But there were things I was curious about, and in the end I'd bought a smart black suit and practically pulled myself out of the flat. Five to two found me parking up on a stretch of gravel across the road from the church. Christmas was only a few days away, but the weather had been calm since the events of two weeks before. It hadn't snowed again since. Today, the air was cold and hard; the sky a crisp, clear blue. As I crossed the road, the tarmac glittered, even now retaining a sparkle of frost from the night just gone.
I walked up the driveway by myself, the envelope in my hand. I hadn't been sure about bringing that, either. I'd picked it up on the way out, but I didn't know yet what I would do with it. Perhaps I would just carry it away again at the end of the service.
There was a bitter breeze. It pressed ice against my face, and rolled my tie across my jacket.
At the top of the drive, by the church, a line of black cars was parked. The procession had already arrived, the coffin been taken in. Groups of people, young and old, were gathering around the entrance, following the family and close friends who had gone inside. Others waited on the grass verges nearby, finishing cigarettes. Nobody was talking. Everyone seemed hunched around their thoughts and feelings, as though protecting them from the cold.
A peaked stone archway led into the porch area of the church, with chapels to either side. The doorway to the left, the chapel where the service was taking place, was full of people, the one to the right less so. I moved that way. A video screen had been set up at the far end, so that the overflow could watch the service from there.
I sat down in a pew at the back, by myself.
'Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live. And everyone who lives and believes in me will never die."'
The minister paused, pushing his glasses up his nose. Behind him, the choir, wearing plain white sheets, looked like candles, squat and unlit.
'We are here today to mourn the passing of Scott Andrew Banks.'
Even through the video feed, I could hear people crying quietly. Scott had been found shortly after dawn that day, tied to a tree half a mile from the clearing. The only time I'd seen him, beyond the fractured, bleary painting on his computer, was in the autopsy report. From that, I knew he'd been wounded in exactly the same way as the man I'd interviewed in the hospital; Barnes, or whatever his real name was, had created a mirror image of Scott's suffering on his own body. Scott had been left to die slowly from exposure, but we'd probably never know exactly what happened between them that night.
On the screen we could see the minister and the first two rows of the congregation. I thought I could pick out Jodie on the right-hand side at the front. It was strange that I'd yet to meet her. I saw her briefly that night in the department, but I didn't speak to her and the investigation had been taken out of our hands the next morning. Hunter's man had interviewed her a few days later, and I'd read the transcript. That was when the questions had started to occur to me. What interested me most was what
wasn't
there. It reminded me of the photograph Scott had kept in his wallet. The way we see only what people are prepared to show us.
'Death is always tragic,' the minister said. 'The absence of a loved one is something most of us have experienced, and each of us knows that the loss is cataclysmic. In Scott's case, a vibrant and talented young man was taken from us before his time, which makes the loss even harder to bear. He leaves behind him a mother, Teri, a father, Michael, and his girlfriend, Jodie. In a few moments we will all sing a hymn together, and then Jodie will speak to us about Scott and share some of her memories with us.'
I looked down at the envelope in my hands, still undecided about whether or not I should give it to her. Jodie and Scott's computer was impounded at the department, but the hard drive had been itemised and the document in the envelope hadn't been included in the list of files the IT team had found. Clearly, though, Scott had written it, which meant that Barnes must have deleted it when he abducted him. But he had taken it to use as notes in the woods, to refer to as he tried to turn Scott against Jodie.
Five Hundred Reasons Why I Love You
.
Barnes had left it, along with the note to Mercer, in the old storeroom. A few pages at the end either hadn't printed or had gone missing, because the list stopped at Number 274. But still, it was something. On impulse, I'd made a copy. I shouldn't have, but I thought that Scott might have wanted Jodie to have one. After reading her interview transcript, I wasn't so sure. There were things I needed to talk to her about first.
'Although our loved ones are taken from us, we must, in our grief, try to remember one thing. They have sailed over the horizon, but a horizon is simply a matter of what we currently see. One day we, too, will make that journey, and we will see them again. This we trust and believe, through Jesus Christ, our Lord.'
Amen.
I settled back. In my everyday life, no matter how much I might want to on an emotional level, I could never justify believing in any of the comforts of religion. An afterlife, a purpose to it all, a god looking down on us with any sense of benevolence - to me, it was all just wishful thinking. People who had left us no longer existed, except in our hearts and memories. There was no eternal reward or punishment. No divine plan.
But I'd found in the past that funerals allowed me some time off from that hard intellectual position. For half an hour, I'd be able to take some comfort. I'd be able to imagine that people did go on and that, when they were taken from us, it was either because it was their time or because someone or something had stolen them away: a theft God had watched and taken count of. For half an hour, I could fool myself that the question 'why' had an answer that made at least a subtle kind of sense.
Today, though, I didn't feel that way.
When I thought back to what had happened at Mercer's house, I knew it hadn't been any kind of message from beyond the grave. Quite the opposite, in fact. There was nobody to receive a message from. Lise remained lost at sea, and wherever her body was, she wasn't thinking anything any more. She wasn't hating me or loving me. She was simply gone.
What did it matter what she had thought of me during those brief moments in the sea? I'd never know what had gone through her mind, and whatever I chose to believe wouldn't change anything. Because I missed her so much, I was driven to imagine the expression on her face
right now
, as if she was still here. I wanted to hear the things she might say. But there was no reality to any of it beyond the one I imposed; the one I made up for myself. The only real afterlife people have is in the minds of those they leave behind.
I could choose to base that on one awful, unknowable moment at the end or, instead, I could think of all the years leading up to that. If I chose the latter, there was no doubt about what I'd see on her face or the things I'd hear her say.
From now on, I'd decided, I would choose to picture her smiling.
And I'd imagine that, when she talked to me, she'd be whispering it in my ear and telling me the truth.
There was nothing you could have done.
After the service, Jodie walked out of the church, squinting against the bright daylight. The whole sky was grey-white, but light shone through, from behind, and everywhere she looked the world was sparkling. It was freezing, though. The steam from her breath billowed in the air, and, along with the sudden cold on her cheeks, it reminded her too much of the night it had happened.
Keep it together.
But she was still trembling. A couple of times during the reading, she'd had to stop and take a sip of water. Her hand had been visibly shaking then, and now it was even worse. Her throat was tight, her stomach ... The whole core of her was tensed and constricted. She recognised the sensation. It was a mixture of panic and despair, and it was rising inexorably towards the surface. But she refused to allow herself to cry; she simply couldn't do that. Mustn't. If she did, people would comfort her and she would break down properly, perhaps even irretrievably.
Except she wouldn't, of course, and that was the problem. She was feeling pain and grief and guilt that were impossible to bear, and yet she continued to do so. Each second led to the next, and the whole time something inside was burning, impossible to soothe, as if her soul had fallen asleep too close to a fire. If anyone touched her, if she thought too deeply about what had happened, it would wake up and begin screaming.
Because nobody here knew the truth.
But if it hurt her - if it was difficult - that was good. She deserved this, and she couldn't shy away from it. Funerals were supposed to be an important, cathartic part of the grieving process: you could let it all out, and everybody would join you; all of you attempting to avert your eyes from the tragedy and instead celebrate the life leading up to it. It was supposed to be a chance a say goodbye; a chance to say: we loved you. No matter how much she wanted to hide, to disappear, it was her duty to be at the centre of that. She owed it not only to Scott, but to the people attending. In many ways, she represented the heart of the tragedy, and so she had a role to perform. People needed her. It wasn't their fault that in reality she had no right to be the focus of the pain, that she had caused it all.
You can't think that way. It's stupid.
It wasn't, though. The guilt she felt was righteous in its intensity. But she couldn't share any of it and she had no right to collapse under it; no right to accept sympathy or comfort.
Jodie took a deep breath, and began moving between groups of people. Circulating; letting people know she was okay, and checking that they were, too. She shook hands and embraced their mutual friends, Scott's family and colleagues. 'Thank you so much for coming.' Over and over again, she heard the same things from different people. 'We're so sorry for your loss,' they said. 'Just let me know if I can do anything.' It was almost unbearable, but she forced herself to nod: to play the role that was expected of her. There were gentle smiles as brief memories were shared. People told her how lovely her tribute had been, and she had to fight back the urge to turn and run. Yes, how much she had loved him. None of them knew about how she'd betrayed him, or about how false her words had seemed to her. All of them except the handful at the end, when she had started to unravel: 'I miss him so much. I wish he could be here so I could explain.' And even those words - people wouldn't have understood what lay behind them.
It built up inside, person after person. Jodie could feel herself faltering, struggling. She couldn't cry. Couldn't allow herself to be as devastated as she felt. The knowledge that the people speaking to her would mistake it for grief only made it worse. But she couldn't take it. She would have to escape from this soon, before she drowned in her sorrow, her shame.
I'm sorry, she thought.
There was a man standing slightly away from everybody else, leaning against a tree, watching her patiently. Jodie glanced at him, then away, unnerved by the way he was staring at her. It was like he'd caught her out. Who was he? There was something familiar about him, so she looked back. He was about her age, tall, wearing a black suit and holding an envelope in his hand. She placed him a second later: she'd seen him that night at the police station.
A detective. Her heart skipped slightly.
Now that they'd made eye contact, he smiled at her, but even though it was friendly, she looked away quickly. It was Mark something; she recognised him now. He was the one who'd interviewed the man in the hospital, the one John had spoken to on the phone, when she'd still thought Scott was alive. The euphoria then was in stark contrast to the despair she had felt ever since. Now she was beginning to panic, too.
You're going to have to talk to him.
Okay. Jodie gathered herself together, trying to keep calm, and walked over to where he was standing. The breeze blew a strand of hair across her face, and she brushed it back behind her ear.
'Hello,' she said, squinting against the light. 'Thank you for coming.'
'I wanted to come,' Mark said. 'I didn't know whether I should ... but anyway, I wanted to. How are you holding up?'
'Oh. Well, you know ...'
She faltered; it was such a direct and personal question for someone to ask, especially someone who didn't know her. But at the same time there was something honest about it. She smiled without humour.
'Not that well.'
'I understand,' he said. 'We were taken off the investigation, but I did read the interview. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about what happened to you.'
'Thank you.'
But she noticed again the way he'd worded it, offering sympathy not only for her loss but for the entire situation: 'what happened to you'.
The panic was stronger now. Did he know?
'How's John?' she said.
Mark looked off down the driveway, considering that. There didn't look to be an easy answer to the question, but she knew a lot had happened that she wasn't aware of. She hadn't seen John since that night, but the officer who'd taken her statement had alluded to the trouble he was in. There were hints of a larger picture, but not enough for her to see it.
'He's all right,' Mark said finally. 'He's not with the department at the moment, and there are investigations pending. But it could have been a lot worse.'
'If you see him, tell him I said thank you.'
'I will.'
Neither of them spoke for a moment, but Jodie didn't feel able to move away. On some level, she didn't want to.
The silence prompted her. 'What about the man?'
Mark was still looking down the driveway: 'He died.'
She'd been told already, at the interview - and she realised that Mark would surely have known. It was as though the truth was being gently coaxed out of her without her consent. Her heart was beating too quickly. But she didn't move away.