonized one day, Taylor thought wryly. He could be the patron saint of losers.

Taylor had only come to the funeral out of a sense of duty — he’d not seen Barnie for years, other than briefly at Rufus’s funeral two years ago. But the three of them had been tight at school — Taylor, Rufus and Barnie. The Three Musketeers, they called themselves. And, for a while after leaving, they’d continued meeting up for lunch or for an evening at a boozer close to one of them. They’d vowed they would always stay in touch, but of course life had other plans.

The more time passed, the more they’d gone their own, very different ways. None of them had really had anything in common — beyond a shared dislike of their school — to bind them together. Rufus, the boisterous, loudmouth charmer, had bragged that he’d be a millionaire by the age of thirty. And maybe he had been, not that it had done him much good. He was dead at thirty-nine.

Well, so it had seemed.

And now poor Barnie, the eternal dreamer of fame and fortune, who had changed addresses more times than Taylor could count, was about to move to his forever home, Plot PY136, Woodvale Cemetery.

But at least poor Barnie was finally having his day in the sun, Taylor thought, the attention he had always craved. The coffin was far grander than its poor occupant had ever been, sitting centre stage on the catafalque, brass handles gleaming in the stained-glass sunlight. It looked magnificent enough to house the Pope.

Taylor wondered who had paid for it. Not that he really cared.

He only cared about one thing in that moment: the identity of the man sitting six rows in front of him.

Could it be Rufus?

Of course not.

And yet...

He continued to stare, totally fixated. Every move the man made further convinced Taylor that it was him. It was all he could do to restrain himself from walking down the aisle, reaching across and tapping the man on the shoulder, but with the church this rammed, that was not an option.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, the man turned around, a full 180 degrees, and, for a few seconds, stared directly at him as if sensing his presence.

Although his face was almost completely obscured by the scarf and the peak of his cap, Taylor shivered, chilled to the core.

Then the man turned away again.

All kinds of thoughts rushed through his mind. Did Rufus have a brother? A twin? But never, ever, in all the years that they’d known each other, had Rufus given any indication that he had a sibling.

Shit. This was insane. Maybe, Taylor thought, he was going crazy?

Normally scrupulously punctual, he was cursing the circumstances that had conspired to cause his late arrival here, starting with a flat tyre after dropping off his son, who was staying with him this week, at school. And then, having changed the tyre, getting stopped in a speed trap. Not the best of days, but at least a better one than Barnie was having.

Had he arrived earlier, perhaps he could have seen who this man really was. He had to be imagining it was Rufus. Had to be.

But he could not stop staring at him. And he was feeling a deep prickle of unease.

There must be well over 150 people in here, he thought, and so far, other than Debbie and potentially Rufus, he didn’t recognize any of them. He wondered sardonically if all of them — like himself — were owed money by Barnie.

Always the loser, Barnie had constantly been in debt at school — gambling away his pocket money — and nothing had changed. Every few years, in those early days after they had left, Taylor used to get calls from Barnie asking if he could loan him a few bob, promising to pay it back. And sometimes Taylor had reluctantly ponied up, because he felt sorry for him. Barnie seemed to have been born with a big ‘L’ tattooed on his forehead.

Rufus had once cruelly told Barnie, to his face, that he was the kind of man who would come second in an election, even if no one was running against him.

And yet, for as long as they had known each other, Barnie had always craved the limelight. Today he sure had it. Too bad he wasn’t able to enjoy it, Taylor thought.

He took his eyes off the back of the head of the man six rows in front of him just for a moment, to glance at the order of service sheet he’d been handed. He looked from the photo on the back — angelic little Barnie, aged four, with blond curls, baggy shorts and mischief in his eyes — to the photo on the front: a balding, overweight and older-than-his years Barnie, with haunted eyes peering out from their hidey-holes in his flesh, as if trying to spot where all of life’s promise had gone. Even the smudged funeral service sheets looked like rejects. Poor Barnie Wallace: failed musician, failed chef, failed husband, failed everything — including, fatally, failed forager.

The story Taylor had heard was that Barnie had been felled by mushrooms he was cooking as a starter at a dinner party, though fortunately his group of friends never got to eat them. According to Debbie, who had notified Taylor of the funeral, Barnie had mistaken death cap mushrooms for field mushrooms — apparently an easy error. Luckily for his intended guests, Barnie had prepped the meal a day in advance to do a photo shoot for his Instagram account. He’d eaten the leftover mushrooms for his dinner that night and been hospitalized twelve hours later, subsequently dying from multiple organ failure.

Taylor looked around the congregation again, but couldn’t spot anyone else he knew. He was a little surprised that there were no familiar faces from school. Mind you, the trio had left over twenty years ago.

The tributes were followed by the eternally rousing hymn ‘Jerusalem’. As the last strains of ‘in England’s green and pleasant land’ faded, a man staggered up to the pulpit to deliver the eulogy. His name was Geoffrey Letts — a total tosser by any standards, Taylor thought. Geoffrey began by professing to be a drinking companion of Barnie at some pub (and he already appeared worse for wear at this hour). He told the congregation, slurring his words, that Barnie had once beaten the Belgian burping champion in a contest, played in tennis sets, that was, according to this chap, pretty much the sum total of Barnie’s life achievements. Then he staggered back to his place unsteadily, holding on to each pew in turn, grinning like an ape.

That really pissed Taylor off. Whatever dark cloud of bad luck had hovered over poor Barnie throughout his life, he deserved a better finale than this.

A collection bag went around. The smallest note Taylor had was a fiver and he stuffed that into the crimson purse. After the closing prayers, the vicar told the mourners that there would be a private family committal. He asked everyone to leave in peace and continue to remember Barnie in their prayers and thoughts, reminding the congregation that they were invited to share further memories of Barnie over drinks and bites in the village hall.

Then — and credit to the Rev, Taylor thought, for forewarning everyone that what followed was on the explicit instructions of the deceased — the most ludicrous song began to play. It started with a plinkety-plink on the piano, followed by lyrics sung in a staccato voice.

They’re coming to take me away, ha-ha, they’re coming to take me away.

The mourners were looking around, bemused. Was this Barnie’s final jibe at a world he’d never quite got to grips with?

People began filing out, starting from the front. Taylor, keeping his eyes on the back of the man’s head as best he could, tried to squeeze his way along the aisle to catch up with him, but it was impossible. A tall woman in a ridiculous black hat was now blocking his view.

Meanwhile, the song kept playing.

It was several minutes before he reached the door where the Rev stood. A woman in front of Taylor was thanking the vicar effusively for such a wonderful service. Taylor gave the cleric a shake of the hand and lunged out into the torrential rain that was coming down again, searching every way for Rufus. Clusters of mourners were standing around, chatting beneath umbrellas. He hurried past them, until he reached the busy high street and looked up and down it.

There was no sign of him.