Читать книгу Lies Between Us: a tense psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming - Ronnie Turner - Страница 16

They throng to the centre of the cemetery, the women clutching their husbands’ arms, faces suitably aggrieved, and in return the husbands pat their wives’ hands, like mothers mollifying their children. When the time comes, they stand round Mother and Father, a circle of black outfits and blacker expressions staring down at the mound of earth. A small mound for a small coffin. A small coffin for a small child. A child’s death they believe was an accident. Just a game gone wrong. After all, how could she have known the danger in a bit of plastic?

They rub Father’s shoulders and stroke Mother’s hands, those who are more consumed with their façade, swiftly wiping a tear from her cheek or kissing her head. She doesn’t seem to notice them. Her face is tear-stained and blank. She is hovering on the periphery of her grief, between shock and agony. But soon it will come. She will follow in Father’s wake; she too will sob and scream into the comfort of her pillow at night. They will do it together.

The mourners cluster together and peck and prod at them, and I wonder how they bear it. Then they move to the mound of earth to lay down their flowers, closing their eyes, making their faces solemn, imparting a silent message they make sure is noticed by Mother and Father. How they act and deceive. It is almost natural. But the truth of the matter, Blue-Eyes, is that people are actors, the small roles they play applauded and replayed in their minds later on. They think to themselves, ‘I hope I looked sad enough’, ‘I hope she didn’t see me yawn’, ‘Oh, God, please don’t let them have seen me get that bit of carrot out of my teeth’. Everyone does it, even if they don’t realise it. Everyone except you. And Mary. You both are (were) special. You don’t act. Your intentions and emotions are not something you have ever had to hide or modify for the sake of appearances. You are honest and true. You are both so good. I smile. The Good Ones.

Once the crowd finally disperses, retreating forms already visualising the cup of tea and tin of biscuits awaiting them at home, Mother and Father stand by her grave, unmoving. And then, as if they have shared the same thought, they look at me, heads turning sideways in unison to where I stand. They look at me; I smile. And suddenly a new flavour of grief finds its way into their eyes, like a thundercloud creeping across the gaze of the sun. Now they are no longer thinking of Mary. They are no longer mourning the loss of her; they are mourning the loss of one life and the beginning of another. A life with me. Only me.