Picture You Dead

30

Monday, 30 September

The cortège proceeded slowly up the narrow hill, then came to a halt outside the thirteenth-century exterior of All Saints Church, Patcham. Roy Grace and Cleo sat in the first black limousine behind the hearse. On the seats behind them were Anette and Ingo Lippert, who had acted in loco parentis for Bruno when his mother, Sandy, had died in Munich. Between Anette and Ingo sat their son Erik, Bruno’s best friend. The three of them had flown over to attend the funeral and Grace was very touched that they had made the journey.

All of them were in sombre dark clothing. Roy Grace, wearing a dark suit and plain black tie, gripped Cleo’s hand tightly. She was dressed all in black, with a hat and veil.

Grace’s sister and her family were in the limousine behind, Sandy’s parents in the one behind that, followed by another containing Cleo’s parents, her sister, Charlie, and her boyfriend.

Throughout the journey from their cottage in Henfield, Roy had been mostly silent, staring fixated at the hearse in front of them, with the small coffin in the rear that was painted in the red and white colours of Bruno’s favourite football team, Bayern Munich, the lid decked in red and white flowers. Inside the coffin, accompanying Bruno on his final journey, was a framed photograph of the Bayern Munich squad, signed To Bruno, by each footballer – which Ingo Lippert had somehow obtained. There was a second signed and framed photograph with him also, from his local hero, Pascal Groß. The other item was a model Porsche 911 GT3, Bruno’s favourite car.

Everything was feeling surreal to him. This son who he hadn’t even known existed eighteen months ago was being buried today.

He’d originally wanted to be a pall-bearer, but Cleo had talked him out of it and now, numbly sitting here, occasionally looking down at the typed words of his brief eulogy on the two sheets of A4 paper, he was glad of his decision. With his emotions in utter turmoil, he really wasn’t sure he’d have been able to hold it together. He wasn’t even sure how he was going to get through the eulogy. Cleo had told him it didn’t matter if he faltered, or cried, whatever, they would understand. All of those at the funeral who had ever had to give one themselves would know how hard it was.

And, shit, it was really hard. Far, far harder than the funerals of his father and later his mother – at least they’d had reasonably long lives, but poor Bruno had had just eleven years.

They’d decided on this church, because it was where he and Sandy had been married, where they’d had the memorial service for her after her death and where she was now buried, in the pretty graveyard at the rear. Later, after the service, Bruno would be interred in a plot close to her.

The current vicar of All Saints had kindly allowed their friend, and the man who had married them, the Reverend Ish Smale, to officiate today. Ish was a former rock singer, who’d taken Holy Orders relatively late in life, and Roy and Cleo felt he would bring a personal touch and warmth to this service.

Looking to his right, through the side window, Roy Grace was surprised by the number of people present. Far more than he had been expecting were gathered on the grassy knoll outside the church.

The funeral home director, Thomas Greenhaisen, in black top hat and tails, opened the rear door on Cleo’s side and she slid out followed by Grace, squinting against the sudden, bright mid-morning sunlight, then politely waited for the Lipperts to climb out, too. The doors of the limousines behind were opened by identically dressed undertakers, and when all of them were out of their cars, Greenhaisen signalled for Roy and Cleo to follow him.

The crowd, which seemed even larger now, stood respectfully either side of the path. Grace could barely look at any of them as he walked side by side with Cleo towards the church’s main entrance. Colleagues and friends, among whom he clocked Michael and Victoria Somers and their daughter, Jaye – his god-daughter – who was looking startlingly grown up.

Heading up the path he noticed, attached to a fence to his right, a green defibrillator sign. Bringing the dead back to life, he thought.

As they reached the porch, where a top-hatted figure stood on either side, he was handed an order-of-service sheet, which he clutched as he was ushered down the aisle of the empty Norman interior of the church and shown where to sit in the front pew. The dry, faintly musty smell brought back so many contrasting memories. He and Cleo stood aside to allow the Lipperts to go in first, Anette, then Erik, followed by tall, charming Ingo, who paused to squeeze his shoulder and gave him a solemn but reassuring smile.

Cleo went in next, then he followed.

The three Germans immediately kneeled in prayer, joined by Cleo. Roy sat, uncertain whether he had anything to say to a God who had allowed his son to die, and looked down at the service sheet.

A smiling Bruno stared at him from the cover, a photograph he remembered taking himself, outside the towering south wall of the Amex Stadium. It was one of the many games they’d attended together, where Bruno had been so passionate about the new football team he’d adopted.

Grace stared at the photograph. Bruno’s fair hair was immaculate as ever, as he stood proudly in his blue and white Seagulls strip, arms behind him, beaming like he owned the place.

Below was his name, date of birth and date of death.

Death, Roy thought.

The past twenty years of his career had been all about death.

He unhooked the kneeler and went down on his knees, not because he had any religious views but because he could hear all the people shuffling in behind him, and he could not bear to face anyone.

Cupping his face in his hands, his eyes closed, blotting out everything, he kneeled and reflected. Life’s slender thread. We took our existence so much for granted, but it could be snuffed out in an instant. He was remembering two traffic officers he was friends with telling him of two fatals they’d attended in the same week. In both, a person driving on their own, along a straight stretch of road on a dry day, had veered across into the path of an oncoming lorry and been killed instantly. The subsequent investigations had shown that both the victims had been texting in the moments before the collisions.

And Bruno, according to the eyewitnesses, moments after he had ducked out of school in the middle of the morning during a break and stepped out into the road, straight into the path of a BMW, had been looking down at his phone.

Grace had asked Aiden Gilbert, of the Digital Forensics team, if he could find out from Bruno’s phone what had so absorbed his concentration that he’d failed to notice an oncoming vehicle. After three weeks, Gilbert had rung him last night, saying that in the moments before he’d been struck by the BMW i8, Bruno had been on the internet and he’d send through the details as soon as he could.

And Grace was now remembering the last conversation he’d had with Bruno, on the fatal morning he’d dropped him at the school gates. A bizarre one, as so many had been with him: Education’s a joke, don’t you think? I can learn more from Google than any teacher can tell me.

It had taken Grace a moment to process this. He’d not particularly enjoyed his own school days, and his performance in class had been disappointing to his parents, only just scraping through essential exams at pretty much the lowest pass grade.

Go for it, speak your mind. Tell them what you think they should be teaching you! he’d replied.

Bruno had hesitated. Really? You think so?

Sure. Be brave. Remember, fear kills more dreams than failure ever can.

Bruno looked puzzled. Dreams? Is there any point in dreaming anything? Look at my mother. My mother had so many dreams, but they were all shattered and there was no way to put the pieces back together. Life sucks. School sucks.

And that was it. He’d jumped out of the car and headed to school. Two hours later, he was on life support.

Grace sat back down on the pew. Behind him, the ever-increasing buzz of conversation convinced him that the large old building must now be pretty full, but he didn’t have the courage to turn round and face everyone. Not yet.

Belinda Carlisle’s ‘Heaven is a Place on Earth’ suddenly boomed through the speakers. He was aware from the sounds behind him that people were standing. He and Cleo had had long discussions about music for the service, consulting with Erik also on what music Bruno had liked, and Erik had told them this had been Bruno’s favourite. A curious choice for someone of his age, but Bruno had long ceased to surprise him. He stood, along with Cleo and the Lipperts.

In slow, steady contrast to the music, they turned and saw Reverend Smale enter through the doorway of the church, leading the procession while reading out Bible verses of hope and comfort in a loud voice. The top-hatted pall-bearers followed with the far-too-small coffin, the red and white flowers.

They rested it on the catafalque and, as the music faded, solemnly walked back down the aisle, Glenn fleetingly locking eyes with him and giving him a chin-up grimace.

Then Reverend Smale, robed in a black cassock and white surplice, moved to the pulpit and addressed the congregation. ‘On this sad day may I welcome you all to All Saints Church, and seeing so many of you gathered here is truly a great tribute of your love and respect for Bruno. Roy and Cleo have asked me to make our time together today more of a thanksgiving celebration of Bruno’s short life rather than a solemn funeral service of his sudden and tragic departure and I’ll do my best to do this but I’m going to need your help.’ He smiled broadly. ‘We all need to try and relax because that will help those contributing, who I am sure at this very moment are feeling extremely tense and emotional. I believe that Belinda Carlisle’s lively entrance song we’ve just heard was a good choice. It’s true that in heaven love comes first. But for now, our thoughts must turn from the insecure world that we live in to our perfect everlasting home that awaits us in heaven. Although this is an extremely sad occasion, I repeat that this is first and foremost a time of thanksgiving as we thank God for Bruno and for the happiness that he brought to many. We pray that Bruno may rest in peace and rise in glory in that place where he will never again know pain, sorrow or suffering.’

He paused. ‘Our thoughts and prayers must also be with the bereaved close family that remain on earth. May the peace of God which passes all understanding be with Bruno’s family and friends as they try and deal with their sad loss. Let us read together King David’s much loved psalm of comfort, Psalm Twenty-Three. You will find it on page three.’

Barely listening to the words of the psalm, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, Grace used the time to go over his eulogy once more in his head. There was a poem by his god-daughter, and a hymn, ‘Abide With Me’, before he had to walk to the pulpit, but he was already feeling sick to his stomach with fear. How the hell was he going to get through it?