Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes)

I cover her hand with mine.

‘You know that song by Pitball?’ she asks.

I smile slightly. ‘Pitbull?’

‘Yes, yes, the man with the bald head.’

‘You listen to Pitbull?’ I ask, surprised.

‘My granddaughter does.’

‘Marko has a daughter now?’

‘He has three children. Two boys and a girl. They’re my life. Anyway, Pitbull sings a song called “Give Me Everything Tonight”. He says, “What I promise tonight, I cannot promise tomorrow.” That’s truly life. You might not get tomorrow. So whatever you want to do, go do it tonight.’

And from her flow precious memories. If not for the intervention of the cruel hand of fate, she would have been my mother-in-law. I squeeze her hand and feel a great love for this kind and generous woman. We are connected forever by having loved the same person, and by the grief of having lost her.

‘When you remember Vivien, remember that she was always laughing, always wanting to have fun. She wouldn’t want to be the barbed wire wrapped around your heart.’

I nodded. ‘I know.’

I press a thick wad of money into her reluctant hand and kiss her powdered cheek goodbye. She stands at the door and gazes wistfully at me. I walk up to her wooden gate. I even open it. Then something pulls at me. I turn around and walk back to her. She looks at me enquiringly.

‘I want to show you something, but I don’t want to upset you,’ I say.

‘Yes, show me,’ she says immediately.

I take my phone out and scroll to the picture of Ella. I hold the phone out to her. ‘This is Ella, my girlfriend.’

She gazes at the phone for a long time. When she looks up, her eyes are swimming with tears. ‘She’s beautiful, Dom. Will you bring her to dinner one day soon?’

I nod, and it’s impossible for me to talk because I’m so choked up.

‘God knew he shouldn’t have taken her away from you,’ she says, giving me back the phone.

I take the phone from her and walk away, my heart finally free.

Where, O death, is your victory:

where, O death, is your sting?

—1 Corinthians 15: 55

TWENTY-SIX

I turn the car around and drive to the cemetery where Vivien was laid to rest. It’s a sunny day and the cemetery looks pretty with brightly colored petunias bordering it. I park and go up to a rickety iron gate. I’m not sure exactly where her grave is, but I remember my mother once mentioning that hers is a plot in the east end of the cemetery, and that there’s an oak tree nearby.

I take one of the small paths that radiate out to a serpentine perimeter path to lead visitors around the outer graves, some of which are centuries old. It’s hard to imagine that these p

eople walked this earth hundreds of years ago.

They are mostly overgrown, unkempt and crumbling, but one of the ancient, ornate altar tombs catches my attention, and I find myself wandering to it, and reading the worn inscription. Herein lies Arthur Anderson-Black.

Resting in the arms of God forever,

loved forever, missed desperately.

Flying with the angels, your memory