Afire: Entire Blinded Series (15 page)

The vicar stops talking, and I continue to stare into the hole, soon to be filled with mud, keeping her in its cold, damp arms for eternity. Feet shuffle on the grass. People clear their throats. A couple of sniffles punctuate the air. Ryan nudges my side, and I look up to see his eyebrows raised and head tilted.

"What?” I whisper.

He smiles gently. “You need to... The mud. The rose."

Ah, we'd discussed doing this, me acting like the dutiful son because people would expect it. I'd argued the toss, told Ryan if I didn't feel comfortable I shouldn't have to do it, but he talked me around. He's good at doing that.

I turn away from him and eye the gathering. Expectant faces with watery eyes stare at me. One woman—the next door neighbour who found Mum— whittles a soggy handkerchief between gnarled fingers and gives me a wan smile. I feel sorry for the old dear. She hasn't got a clue who she made friends with, what Mum was really like. I offer a smile back and nod before stooping to take a handful of dirt in my fist. It's cool, damp, real and wretched, and I toss it into the hole. It lands on the polished beech, on the engraved silver plaque, with a resounding crack. Her name is obscured, like the mud has erased her, taken her away, yet she still resides within me. Someone else throws earth into the hole, and I stare at the clods and small nodules marring the pristine wooden surface. Bit like what she did to me, right? Ruined me with her ugliness.

I flex my fingers then take the white rose Ryan hands me. I gave her flowers once. Remember it well. I must have been about seven, sweaty and tousle-haired from running around at the park, and a smattering of buttercups caught my attention. I'd upset Mum the day before. Broke one of her
special
vases—the one she said she
used
to put flowers in,
when your father could be bothered to buy them
—and man, she'd tanned my arse for that. I stared at the buttercups, thought of the vase, and went down on my knees to pick a bunch. Some stems long, some so short I'd only really picked the actual flower, but a bunch just the same. I left the park without telling my friends I was going and ran full tilt along the pathways that led home. I burst through the front door, breathless, and pelted into the living room. Mum sat on the sofa, hands cradling her temples, cheeks wet with tears. I stepped closer, the excitement of bringing her flowers suddenly gone, and she looked up at me with the red-rimmed eyes I'd come to expect. Too many rows with Dad. Too much pressure. Too much of a shitty life, as she constantly put it.

I kneeled in front of her, my bedraggled offering held out, and she stared from them to me as though I'd offered her a handful of shit.

"What the hell do you call those?” she said, eyes narrowed.

"Flowers. I picked them for you.” I held them tighter.

"Flowers? More like weeds.” She pursed her lips then said, “Besides, I don't have a vase to put them in now, do I? Because
you
broke it."

Shit, those tears burned my damn eyes, and I lowered my fist to my lap and stared at the carpet. I never could do anything right. Never could make her smile.

Now, I toss the rose onto her coffin and wonder, if she really is up there watching, whether she read my memories and wished she'd never shunned my little bunch of flowers. Whether that rose there, in full bloom, complete with thorns on the stem, is more to her liking.

She was a bitch through and through.

She was, yet still I stand here pretending her death doesn't matter and that she didn't deserve a good son like me. Still I wish she'd loved me like she should have. Brushed my hair back from my forehead when I got sick. Came into my room and soothed me, kissed me when I had bad dreams and told me everything would be all right. Ruffled my hair when I'd been good. Talked to me instead of whipping my arse when I'd been bad.

But she hadn't done any of those things. Not that I can remember, anyway—or have I blocked them out? Made her a complete ogre because that's what fits my perception of her? She might have loved me once, before her and Dad went tits up and their marriage went out the window.

Once. Yeah, she might have, but fucked if I can think of one instance right now.

Are my eyes burning? Yeah, they are, and I turn from that damn hole and walk away, uncaring what people think of my departure. Who says I have to stay until everyone else is gone? Who says I have to grieve her just because she was my mother?

I huff out a laugh. I'm kidding myself, I know that. It fucking hurts, if I'm honest. Hurts to say goodbye, to know that sour face isn't going to screw up when she sees me, her views on who I am plain as day. Funny how I thought I could get through this without crying. Telling myself: Oh no, this day isn't going to bother me. I'm over her, all right. I'm glad she's gone.

Fuck. Emotions—sometimes I bloody hate them.

I stop walking and stare at the cloudless sky, the expanse so blue it hurts my eyes. A snappy breeze whips past—and if I was the fanciful sort I'd say that was her coming back to let me know she was still with me—and I have the absurd thought that she'd have loved this day.

"The kind of day to put the washing on the line, Lee. Bring the pegs. Hand them to me while I hang the sheets, will you?"

A lump expands in my throat. Shit. I didn't want this crap to happen. Didn't
want
to remember there
were
good times. I stuff my hands in my trouser pockets and grit my teeth. People are leaving—I see them from the corner of my eye—but no one approaches me. No point, really. They'll be back at Mum's house for the wake in a bit. I feel Ryan before I see him by my side. When he's near I sense it. Goose bumps spring up on my arms, and I know he's close, even without scenting his distinctive smell.

"All right?” he asks, abreast of me, hands in pockets.

I turn to face him. He looks uncomfortable in that suit and tie, like he's in clothes so alien to him that they make him stiff, act uncharacteristically. “Not bad.” I stare at the sky again, squint to block out the sun. “S'pose we ought to head back to her house, then. Get this next bit over with."

Technically, the house doesn't belong to me now. It sold pretty quickly, but the buyers won't be moving in for another week or so. Tomorrow a removal company will arrive to take everything away. I told them they can do what they like with Mum's stuff. I don't want any of it. Not a damn thing. Last week while we packed it all up, I found a picture in her bedside drawer I can't recall drawing. It was inside a book, folded and pressed between the pages. The white paper had yellowed with age, but the coloured crayon remained surprisingly bright. I'd drawn a pig in a farmyard—at least it looked like a pig anyway—and a farmer standing nearby, pitchfork in hand. Why had she kept it? Maybe it was my first school drawing, who knows? Maybe she'd had a heart after all.

Who cares?

"Come on, then.” Ryan gestures towards the row of parked cars along the wide path and strolls away, head bent low, one last sideward glance at the gaping hole.

I follow, refusing to look at the ground's open maw, refusing to let her get to me one last time. Once we're in my car, Ryan eases out onto the path and drives through the graveyard. Marble markers stand in regimented rows like blackened teeth, others grey or white, and some ancient monuments made of stone bear no words, the weather having beaten them away.

Comes to something when even the words on your stone no longer exist.

I stare out the side window as we drive through town and soak up the familiar sights. The Ragged Sigh, a pub revamped after I left, dominates the corner of St. Mark's Street, and I have the urge to go in there, sink a few, and only come out when I'm off my head.

"Stop."

Ryan quickly glances over. “What?"

"Go in there.” I point to the car park out front.

"Lee...” Despite the tone of his voice telling me he doesn't think this is a good idea, Ryan turns left and parks up.

"Just for one. I don't want to go back there.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door so it sits ajar.

"Lee, you'll have people waiting back at the house in about five minutes.” He looks at me, hand hovering over his seatbelt release button.

"The old dear, the neighbour, she said she'd welcome people in."

Ryan sighs and pops the lock. “Yeah, but all the same, I'm not happy letting her deal with that on her own."

"She wants to. She said it'd make her feel useful. Take her mind off things.” I study the swinging pub sign. “Just for one. I'm not ready to face them. To talk about her as though she was the greatest thing. I just...I can't..."

"All right. Come on. But only for one, mind."

I get out of the car and shut the door, waiting for Ryan to lock up. I give the pub a once over while I wait. The Ragged Sigh. Who the fuck thinks of names like that? It used to be called The King's Arms, quite a dive to be honest, but I'm curious as to whether the revamp has altered the clientele. That bunch of wankers who used to jeer at me, Trevor's cronies, drank in here once upon a time. Wonder if they still do? I shrug and walk towards the double mahogany doors, Ryan a quiet anchor by my side. We enter, and right away I see it isn't the place I remember. All wooden floors and swanky mirrors now, modern leather sofas and dark wood tables. Contemporary art fills the walls—splotches of colour, the images nothing discernable—and a huge flat-screen TV hangs across the far right corner, the sports channel flickering from a football game to commentators discussing the match. That hasn't changed, then.

At the bar, I order two pints of Guinness from a barmaid who looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here. Her lethargic movements and slow smile prove she's here to only earn a wage and nothing more. She looks tired, downtrodden, and I feel sorry for her to the degree I almost open my mouth and offer her the money Mum left me. I stop myself, though. I mean, she'd think I was mental or pulling her leg, and some people take offence if they think
you
think they're down and out.

We sit on wooden chairs in the corner farthest from the TV, and Ryan sips slowly, legs apart, an arm draped over one leg, the elbow if his other arm propped on the table. I lean back, put my foot on the vertical strut beneath the table, and look around at the changes. Something to do, isn't it? Something to take my mind off of—

"Things'll get better, you know.” Ryan stares at the TV to our right. “And it doesn't make you weak if you let yourself to get upset. She was your mum, when all is said and done. Gotta sting a bit, you know?"

I nod, knowing he can't see me, but he'll sense it. He always does. Just like what he said there—always knows what to say as though he's read my thoughts.

"Yeah. But I've got to move on after today. Can't keep dragging all this internal shit around with me, know what I mean?” I gulp my Guinness.

"Yep.” He pauses, then, “People will be gone by dinnertime. Then we can go back to mine. I've still got a few things that need boxing up ready to take back to yours, but after that, our lives are ours.” He turns to me and smiles.

"Be nice won't it?"

"Yep. Big change for me, moving to Biddingford, being out there in the middle of nowhere, but fuck it, we'll be together, so that's all right.” Ryan smiles and nods, as if confirming it to himself more than anything.

"Josh'll show you the ropes at work."

Ryan nods, sips again, and I think about the guy who took me in when I arrived at Biddingford with no place to go. Nice fella, married to Sue, and they have two kids who make me smile. He'd sorted a job for Ryan at the candle factory we work at. Nothing fancy, but it brings in the money, and we'll be in different departments, so there's no risk of us getting on each other's nerves, what with working
and
living together.

"Dad reckons it'll be the making of me,” Ryan says, scratching his cheek.

"It probably will be. I mean, you've been living on your own for a good while now, but actually being away from your parents...well, it makes you self-sufficient. Free."

"Yeah."

Times like this I wish my dad was here, but he isn't, long dead from his car accident now, so I just have to suck it up and get on with life. “We'll be all right, won't we?"

"Course we will. Don't see why not.” He stares at the door, the creak of it opening cutting through the whiny voice on the TV. Nodding in the door's direction, he says, “Probably best if we drink up."

I turn my head. Trevor's friends have walked in and stand at the bar ordering drinks. The night I left this town, Trevor threatened he'd do me in if I ever came back, and I didn't doubt him. He would if he was here to do it, too, but he's banged up awaiting trial for using the gun he pointed at me on some other poor bastard. My stomach lurches, and I curse quietly, pissed off that even though I'm an adult, these blokes can affect me like they did at school. Taunted me for years, they have, under Trevor's direction. It might be a different story now Trevor isn't here to goad them on, but I don't really want to hang about to find out. We rise and walk toward the door, Ryan ahead of me with his head held high, me with mine bowed, peering at them out the corner of my eye.

One of them swivels to watch who's leaving and leans on the bar, pointing at us, head nodding. “What the fuck are you doing here?"

I don't stop, just keep walking, but he's pushed himself off the bar and walks towards me like he owns the place. Doug Peters. Fucking cock.

"Oi, I
said
, what the fuck are
you
doing here?” He grips my wrist and brings me to a stop.

I stare at him, wishing I had the guts to punch that smug smile off his fucking face and walk out, proud and self-confident. I've changed since living in Biddingford, but evidently not that much. One look at his steely grey eyes and I'm back in the playground.

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"Leave it, Doug,” Ryan said, stepping from the door to stand beside Lee. “He's back to bury his mum today, all right?"

Doug looked from Lee to Ryan, sneer firmly in place. “Couldn't give a fuck
what
he's doing here. Trev told him not to come back."