10

The day of the funeral was warm for autumn. The sky was a peerless blue, the breeze no more than a huff from the mouth of a bored god. The trees that bordered the cemetery were a burnt auburn and the pathways through the headstones provided a crisp litter bed for those leaves that had given up the fight.

The surviving twin said he wanted the funeral to be a celebration of Ken’s life. The colour black was banned, and in keeping with this request the attendees fought to outdo each other, wearing the gaudiest colours in their wardrobe.

Robert Ford himself was wearing cream trousers, a post-box red jacket and a paisley patterned tie with God knows how many colours on it. Jim was by Robert’s side for most of the day, wearing the only jacket he had, which was a dark green. Robert insisted he borrow a tie, so against his better judgement he went for one with luminous pink and blue stripes.

The service was mercifully brief, Jim thought. Being in such a prominent position, so near the family of the bereaved, he was aware that he would be in the vision of most of the people there. How to keep the bored expression from his face and wear something that approximated grief was almost beyond him.

Robert almost inevitably was the one to find the dead body. And almost succumbed to the gas himself had his first action not been to turn the heating off when he walked into the house. The house was like a sauna, he told Jim. As he described events of that afternoon, he said that he felt the heat as soon as he walked in the door. Shouted for Ken, got no answer. He walked through the living room and through into the kitchen. No Ken. He turned off the heating before he then went upstairs. To find Ken, fully clothed, face down on the bed. As if he’d been making his way there for a lie down and fatigue had overtaken him before he could get into a proper sleeping position.

Jim was a wonderful listener. He gripped the older man’s forearm in a show of support and silently willed him to continue, hoping that his mounting excitement would not be recognised for what it was.

Robert detailed his puzzlement at his brother’s position on the bed. Then his chest began to tighten, he felt that he couldn’t breathe. His head was pounding and he felt alarmingly dizzy. And confused. What was Ken doing lying like that?

And how he had the presence of mind to open the bedroom window, he’d never know, he told Jim. Which, on learning what had killed his brother, was something of a minor miracle. And the action that had saved his life. The doctors told him his higher fitness level might have been why he had been able to stave off the effects of the gas longer than his brother.

Tea and sandwiches were being served back at the church hall after the burial, and while Jim listened to the great and the good of the parish eulogise the deceased, he dreamed of the moment he would have Robert to himself.

It was back at Robert’s house later in the day, when all the mourners had gone home to their own living, breathing families, when Robert crumbled. He had been at attention all day, his bearing rigid with his refusal to publicly show his grief. Only when he and Jim were on their own did he give in.

They’d been sitting side by side on the sofa in silence for many minutes when Robert gripped Jim’s knee.

‘You were the last person who saw Ken alive,’ said Robert. His face long, eyes anguished. ‘Tell me again what he said?’

‘He made me a cup of tea,’ said Jim. ‘Said he wasn’t your keeper when I asked where you were.’

‘The old git,’ Robert half-laughed half-sobbed.

‘Said he couldn’t understand why someone would spend all that time swimming up and down the same stretch of water…’

‘Ha.’ Robert shook his head slowly. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nope,’ said Jim. ‘Apart from saying he wanted to watch some guy on the TV called Kyle. The man he loved to hate, apparently.’

‘Yeah,’ said Robert. ‘He loved to watch that crap. Joked that we should make up some rubbish so we could get on the telly.’ He jumped up from his chair and ran into the kitchen as if he was going to vomit. Curiosity drove Jim to follow. Robert was hunched over the kitchen sink. His legs gave way and he fell to the floor. He managed to get himself into a seated position and drew his knees up to his chest. Holding everything tight.

He was stuck there. Anchored to the spot with anguish. A line of spit shone from his lower lip, down past his chin. He rolled his head slowly from side to side, moaning his brother’s name.

Tea, thought Jim. That’s what people do in this situation. They deflect their thoughts by making tea. But he couldn’t move. He was transfixed by the beauty of the other man’s sorrow, by the drama of his hurt. He wanted to be up close. Forehead to forehead. Breath to breath. Pain to pain.

He took a step closer and soaked up the other man’s energy. His eyes smarted, his chest puffed, adrenalin sparked in his fingertips. He stumbled to his knees, rapt, his arms out, wanting to touch the older man.

Robert misread his intention and held a hand out to take one of Jim’s.

‘You really cared for him, didn’t you?’ he asked in a whisper through his clenched throat.

Jim nodded the lie. The ability to speak momentarily lost, his mind reeling. Until now, the black hole in his life had only been filled by the death of another. But this was an incredible charge. He felt replete. Sated.

Grief would be his feast from now on.