*
The pain of his wrists was starting to fade, leaving Hope with the numbness underneath that was far worse; a numbness that drinking could not reach or even exacerbate, for it was a numbness of the soul. Hope would have preferred it happen after the funeral rather than during it, but with Stacey Gurner’s coffin being lowered into the grave, the pain had simply drained away from his bruised muscles along with every last drop of strength.
The priest, a large, pale man with a pink eczema rash about his neck and hands, had been flicking through passages from his leather bound Old Testament as though taking the opportunity to search out his next Sunday sermon. He bent his head now to deliver the last prayer. It was a deep, penetrating voice seemingly incongruous with his thin neck.
Elsa Gurner was the closest mourner to the priest and followed his lead quickly, though it was a tissue she bowed into. Hope glanced her way far more than he did the priest: seeing her pallid skin so contrast with her black garb was the image that made most sense. Hammer Coller was the only other mourner Hope knew. His head had been bowed from the start.
The others in the circle around the grave were handsome young men and women who did not fit their dour expressions very well or give the impression they would hold them much longer. Hope supposed they were Stacey’s friends. He did not like the look of them, but he could not accuse them of having driven her to this – he despised them their innocence.
The priest sprinkled dirt into the grave. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Elsa shed more tears into her tissue as she followed his lead. The other mourners lined behind her to have their turn at this parting gesture. Hope was last and his hand had more than dirt to offer: Elsa had returned through the post his grandmother’s engagement ring a day earlier; and he dropped it down onto the coffin of dark oak. He was not entirely sure why he wanted to do this. He had not known Stacey Gurner for very long at all. Perhaps, he would have preferred to leave it in his mother’s grave, but he had been too young. Perhaps, it was simply a ring that had been destined for a grave.
The funeral service was over then. Two gravediggers with sleeves rolled up moved in with shovels in hand to finish the job. The priest walked away without further ado, the prized old bible tucked under his arm and his hands clasping solemnly together.
The young and handsome scattered with less purpose. They all knew how they would put this episode behind them; but it would be disrespectful to discuss it until they were out of earshot.
It was only Hope who maintained his ground – the gravediggers could work around him. Elsa broke away from the priest and returned to him, the tissue gone from her hands.
‘I saw you throw in your ring,’ she said. ‘If that is your way of wedding to a grave, I will have the workmen widen it to accommodate you. But really, I had your ring returned so it would be of use elsewhere.’
Hope shrugged. His voice was as dark as the varnished oak being inundated by dirt. ‘There is a question I need to ask about your sister.’
‘What’s that?’
Hope grimly shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not ready for the answer.’
Elsa slapped him hard across the cheek. She glared at him a protracted and then marched away.
Hope rubbed his cheek, glad to get some feeling back.
Hammer Coller had been looking on and tried to console Elsa only to be perfunctorily pushed aside; he went for Hope instead.
‘It was me that deserved that,’ he bleated. ‘I know I shouldn’t have told her about the ranch. I just couldn’t say no to her.’
Hope shoved him back, almost tripping him up on one of the piles of dirt the gravediggers had to work with. ‘Don’t worry, you’ve got more than a slap coming your way. And you’re not going to say no to me either. You owe me.’
Hammer’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When I hurt you, which is what I’m intending to do, I want more than a couple of gravediggers to have the chance of seeing it. I want paying customers who will call it entertainment.’
Hammer shook his head blankly.
Hope pushed him again. ‘If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you better get a manager to explain the rules. And you definitely better get a trainer. I want to draw out the ugliness I’m feeling so that I can see it and it’s not going to be on my face it gets stamped upon.’
He pushed Hammer one more time for emphasis - though now Hammer was bracing himself and barely shifted - and he headed for his car down one of the narrow lanes lining the many rows of graves. Hope’s eyes flicked amongst the names and dates on the headstones and it occurred to him that the headstones were just like plugs in a basin as they attempted to prevent memories draining away; but there was no plug that could contain something so delicate as a memory; thus, drip by drip, they would be gone – and this leakage was as intangible as could be the connection between the living and the dead.
Hope knew the memory of Stacey dying in his arms was the one he would have till last. It was still resonating through his body so vividly he could not shake the sensation from his skin. If he was going to be a boxer, it would add two divisions to his weight: that would help.
He took out his black handkerchief and caught a tear like he was milking venom from the fangs of a snake; he stopped and sat back against one of those plugs.
Death of the Extremophile Page 21
