Soldier, Ask Not
Desmond Gallagher was buried in a small cemetery called the Gateway Lodge, on the outskirts of East Kilbride. Adam Black attended, chosen to lower the coffin with five others. He had known Gallagher since his late teens, both in the same law class at Edinburgh University. They’d graduated, then gone separate ways.
Gallagher stayed with the law. Black joined the parachute regiment. Opposite ends of the spectrum, mused Black, as he gripped the yellow strap, and took the strain, lowering the coffin down gently. And yet they’d stayed in touch. They were friends, and had stayed friends.
When Black returned to the world of law, they got close again. He and Black had met for lunch only five weeks earlier. Black thought back. They’d chatted, shared a bottle of red. Reminisced. The talk was casual. And yet… He pondered – there was an undercurrent. A nervous edge to Gallagher’s demeanour. An unease which Black couldn’t quite put his finger on.
And within days, on a still summer’s evening, Desmond Gallagher was murdered on a country road a mile from his house. Shot. Left to rot. Black, like everyone, like the nation, was stunned. This was an exceptional act of violence, requiring skill and foresight. Execution style. A random act? Hardly.
The gathering was large. Desmond Gallagher had been loved. He’d left a wife – Deborah – and two kids. One of them not quite a kid, reflected Black. The older one was nineteen. His younger brother was either eleven or twelve. Black couldn’t recall. They stood, Desmond Gallagher’s little family, garbed in black, quiet and solemn, faces pale and pinched in the bright afternoon.
For the briefest moment, Black felt a little envious. Should he die, who would mourn for him? His family were dead, he had few friends. No close relatives. He had chosen a solitary life. Enforced, perhaps. The equation was simple. If he got too close to someone, then the ending was seldom good. Death was never far away from Adam Black. It always hovered close, ready to dispense.
The priest uttered some final words. People headed back to their cars. Black made his way to Deborah, to pay final respects. She stood by her husband’s graveside, skin white as marble, her children by her.
“I’m sorry, Deborah,” Black said. “If there’s anything I can do…”
She looked up at him, eyes round and glistening.
“You’re not coming back…?”
“I wasn’t…”
“Please,” she urged. “Come back to the house. A last farewell. He would have wanted that.”
“Of course.”
She touched his elbow with her fingers, hesitated.
“There’s something…”
“Yes?”
“There’s something I want to show you.”