It's not far to go now. I don't know if I say it spoken or just in my head but I say it, 'Not far to go now, Jack,' holding him inside my wet coat, 'nearly there.' And, now we've come right round the arm of the Pier, you can look across through the murk at the centre of Margate like we're on opposite shores, different lands. You can see Marine Terrace and the parade of arcades we passed earlier, with their sprinkled lights, like little toy buildings trying to wave at us, trying to say, Here we are. And behind them, against the pale band in the sky, you can see the outline of the big wheel and the dipper and even imagine there's some mad buggers up there right now, in the swaying seats, in the rattling cars, screaming and shrieking in the wind and the rain like they're crazier than we are.
Vie has reached the end. He stands there for a moment looking out. Captain on the bridge. Up above him, on the raised section, there's a harbour light on a tower like a miniature lighthouse, but where he's standing it looks like there's just a stone platform and a drop. He starts to pace about, waiting for us. It seems right that Vic's there first, to inspect the pitch, check the facilities, it wouldn't do if something wasn't up to scratch. We come up to him and he turns and looks at us, standing square and straight, like the wind's decided to go round him, and gives us one of his all-present-and-correct smiles. He's looking specially at me.
He says, 'Here we are.' But there aint nothing here but huge great slabs of stone laid as flags, all pocked and pitted and puddly, and a low granite parapet, like kerbstones, half broken away, and the wind and the rain and the spray. On one side the waves are smacking and crashing, and on the other they're gurgling and clucking like they're trying to apologize. One way there's Margate and Dreamland, the other there's the open sea. Except it aint just the open sea, because now we can peer round the end of the raised bit, we can see it: a rusty mass of old iron-work sticking up out of the water about three hundred yards out, the waves surging around it, like what's left of a fallen-in bridge.
'It's the Jetty,' Vince says, shouting against the wind. 'It's the Jetty, the bit that never got swept away.'
I hear Lenny say, 'Today could be the day.'
We're at the end and I'm holding Jack. I reckon you know what to do at the end. I always thought there'd be a pause, a time for gathering up your last thoughts, and someone might want to say some words and give a sign. There'd be this hesitation like when you sit down to eat with strange people and you look this way and that because you aint sure if they're the sort who say grace. But I don't hesitate. I get out the jar from under my coat, Jack Arthur Dodds, and I don't say nothing, cradling the jar in my arm, unscrewing the cap, like there's nothing else for it, and as I do, the rain starts to ease, like a gap's opened up in it just long enough for the disposing of a man's ashes, and that's sign enough.
We're at the end. I said, 'What was he doing at the end?' Amy said, 'He was sitting up in bed listening to the radio, and then, the nurse said, he took off his headphones, all neat and careful, and said, "That's it then. That's all right then," and she went off just for a moment to do something and when she came back he was dead.' I unscrew the cap and shove it in my pocket, then I hold out the jar, turning my back to the wind, and I say, 'Come on then,' like I'm holding out a tin of sweets or doling out rations. Careful now, one at a time, there's only room for one hand at a time. Lenny dips in first and takes out a handful, sifts of it slipping through his fingers, and Vie says, 'Keep your hands as dry as you can,' wiping his own hands on a handkerchief, and I realize what he means. It's so Jack don't stick to us, it's so we don't get Jack stuck to our hands. But I haven't got no handkerchief, I aint never thought. Today of all days, I never thought about no handkerchief. Then Vie puts in his hand and takes out a scoop. Then Vince pushes up his sleeve but hesitates, like he's going to say, 'After you, Raysy,' because he's had a go already, he's dipped in already, or because he just wants me to go first. But I can see it aint going to be easy, holding the wet jar as well, so I say, 'Go on, Vincey, go on.' And he takes a scoop and they all move off to the lee edge of the parapet, holding their hands out cupped and tight like they've each got little birds to set free and we've all got to do it together, so they're waiting for me. Vie says, 'I wouldn't go too near the edge, if I was you. The wind'll take it, let the wind take it,' as if we're that daft. He'll be handing out life-belts next. And I know I've got to do it quick, like scattering seed, only having the one hand free, so I move towards the parapet, angling the jar away from the wind, then I dip into the jar and draw up a handful to the neck. It's soft and grainy at the same time, and almost white, it's like white soft sand on a beach. Then I whip out my hand and throw. They must all have thrown at the same time but I aint looking at them, I'm looking at what IVe thrown. I say, 'Goodbye Jack.' I say it to the wind. And they say, 'Goodbye Jack.'
It's true what Vie said. The wind takes it, it's gone in a whirl, in a flash. Now you see it, now you don't. Then I take the jar in both hands again, giving a quick peek inside, and say, 'Come on, come on.' They all huddle round to take another scoop. There isn't much more than four men can scoop out twice over. They dip in again, one by one. Lucky dip. And I dip and we all throw again, a thin trail of white, like smoke, before it's gone, and some seagulls swoop in from nowhere and veer off again like they've been tricked. Then I know there's not enough for another share-out, another full round, so I just start scooping myself, they don't seem to mind. I scoop and scoop like some animal scratching out its burrow, and I know in the end I'm going to have to hold up the jar and bang it like you do when you get to the bottom of a box of cornflakes. One handful' two handfuls, there's only two handfuls. I say, 'Goodbye Jack.' The sky and the sea and the wind are all mixed up together but I reckon it wouldn't make no difference if they weren't because of the blur in my eyes. Vie and Vincey's faces look like white blobs but Lenny's looks like a beacon, and across the water you can see the lights of Margate. You can stand on the end of Margate Pier and look across to Dreamland. Then I throw the last handful and the seagulls come back on a second chance and I hold up the jar, shaking it, like I should chuck it out to sea too, a message in a bottle, Jack Arthur Dodds, save our souls, and the ash that I carried in my hands, which was the Jack who once walked around, is carried away by the wind, is whirled away by the wind till the ash becomes wind and the wind becomes Jack what we're made of.