G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
Copyright © 2019 by Richard Roper
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Roper, Richard, author.
Title: How not to die alone / Richard Roper.
Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018049551 | ISBN 9780525539889 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780525539902 (epub)
Classification: LCC PR6118.O643 H69 2019 | DDC 823 / .92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018049551
p. cm.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Mum and Dad
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Public Health (Control of Disease) Act 1984, section 46: (1) It shall be the duty of a local authority to cause to be buried or cremated the body of any person who has died or been found dead in their area, in any case where it appears to the authority that no suitable arrangements for the disposal of the body have been or are being made otherwise than by the authority.
— CHAPTER 1 —
Andrew looked at the coffin and tried to remember who was inside it. It was a man—he was sure of that. But, horrifyingly, the name escaped him. He thought he’d narrowed it down to either John or James, but Jake had just made a late bid for consideration. It was inevitable, he supposed, that this had happened. He’d been to so many of these funerals it was bound to at some point, but that didn’t stop him from feeling an angry stab of self-loathing.
If he could just remember the name before the vicar said it, that would be something. There was no order of service, but maybe he could check his work phone. Would that be cheating? Probably. Besides, it would have been a tricky enough maneuver to get away with in a church full of mourners, but it was nearly impossible when the only other person there apart from him was the vicar. Ordinarily, the funeral director would have been there as well, but he had e-mailed earlier to say he was too ill to make it.
Unnervingly, the vicar, who was only a few feet away from Andrew, had barely broken eye contact since he’d started the service. Andrew hadn’t dealt with him before. He was boyish and spoke with a nervous tremor that was amplified unforgivingly by the echoey church. Andrew couldn’t tell if this was down to nerves. He tried out a reassuring smile, but it didn’t seem to help. Would a thumbs-up be inappropriate? He decided against it.
He looked over at the coffin again. Maybe he was a Jake, though the man had been seventy-eight when he died, and you didn’t really get many septuagenarian Jakes. At least not yet. It was going to be strange in fifty years’ time when all the nursing homes would be full of Jakes and Waynes, Tinkerbells and Appletisers, with faded tribal tattoos that roughly translated as “Roadworks for next fifty yards” faded on their lower backs.
Jesus, concentrate, he admonished himself. The whole point of his being there was to bear respectful witness to the poor soul departing on their final journey, to provide some company in lieu of any family or friends. Dignity—that was his watchword.
Unfortunately, dignity was something that had been in short supply for the John or James or Jake. According to the coroner’s report, he had died on the toilet while reading a book about buzzards. To add insult to injury, Andrew later discovered firsthand that it wasn’t even a very good book about buzzards. Admittedly he was no expert, but he wasn’t sure the author—who even from the few passages Andrew had read came across as remarkably grumpy—should have dedicated a whole page to badmouthing kestrels. The deceased had folded the corner of this particular page down as a crude placeholder, so perhaps he’d been in agreement. As Andrew had peeled off his latex gloves he’d made a mental note to insult a kestrel—or indeed any member of the falcon family—the next time he saw one, as a tribute of sorts.
Other than a few more bird books, the house was devoid of anything that gave clues to the man’s personality. There were no records or films to be found, nor pictures on the walls or photographs on the windowsills. The only idiosyncrasy was the bafflingly large number of Fruit ’n Fibre boxes in the kitchen cupboards. So aside from the fact that he was a keen ornithologist with a top-notch digestive system, it was impossible to guess what sort of person John or James or Jake had been.
Andrew had been as diligent as ever with the property inspection. He’d searched the house (a curious mock-Tudor bungalow that sat defiantly as an incongruous interlude on the terraced street) until he was sure he’d not missed something that suggested the man had any family he was still in touch with. He’d knocked on the neighbors’ doors but they’d been either indifferent to or unaware of the man’s existence, or the fact it was over.
The vicar segued unsurely into a bit of Jesus-y material, and Andrew knew from experience that the service was coming to a close. He had to remember this person’s name, as a point of principle. He really tried his best, even when there was no one else there, to be a model mourner—to be as respectful as if there were hundreds of devastated family members in attendance. He’d even started removing his watch before entering the church because it felt like the deceased’s final journey should be exempt from the indifference of a ticking second hand.
The vicar was definitely on the home stretch now. Andrew was just going to have to make a decision.
John, he decided. He was definitely John.
“And while we believe that John—”
Yes!
“—struggled to some extent in his final years, and sadly departed the world without family or friends by his side, we can take comfort that, with God waiting with open arms, full of love and kindness, this journey shall be the last he makes alone.”