Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [53]
—No women or kids were to get hurt.
—Effie would get to know his elder son, Fraser.
—Martin would handle Phil, the brother.
When the limo arrived, Effie couldn't face it. A car journey, even a slow one, was going to make her sick.
She walked. Arm in arm with Martin, who looked smart and sombre.
The rain was just a drizzle. Still, should have worn a hat. But she liked the spongy-damp way her hair felt when she touched it.
She walked slowly, hoping she'd never arrive.
But the church was local, and they got there in under ten minutes.
The service was weird. Seeing people you never see otherwise. Cousins who only appear at weddings and funerals. Aunt Joyce, who Effie thought had died long ago. Everybody promising to stay in touch and everybody knowing they never would.
Singing hymns, for Christ's sake. Dad really blasting it out.
Listening to a man you've never met sum up your brother's life. And doing a better job than you could have done yourself.
Dad's speech.
He didn't say much: "Grant was a well-loved son and brother. He was a good lad. He was good to his mother. He was making something of his life. He could have been somebody. Now he'll never have the chance. I'm gutted. We're all gutted. Whoever did this, they're going to pay."
As he returned to his seat, she started clapping. Martin joined in. Before long, everybody was clapping.
Only the minister didn't seem too enthusiastic.
And then the burial. Not a cremation.
"No member of this family," Dad said, "is going to burn."
Dad was something of an expert on burning, so she let him have his way. She wasn't looking forward to the burial, though.
At the graveside, sliding the coffin out of the back of the hearse, she had to concentrate.
Six pallbearers. Only just enough. The coffin was a fair weight, and the path was slippery. The graveside grass even more so. She imagined stumbling, falling to her knees. Imagined Dad laughing fondly at her clumsiness. Imagined laughing along with him.
Mum in the small crowd. Moira, the nurse from McCracken's nursing home, looking after her for the moment. She was okay, Moira. She'd brought Mrs H along and Mrs H had hugged Mum and said, "Gesundheit."
Effie managed to stay on her feet. Laid the coffin to the side of the grave, grabbed hold of a cord. The hole was deeper than she'd thought. Narrower too.
Just the right size. Snug.
Moved into position and the funeral attendant said, "Take the strain."
They did, and there was a surprising amount to take. The cord unravelled and her brother dropped into the ground.
***
SHE LOOKED AT the hacksaw. Across at Martin. He'd picked up his, too. "You want to …?" she said.
"No way." He shook his head and blood flicked off his hair like paint off a brush. "Fraser's yours. I'm going to have a fag." He held up a hand. "I'll be careful, not leave any stubs lying around. Make a cup of tea while I'm at it. You want one?"
She gave him a nod.
He disappeared into the kitchen, and returned seconds later.
She looked at him. "Problem?"
"Effie, babe," he said. "You'll think I'm losing it."
She carried on looking at him.
"I swear Phil Savage is staring at me," he said. "Through the bag."
She said nothing.
After a bit, he nodded and went back into the kitchen.
***
EFFIE PAUSED TO take a sip of her tea, even though it was cold now. Wasn't that nice to begin with. Martin hadn't put sugar in it, but that was deliberate. He had a thing about sugar, how it was poisonous and all. He'd read about it in a magazine, done some research of his own and decided the article had been right. So, no more sugar. At least, not till the next article came along stating that sugar was good for you.
Truth was—and it was admittedly a little odd given what they were doing at the moment—Martin didn't have much of a sense of adventure. But she wasn't convinced she liked too much excitement either. She much preferred to live life— what was the word?—vicariously. That's why she liked listening to Richie's stories.
God, she missed him. Spent years missing her