Suddenly I realize I’m in the back of the Volkswagen, my body half-turned towards Mike. Carol has put on the heater full blast and Mike’s dug out a blanket and is towelling my hair. We always joke that Mumzilla’s car is like Mary Poppins’ handbag – whatever is required can be found, you only have tobelieve.
“Hey, Bitch,” I say as Mike unveils me.
He gives me this watery smile. “Hey, Bumboy.”
I hear snuffling from the boot and Beckham appears at the guard. I reach through the cage and Becks licks my fingers. I used to have this weird dream a while back that the actual David Beckham would take the place of the Berringtons’ family pet and lick my digits. Weird, I know. The still-sprightly ten-year-old collie gives me this dewy-eyed look.
“I love you too, Becks,” I tell him.
“Here,” says Mike. He holds out his black suit jacket. “Take yours off. Mum’ll get it dry-cleaned.”
“Mum will,” Carol confirms.
“I can’t, what will you wear?”
“I’ve got my coat.”
I thank him and pull on the jacket. It’s too big but Mike manages to arrange it somehow on my skinny shoulders, and I guess it looks okay. Better than my sopping jacket anyway. If I’d walked in like that, the congregation might have thought I’d stopped off for a dip in Hunter’s Lake – you know, for old times’ sake. I shiver. It’s like I can still feel the water’s touch creeping along the inside of my thigh, still hear the jealous lake whispering:
So you thought this was forever?
Mike sees my hand trembling. He takes it and cups it in his own. It’s my bad hand; the one I damaged trying to free myself from the seatbelt. My shoulder still aches occasionally – bruised bone – and the cuts on my scalp continue to itch, but the scar on my cheek doesn’t cause me any trouble, and Chris says it looks pretty badass. But my hand won’t do everything it’s told, basically because of nerve damage. It hurts like hell most of the time too. The doctor gave me these painkillers, told me to use them sparingly, but he needn’t have bothered. Soon as I got home they were flushed.
I deserve the pain. I deserve the crazy. I deserve a messed-up hand. No one’s taking these things away from me.
The windscreen wipers whump. The heater chunters. Mike angles his body back into his seat, keeping hold of my hand the whole time. We’ve sat like this a lot over the past three-and-a-half weeks, comfortable as we can be in this endless silence.
“Dylan,” says Carol from the front, “where’s your mum and dad?”
Hey, it would’ve been weird if she hadn’t asked.
“They didn’t think it was appropriate to come today.”
“What?” Mike glares. “Why the hell not?”
“Michael,” says Mumzilla. “I’m sure Barbara and Gordon have their reasons.”
A nerve jumps in Mike’s throat.
So it’s a short story. It went like this:
I knew your Aunt Julia would struggle with the funeral, El. You lived in a rented flat in Mount Pleasant and, although Julia worked herself ragged managing the bakery, there was never quite enough money. And, El, you were a miracle-worker. You put together the most delicious meals and you looked freaking awesome every single day of your life, accessorizing your uniform in such a stylish way that Mr Robarts could never quite bring himself to enforce the school dress code. But the truth was, you and Julia were only just about getting by. And you were my boyfriend. You were amazing. All I wanted was for your send-off to be amazing too.
“I’m just saying we could host the wake here,” I said. “It only needs to be a small tea for family and friends.”
“But, Dylan, it’s not really our place,” my dad objected.
“His aunt might think it presumptuous.” Mum nodded.
“I’ll ask her,” I said. “No problem. I’ll go over there right now and if she says she’s cool with it, then—”
“You don’t understand, Dylan. These people can be very proud.”
My mum’s mouth clamped shut but the words were out. No way I wasn’t calling her on that.
“Thesepeople? What exactly do you mean by that, Mum?”
“Dylan, I think your mother—”
