I wrap a cream and black scarf around my neck, standing back to look at myself in the mirror. My hair is up, my skin is pale, and a slash of nude lip gloss brightens up my otherwise-drawn face. Though I try to breathe, it's as if the oxygen doesn't want to slip down my airways. It sticks in my throat as my stomach contracts with panic.
Funerals; I'm not good with them. Not that anybody is, though I've noticed the older people get, the more stoic they become. Talking about the passing of friends as if they're characters in a soap opera. An interesting occurrence in a normally humdrum life.
But for me, funerals mean life taken too early. My mother, lying in a coffin at the age of sixty-seven. Clients who try to kick the habit only to be drawn back in, the bony fingers of death helping them plunge in a needle, lay a tablet on their tongue. Leaving a trail of grief behind them.
Tom Baines's life was taken by the sharp tip of a knife pushed deep inside his neck, but it was crack that wrote the script. The drug led to his arrest, landed him in jail, led to an argument with a gang that wanted to assert their authority. And now Laurence's son is being laid to rest, his young life little more than a footnote in the history of life.
The air has cooled since the weekend. The clouds hanging low in the sky carry a tinge of winter, their greyness reflecting the morbidity of the day. I shrug on a jacket, black like my dress, and try to ignore the nagging pain in my chest.
The funeral is taking place at the Baines's local church. A sixties-built edifice, the roof is pale green copper, falling down from a central cross into a shallow hexagon, joining six white-brick walls that circle around it. People hang around the garden, next to autumn primroses that do little to brighten up the dull brown earth, their low-level flowers a reminder that summer is over.
That's where I see him, leaning against a waist-height wall, wearing a trim black suit with a skinny black tie. Though his arms are covered up, a small hint of ink curls out from his cuffs, licking at the base of his hands. Alex notices me and pushes himself up to standing, and his wedding ring glints as it catches a ray of pale sun. The expression on his face is sombre, but his presence already soothes me, a balm to the anxiety I've found hard to kick away.
“You okay?” He comes to a stop in front of me, reaches out, then pulls back. Though his hand falls back to his side, I can still feel the sensation of his finger brushing against my face.
We talked about the funeral last night. I'd told him how much I was dreading it, that I found them so hard. I can’t help but remember another funeral when he was there, holding me up as my mother was lowered into the ground.
He always stops me from falling.
“I don't know... I...” From the corner of my eye I see the funeral procession arriving. Though we’re in the East End of London, there are no horse-drawn black carriages or professional mourners. Instead, two black cars draw up, and I watch as Laurence and his family climb out of the back one. The men congregate around the hearse, waiting to play their role.
“Shall we go in?” Alex cups his hand around my elbow. Not too soft, but not tight either. Enough to steer me around, to lead me in, to stop me from screaming. We slide into a wooden pew, beside strangers who give me only a cursory glance, their eyes drawn to Alex's neck, to his ink.
When I look at him, my heart clenches, and I have to bite down on my lip to stop it from trembling. Noticing my discomfort, he grabs my hand, wrapping it in his own, then places his other on top, until I'm totally enclosed.
The organ starts up, and the family walk in. I watch as Laurence comes first, his shoulders stooped as he half-carries his wife in. Her hair is bright-white and hardly brushed, curling out from her scalp in a hundred different ways. She looks about thirty years older than her husband. It's painful to watch as he helps her to sit down in the front pew, and they both turn around to stare down the aisle as the coffin comes in, carried on the shoulders of family and friends, dark mahogany encasing the body of their beloved son.
When the vicar stands up, I tune him out. He talks about Alpha and Omega, his voice a monotonous hum, and all I can think of is that Tom never had a chance to live his life. He was handed opportunity and twisted it into something unusable. Did things he'll never even have a chance to regret.
But it's his parents who draw my eye. I watch as Julie Baines’s life disintegrates, her wails piercing through the thick atmosphere of the church. Somehow, she manages to stand up, walk over to the coffin placed on a plinth in front of the altar, and throws herself onto it.
“Tom!” Her voice is almost a scream. I feel it as a mother; her baleful pleas speaking right to my heart. Nausea rises in my stomach, as I imagine myself in her place. Mourning the death of my son so many years too soon.
When I look at Alex, his face is tight. There's a twitch in his jaw where he's clenching it too hard. Though the church is dark, lit by candles and pale lights, I can still see the glint in his eyes as he stares straight ahead.
When Laurence stands and holds his wife, gently steering her back to the front pew, talking to her softly like a child, I realise I can't do this anymore.
I can't pretend it's all okay. I don't want to be alone. It's difficult and it's harsh and it's needless. I know I'm strong enough to do it on my own—we both are—but I also know it isn't what I want.
Alex shifts next to me, and I look again, feeling his hands squeeze mine as he struggles to breathe. A few tears escape from his eyes, and though he isn't crying for Tom Baines, I know he's mourning as hard as I am.
* * *
We walk back to the flat—three and a half miles. Not talking; our words are swallowed up by deep thought. But there's peace between us, understanding even, the awareness that maybe we'll finally say the things we need to. We walk away from death, trying to shrug it off, knowing there's always a part of us that feels its touch. But it’s this knowledge that makes us live, makes us love, allows us to appreciate every single day for the precious gift it is.
Inside the flat I make us both a mug of steaming hot coffee. I consider adding some whisky to it, wanting to ward off the chill of Tom's funeral, but I have to pick Max up in a couple of hours and there's no way I want to be half-cut.
“Thanks.” Alex's gaze flickers to mine when I hand him the mug. His eyes are dry now, but the pinkness surrounding them reminds me of his tears. Sympathy softens my thoughts, and I have to sit down, my legs wobbling beneath me.
Placing his drink on the coffee table, Alex shrugs off his jacket, loosening his tie and unfastening his top button. He leans back on the chair, long legs splayed out in front of him, and I notice concern etched across his face.
“You okay?”
I nod. “I am now. Thank you for being there, you didn't have to.” I'm glad he did though. I hope he realises that.
His voice is cracked. “Where else would I be?”
“I don't know.” I look down at my feet. “I don't know what you've been doing.”