It was a joint decision by all the families involved. There could be six separate funerals, six days of grief. Or there could be one for them all. A memorial event. Something to mark the event with the gravitas it deserved.
There hadn’t been a tragedy like this in the town in the town’s history. It was something that no one could have predicted, something that would never happen again.
It was right to mark it. Remember the victims.
All six.
Sam Murray
Lauren Reeves
Scott Philips
Leanne Baxter
Susan Pola
Sean Talbot
The last one to die had been Sean. He’d stepped in front of Tracy Cavan and taken a knife to the heart. His was the cleanest kill of them all. He’d fallen back onto the sofa, looked like he was sleeping. Tracy had passed out from the shock, and when she’d woken she’d refused to believe that the whole thing wasn’t some sort of alcohol- and drug-induced nightmare. They’d found her huddled in a corner. Singing to herself . . . something about heading to the Milky Way. She’s here today, with her sister. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses, has her hands clasped in front of her. Most of the girls are the same. Black dresses, solemn stances. Hayley is here, standing alone.
Things will be different after this.
The boys and the men are all in black suits. There was talk of going informal, T-shirts and jeans, skirts and tops. But the consensus was that some ceremony was required. They’d make up for it in the pub afterwards, no doubt. Ties would be removed when the pints started to flow.
Davie sits next to the central aisle in the last pew, right at the back of the nave. He’s in dress uniform, something he hasn’t worn for a while. It feels good, feels right. Malkie sits directly in front of him; he has managed to find a suit that isn’t crumpled and ripped. He actually looks smart. Davie glances around at the congregation, a sea of bowed heads. So many young people. They are hurting, unable to stop their tears. But there is a lesson here too, as much as they might not want to see it now. It wasn’t only Marie that led them to this day. It was Gaz, and Stuart Mason, and everyone else who was involved – buying the legal high, spreading its buzz. Taking it to the party.
He knows that Laura, too, feels responsible. She saw what Marie did, but she didn’t act. She was too wrapped up in herself, desperate to be back with Mark, hidden in their love nest – and Davie couldn’t blame her for that. But he knew Laura would struggle with it. She would need help. Wouldn’t they all?
Laura sits quietly to his left. Next to her is Mark. Head dropped low to his chest as if in deep contemplation. Davie can see he is trying to hide his tears. He’s clearly feeling the enormity of it all. What could’ve been. It could’ve been him. His knuckles glow white where he is gripping Laura’s hand.
Davie looks away. Stares down the central aisle towards the chancel. He thinks about the dead. Scott. The downward spiral from losing his job to splitting up with his fiancé, Jo, to where he is now, has been rapid. He’d taken too many chances, too many risks. He wanted some fun – to break away from the norm. Doesn’t everyone? His only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Scott and Leanne were the first ones to die. They’d been the trigger. What had Graeme seen there? A young couple having a bit of fun, a quick shag in a place where they thought no one would bother them. Was it a reminder? A snapshot of him and Marie, from a different time and place?
Davie closes his eyes. The minister stands at the altar talking in low, soothing tones. His magnified voice seems to float through the air. He has given the eulogies – the relatives of the deceased too distraught to stand up there themselves – and he’s listed their names, over and over, like a chant. Davie opens his eyes as the old man begins the committal:
We have but a short time to live.
Like a flower we blossom and then wither;
like a shadow we flee and never stay.
In the midst of life we are in death;
to whom can we turn for help,
but to you, Lord, who are justly angered by our sins?
He’s not religious. He’s never believed that a higher power has the ability to govern a person’s life. But words said inside a church seem to take on a deeper meaning, even for the atheists and agnostics, and the plain-old apathetics: to whom can we turn for help?
A wave of loneliness washes over him. Coldplay come on the sound system, telling everyone to look at the stars, and the crowd starts to filter outside, squinting into the bright daylight. Davie follows, to the small area set aside at the back of the churchyard where six new graves wait patiently. There’d been a special council meeting about all this. The section they’d dug up wasn’t part of the original graveyard. It was a small garden at the back, a peace garden. They’d rearranged it, replanted the flowers and shrubs into the borders, and left the space in the centre, three by two. The workmen had been fast. Efficient. Davie hopes that the memorial garden will help bind the community even more closely. Make them realise what they have. Davie scans the crowd. Most of the faces are familiar, some more than others. He senses someone at his side.
‘Have you seen who’s here?’ Callum says.
‘You’ll need to give me a better clue than that.’
‘Over there, standing under the willow. Maybe you won’t recognise her. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but you never forget a face. She was in my year at school. She’s Sean Talbot’s cousin. I couldn’t work out the connection at first, but when I saw her talking to Sean’s mum, I remembered.’
Davie looks. Sees a tall, blonde woman standing with her arms crossed. Her face is cold, distant. A man is talking to her. He can’t hear, but he can see his lips moving, fast. Hands gesturing. The blonde is trying to tune him out. She must sense his gaze, and her eyes shift. She stares at him. Looks away.
‘That’s not . . . Polly McAllister?’
‘Yep,’ Callum says. ‘Never expected to see her back in town. Wonder if I should go and speak to her. She keeps glancing over at me, trying to catch my eye. It’s like she wants me to recognise her.’ He pauses, waiting for Davie to say something, but he just shrugs.
‘Maybe she’s just here for the service, Callum. Leave it.’ Davie wonders if Polly’s here to stir up trouble or to make amends. Anyway, he’s not getting involved. Best to keep the rumour mill shut for the day. It’s the least they can hope for.
‘Maybe she’s planning to stick around,’ Callum persists. ‘People seem to gravitate back here. It’s like a magnetic pull. You can try to escape, but it’ll drag you back eventually. Look at Graeme Woodley. He wasn’t even from here, but somehow he was drawn in . . .’
‘He came here for Marie.’
‘Yeah. How is she, Davie? I can’t believe the life she’s had. Poor cow. Saying that, though – you’re becoming a bit of a magnet for nutters.’
He’s right. But Davie is struggling, too. He isn’t without blame. He’s not as innocent as Callum thinks. If he’d gone to Marie when he found out that Graeme was her brother . . . stopped her from going to that party. Maybe Graeme could’ve been safely locked up, unable to hurt anyone again. But now Marie’s life is ruined, and any chance they had of a life together was lost the minute she mixed those drugs into that drink. But he can’t say any of that. He can’t let anyone know how he really feels. Responsible. This is a burden he’s going to have to carry alone.
Forever.
‘She’s coping. She’s at Cornton Vale on remand. I’m not sure what’s going to happen to her.’
‘Do you think you’ll stay together? She might get out – if the judge takes her circumstances into account?’
‘He might. But Marie’s going to have to live with what she did, whether she’s in prison or not. I don’t think she’ll want to be with me. I’ll only remind her of how it all went wrong. I think I’m destined to be on my own, Cal. I think it might be easier that way.’
Callum looks like he wants to say more but changes his mind. He pats Davie on the back, then makes his way into the crowd that is huddled around the graves. Davie glances across towards Laura and Mark. They have their arms wrapped tightly around each other. She senses him looking and smiles shyly at him. He needs to talk to her about all this. Soon. But not now. He’s about to walk away, thinks a walk by the river might help clear his head, when he is stopped by a hand on his arm.
‘Are you coming over for the sandwiches, Sergeant Gray?’ Bridie Goldstone, Laura’s grandmother, has appeared at his side. She is looking at him with the flashing eyes of someone eager for gossip.
‘Ah, thanks, Bridie. But I think I’ll just get myself home. It’s been a tiring time—’
‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘Especially with your lady-friend being involved in it all. Awful business with that brother of hers . . .’ Her sentence trails off. She looks disappointed. She can tell she’s not going to get much out of him.
Davie smiles and turns away. It’s best not to respond at all. Let her chat to her cronies about it all. He can’t stop them. All he can do is avoid adding any fuel to their fire. He puts his hat back on, adjusts it at the sides. Smooths hair down behind his ears. He scans the crowd once more. They would pull together now, this community. They were strong. Resilient.
He’ll just have to be the same.
No one knows about his guilt. No one knows about the part he played in it all. And that’s the way it has to stay.
Secrets.
Everybody has one.
And just like old bones, sometimes they’re best left buried.