“Thank you. Much love to your family.”
The call ends, and I wander over to the window, idly massaging my thigh where an old bullet wound from years ago left a jagged scar. When it rains, it aches. Xavier had spent a long time kissing it the other night until the skin hummed under his lips.
Omid’s words echo in my brain.WouldI leave a hole if I die? The idea is appealing but not strictly truthful. Granted, Monique would mourn me, but I never really had a full place in her world. Friends would mourn too, but the same applies to them. I have made my steady way through life, taking care not to tread too heavily on other people’s lives. The reality is that I have friends, but not many who would truly mourn me, because how can you grieve something you don’t understand?
I shake my head. This is not productive. Especially not on the day of the funeral. The knock on the door is a welcome distraction, and I shout “coming” and grab my wool coat fromthe bed. When I open the door, Jez is leaning against the jamb. His hair is smoothed neatly down, and he’s dressed similarly to me. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me.
“Alright?” I ask, shifting awkwardly under his steady gaze. “You okay? Have I got a mark on my face?”
“No, not at all,” he says slowly. His eyes are dark and his expression very fixed.
“You don’t seem so sure about that.”
“I’m fine.” I pull the door closed behind me and shrug into my coat. “Do you want to say goodbye to Xavier?” he says casually.
I can’t help the way I freeze. “Erm, no, why would I? I presume he’s asleep. Why?”
He just shrugs, a strange expression on his face. My heart starts to hammer. “No reason. You just get on with him, don’t you?”
I hesitate. “Well, yes. He’s a nice kid.”
He blinks, and the expression vanishes from his face. “Shall we get going, or we’ll miss the funeral?”
“Yes, of course.” I follow him down the corridor, my gaze pinned to his wide back. What was that about? Does he know about Xavier and me? My stomach roils, but I swallow down the panic. Of course, he doesn’t. I’m just feeling guilty and making silly leaps. He’s probably behaving oddly because he hates funerals.
Thunder rumbles above us and rain splatters down, the cold drops sliding over my face and trickling under my collar to trace icy fingers down my spine. The day is full of a stormy light—dim and dark, occasionally shot through with gold. A mist curlsaround the ancient gravestones, obscuring the moss growing so verdantly. I focus on the tendrils, imagining taking a picture, positioning the shot to include the lettering on the stone. It takes my mind off the gaping hole in the ground. The fresh dirt looks like a wound against the green grass.
“We commit the body of our dear brother to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life,” the vicar intones, and I shiver.
The words echo in my head like a warning. Once again, I find myself thinking back to my maudlin thoughts earlier. Who will stand around my grave? Who will weep for me? It’s going to happen and probably sooner rather than later. I’ve been too casual with my life for far too long, taking chances with something that should have been a gift and treasured.
I think of Xavier. Would he mourn me? The answer is uncomfortably clear. Yes, he would. His feelings for me are written clearly across that mobile face of his. He likes to consider himself cynical, but the truth is that he isn’t.
For the first time, I let myself think of carrying on with him. What would happen? He’d probably end up hurt. It’s already a certainty that I will. I have… feelings—lust, longing and maybe love. It’s silly to think of love so soon. But here in this cold graveyard, I might as well confront the fact that I’ve fallen for him. I’m in love with him, and it’s stupid and so fucking reckless, but I still can’t escape it.
I love his wit, his cleverness, the gentleness and loyalty he shows. He is a singular person who has somehow become, against my will, my person. I shake my head. I’m fucked whichever way you look at it.
The vicar says something else, ending the service, and I become aware of the sound of weeping and the splatter ofraindrops on umbrellas. People begin to move away, and a shiver runs through me.
“Hope no one slips in the grave,” a voice says from behind me. “It’d be a bugger to get them out.”
I look around. “Max.” My old friend stands before me. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“You try being taken hostage. It really takes it out of you.”
“God, that wasagesago. Don’t be so dramatic.” He snorts, his face lighting up. “You never call. You never write.” I drag him into a hug. Under my hands, I can feel how thin he is. I pull back. “How are you, and don’t give me the usual bollocks about being fine.”
“I’m fine.” His feverish eyes say otherwise, but I allow the lie. If he asks me the same question, he’d get an identical answer, and I know he wouldn’t question it either. That’s what we do. That’s who we are.
“Can’t believe Sean is dead,” he says, staring at the dark hole in the ground.
I nod. “He always seemed so much more alive than anyone else.”
“Ironic that he went to all the shit spots in the world and then ended up copping it at home.”
He’s carefully avoiding the subject of how Sean died. No one wants to mention it. I touch my fingers to my forehead in a salute to the man I’d known since I was a rookie reporter.
“How’s Ivo?” I ask, seeking a reprieve from the gloom.
