I spotted the cloakroom at the far end of the hallway. Through the glass the jackets were neatly hung, sleeves lined up against each other as if they were an army of lockstepping men, while the bodies of the dead turned in red wine. The priest intoned in Latin. An adrenaline rush hit my limbs at high speed. I never knew what to expect in these situations. Anything could happen. The important thing was to act as naturally as possible and to get the business end taken care of quickly.
I entered the cloakroom, took my jacket off, keeping one eye on the entrance. I rummaged through the pockets of coats dangling an invitingly short distance away. The beauty of it was, people left all kinds of things in their coats; jewellery, old photos, condoms. Once, I’d found torn lace panties.
The priest spoke again, his voice a calm, soothing accompaniment to the pilfering happening in the cloakroom. Anon continued to instruct me quietly and my sweaty fingers became assured in those foreign pockets. I stuffed cash, credit cards, a watch and a red ruby stoned ring into my bag. Somebody in the service dropped a coin; I heard its slow roll on the smooth marble floor.
I buckled my bag shut, left the cloakroom closing the door gently behind me.
The service was half full, I wandered in quietly, coiled tension in my back slowly dissipating. A grey haired, middle-aged lady at the front nodded at me. I nodded back solemnly fingering the new found silence of the coin I’d scooped on my way in. The wooden pews were deep, still holding the prayers and confessions of sinners long gone. Sunlight glimmering through the scene on the stained glass window behind the pulpit gave it an ethereal glow. From the window Jesus had lost his strides in the sound of a truck pulling up on a nearby street. I heard the key turning in its stiff lock, the quiet purring of the engine cooling down.
Miss Argyle, whoever she was had friends in death. One woman in the pew to my left wiped tears from her eyes, another clutched her handbag so tightly, her knuckles strained against the skin. Somebody at the pulpit was giving an impassioned dedication. On the walls the carvings of saints leaned forward, burial soil softening in their mouths. From the bright window Jesus armed with an orange tongue would have to borrow legs from somebody he’d once forgiven.
I sensed him before I saw him. Something in the air changed, a shift I couldn’t quite identify. My neck became warm. My skin tingled. The smell of an earthy-scented aftershave filled my nostrils. I adjusted in my seat as the pew behind me creaked from somebody leaning back. Curious, I turned to see a lean, exotic looking man tucking a slither of silver Rizla paper into his pocket. His locked, wavy hair was tied back. He had on black jeans and a dark tweed jacket that had seen better days but was oddly stylish. His broad nostrils flared. He placed one long finger over his lips, pointed forward, indicating for me to mind my business. Liquid light brown eyes twinkled in amusement. In that moment, he seemed changeable. As if he could inch forward and his bull’s head would sprout over the subdued din or his crow hand would cover my breast and flick against its inverted nipple.
As the service rolled on, the tightness in my chest returned, an angular rip that was haemorrhaging. And suddenly I was back at my mother’s funeral, amongst a cluster of mourners looking for all intents and purposes a little relieved they weren’t the ones being lowered into the ground. Mervyn had wiped his tears away while people’s condolences swirled in my head, sentences that broke and re emerged as small wasp-like creatures, fluttering their wings between rapid eye movement. I’m so sorry. This is unexpected. How will you cope?
A woman’s coat flapped against slender legs encased in black tights. The white hyena in the sky bore down ready to swallow the scent whole so I gave it the wasps in my head. People looked into the rectangular chasm in the ground, as if their own eyes would mirror back the change of season. I spilled soil on the casket. It popped open. My mother sat up at the far right end of the silky ivory interior, picking the hem of her skirt, threads dangling out of the casket. I crawled towards her, stretching my hand at her face as it blurred and redefined itself. There’s no room for two here. She said that in a dry, accented tone that flooded me with familiarity. I pressed my head against her chest, listening to the sound of taps running, of warm bath water spilling. The casket was damp; I began to feel around for a leak.
Then I patted my body down for leakage.
Then I was swept into Mervyn’s arms.
Then I was silently screaming, holding onto the shuddering of his shoulders, pressing my fingers against distorted shards of light.
At the party afterwards, held in a separate room that boasted large stained glass windows and an ornate mural ceiling I watched the man hiding the sliver of silver from the corner of my eye. He moved easily, interacting with other mourners. Kids ran in and out, small mountains of food dwindled. People talked about the dead woman as if she’d never made a mistake. Maybe they did this subconsciously, affected by being in God’s house. How did you know Abbie? The inevitable question cropped up repeatedly. I made stories up on the spot, wondering how I’d ever explain to Dr Krull the strange comfort I got from attending the funerals of others, telling myself most people wouldn’t realise they’d been robbed until they’d driven off and arrived at their next destination. The fleshy bodies turning in red wine began to lose their heads. I kept my eye on the exit in case I needed to bolt. Stones rolled in my bag for comfort and as part of an escape plan.
He finally approached me carrying an empty beverage bottle. The air between us was thick with promise. When he spoke it was like being knocked over unexpectedly, a kick in the gut, a rush of warmth flooded my skin.
“I didn’t know her,” he murmured unapologetically. “The dead woman” he continued, smiling at the bewildered expression on my face.
I raised my shoulders to release tension. “Oh, why would you attend the funeral of somebody you don’t know? It’s deceitful,” I said. He looked me in the eye knowingly, an unsettling tight expression on his face. “I followed you in here. You walk like a woman I once knew in Haiti. I’m sorry for your loss,” he offered, just a hint of mockery in his voice.
“Thank you,” I answered, surprised by the pangs of sorrow I felt.
He rummaged inside his jacket, fished out something. “You dropped this by the way.” He handed me the £20 from the steps. The Queen’s silent expression had subtly darkened. “Hey! I put that in my bag.”
“Ah, you’re not the only one with tricks. Come on, there’s an interesting crypt space downstairs. I’ll show you, don’t make a scene.”
He was so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
The crypt was cool but his hands were warm. He propped me up against a disused bar, slipped a finger inside me, promising to mark my underwear with cigarette burns. He pressed the bottle mouth against my back. The woman whose walk I’d inherited sat at the bottom in smoke form, curling into our breaths. Tires screeched away, stones rustled, bite marks on my shoulder formed a raging map of teeth indentations. The bodies in red wine swam after their floating, drunken privates. Sweat pooled between my breasts. I liked the metallic taste of his zipper in my mouth, the fury of his fingers sliding in and out of me frenetically, his changeable face buried in the damp, gnarly thatch of hair between my legs. His mouth sucked greedily on the arches of my feet. His hands tightened on my throat, saints on the church walls orgasmed in unison. My tongue came undone