When he saw the death notice in the paper Gary knew he had to go to the funeral. He wouldn’t be expected, or welcome, but he felt it was the right thing to do. He was surprised at his own reaction as he read it. He didn’t laugh or allow himself a satisfied smile, even though at one point he’d have wanted to phone his friends and head for the pub to celebrate. All he could think about was Angela.
He thought of phoning his ex-wife but knew his voice wouldn’t be one she wanted to hear. The last time they spoke it had gone badly; screaming he hated her and hoped that she and Michael both die horrible and painful deaths hadn’t been the wisest thing to say. That had been a year ago.
He had seen her since then, when he parked outside her office or drove past the house, glimpsing her as he slowed down. He’d phone as well, never saying anything, just satisfied to hear her voice. It always sounded best when she was tired, usually in the middle of the night. Michael would come on the line and fire threats and obscenities at him but still he didn’t say anything. They got a court order in the end and he decided it would be best to leave them alone. He was a coward at heart.
He was only going to pay his respects. His mum would probably think he was only there to make sure Michael was dead. Angela would feel the same. Gary was part of her past and Michael had been her present and meant to be her future. Now she was on her own. Just like him.
* * * * *
He parked outside the chapel. It was a cold and bright morning, and the sun bouncing off the snowy ground was dazzling. The car park was full, with a hearse and two black limousines nearest the door. Two undertakers leant against a wall having a smoke while a third was wiping the bonnet of the hearse with a cloth. They hadn’t noticed him and he checked himself in the rear-view mirror one last time. He smiled. He couldn’t help it. And when he smiled that made him laugh.
He sunk down under the dashboard and put on the bright orange wig, adjusting it so that the nylon curls weren’t draped down over his face. Taking a deep breath he opened the door. He would have to be quick. There was no time for second thoughts, or any thoughts. The undertakers looked up at the sound of the car door slamming shut. One of them nearly choked on his cigarette as he ran past them. He squeezed his nose and a horn sound startled them.
He wore a bright red silk suit splattered with colours like a group of nursery school kids had attacked it with paint brushes. He’d thrown on a white t-shirt but no-one would notice because of the giant snot-green bow-tie round his neck. As well as the wig, he’d got his face painted. White with a fake red smile like Jack Nicholson’s Joker, black eyes with a couple of tears dotted on his cheeks. And the nose, like a bright red ping-pong ball.
The woman at the fancy dress shop had painted his face. She felt sorry for him when he told her there was no-one else to do it. He could have worn the massive shoes as well but decided trainers would be better in the snowy circumstances. Gliding past a couple of men wearing white sashes, who stood at the back of the chapel, he slid open the door and sprinted up the aisle.
“Here’s Johnny!” he shouted, giving his nose a toot. Heads turned and the priest stopped talking. There was complete silence. Even the crying seemed to have stopped.
Reaching the coffin, he plunged his hand into the jacket pocket and brought out a toy Santa Claus, which he wound up. He set it on top alongside a picture of Michael and Angela. He shrieked as the Santa started moving across the glossy wooden surface, and the strains of Jingle Bells could be heard.
He jumped up on the altar and headed for the priest, who started to back off. John honked his nose again and squeezed the bow tie, firing a spray of water into the priest’s terrified face. The old man stumbled as his hands shot up to his face and John could hear gasps from the congregation.
“Always look on the bright side of life!” he sang as he darted across to the altar, snatching up the chalice and taking a drink of the wine, some of the red liquid dribbling down his chin. He screwed up his face. ‘Waiter, this Buckfast is corked!’
Jumping down from the altar, he noticed a couple of men who’d squeezed out from one of the rows heading towards him and he grabbed a bouquet of flowers from a vase at the side of the coffin, throwing them in the air with another shriek. Angela was sitting, head in hands, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably while a young man he presumed was one of Michael’s son’s had his arm round her. Santa was still playing Jingle Bells.
“Cheer up, it might never happen!” he shouted as he darted towards the side door, bursting out into the cold air and colliding with one of the undertakers. He squirted him with water from the bow-tie and sprinted for his car, jumping on the bonnet of the hearse as he did so, leaving a dent in the shiny black metal. He was glad the church car park had been gritted.
The engine was still running as he dived into his car, ignoring a group of children who’d gathered outside the chapel in the mistaken belief there’d be a scramble after the service.
‘Do you juggle, mister?’ One boy shouted.
‘All the time, son, all the time,” he muttered, letting off the handbrake and pressing the accelerator to the floor.
You can email me at author@paulcuddihy.com or tweet me @PaulTheHunted
