broad-brimmed, clinging on to Colin’s hand. Close by, the daughter, Mary, was still recognisable from her wedding photograph, a blown-up version now of herself; her husband standing alongside her, one of those round Irish faces, broad foreheads, thick scrub of curly hair; their son, secondary school age or thereabouts, sullen, awkward, hands in his pockets, hands out; the daughter, a year or two younger, freckled face, barely ever lifting her eyes from the ground.
No sign yet of Barry Hardwick’s other son, the younger brother, Brian.
A group of women of similar age, half a dozen of them so far and the number growing – miners’ wives, Resnick thought, wives and now widows both – stood talking earnestly, a little to one side, each new arrival greeted with exclamations, kisses and hugs. Edna Johnson, walking only slowly with the aid of two sticks, was the last to join them, each step an effort, her face creasing with pain and determination. Resnick had watched her getting out of the taxi, raised a hand in greeting; a half-smile of recognition in return. He’d thought to have seen her at Peter Waites’ funeral, heard she’d been unwell, a hip replacement that had gone badly.
Catherine had seen Jill Haines earlier, talking to the vicar; her husband standing off to one side, in desultory conversation with someone she didn’t recognise. Mary Hardwick she had already spoken to, agreed to meet before her flight back to Ireland in a few days’ time.
Finding a moment to talk to Barry, she had filled him in on what little progress they had made so far; the son, Colin, who’d been listening, impatient for some sign of breakthrough now that the investigation had started, something more specific about his mother’s death, someone to blame; Barry quieter, more resigned, weighed down, Catherine thought, by the occasion.
Soon enough would come the hearse, the coffin with its catalogue of bones, the sound of the organ calling them in.
Halfway through the service there was a commotion at the chapel door, raised voices, the door finally swinging open with a bang. The man who’d been arguing with one of the ushers fired off another curse and stepped unsteadily inside; almost immediately lost his footing, swore again loudly, and righted himself against the rear wall.
Heads turned; tutted, murmured, turned away.
Brian Hardwick – enough of a family resemblance to be sure it was him – suit unbuttoned, tie askew, shirt undone, made his way unevenly to an empty pew and lowered himself down.
The service continued.
From where Resnick was sitting, it seemed – and sounded – as if Hardwick had fallen asleep, but midway through the final hymn, he lurched awake and began to sing loudly, out of tune and off-key.
The chapel had barely emptied before Colin Hardwick had his brother by the lapels of his coat and was half-pushing, half-dragging him across the sward of neatly mown grass between the path and the first line of gravestones.
‘You drunken feckless bastard, you should’ve fuckin’ stayed away!’
‘Fuck you!’
Colin punched him full in the face. Already stumbling backwards, Brian sank down on to one knee, shook his head, and pushing himself up awkwardly to his feet, charged forward, arms flailing. Stepping aside, Colin thrust out a leg, sending his brother sprawling.
‘Bastard!’ Colin said, and kicked him as he lay. ‘Drunken piss-arse bastard!’
‘Colin! Don’t!’ His sister, Mary, seized hold of his arm, tried to pull him away. ‘Don’t, please.’
‘She’s right, lad,’ Barry Hardwick said, coming close. ‘Let it be.’
Colin shook himself free of his sister’s hand, cast one last glance towards where his brother lay, and strode off between the graves. Mary bent low and, taking a tissue from her bag, dabbed at the blood dribbling from the side of Brian’s mouth.
‘Come away now,’ her husband said softly. ‘Come on away.’
On the ground, Brian Hardwick groaned and was still.
The
No sign yet of Barry Hardwick’s other son, the younger brother, Brian.
A group of women of similar age, half a dozen of them so far and the number growing – miners’ wives, Resnick thought, wives and now widows both – stood talking earnestly, a little to one side, each new arrival greeted with exclamations, kisses and hugs. Edna Johnson, walking only slowly with the aid of two sticks, was the last to join them, each step an effort, her face creasing with pain and determination. Resnick had watched her getting out of the taxi, raised a hand in greeting; a half-smile of recognition in return. He’d thought to have seen her at Peter Waites’ funeral, heard she’d been unwell, a hip replacement that had gone badly.
Catherine had seen Jill Haines earlier, talking to the vicar; her husband standing off to one side, in desultory conversation with someone she didn’t recognise. Mary Hardwick she had already spoken to, agreed to meet before her flight back to Ireland in a few days’ time.
Finding a moment to talk to Barry, she had filled him in on what little progress they had made so far; the son, Colin, who’d been listening, impatient for some sign of breakthrough now that the investigation had started, something more specific about his mother’s death, someone to blame; Barry quieter, more resigned, weighed down, Catherine thought, by the occasion.
Soon enough would come the hearse, the coffin with its catalogue of bones, the sound of the organ calling them in.
Halfway through the service there was a commotion at the chapel door, raised voices, the door finally swinging open with a bang. The man who’d been arguing with one of the ushers fired off another curse and stepped unsteadily inside; almost immediately lost his footing, swore again loudly, and righted himself against the rear wall.
Heads turned; tutted, murmured, turned away.
Brian Hardwick – enough of a family resemblance to be sure it was him – suit unbuttoned, tie askew, shirt undone, made his way unevenly to an empty pew and lowered himself down.
The service continued.
From where Resnick was sitting, it seemed – and sounded – as if Hardwick had fallen asleep, but midway through the final hymn, he lurched awake and began to sing loudly, out of tune and off-key.
The chapel had barely emptied before Colin Hardwick had his brother by the lapels of his coat and was half-pushing, half-dragging him across the sward of neatly mown grass between the path and the first line of gravestones.
‘You drunken feckless bastard, you should’ve fuckin’ stayed away!’
‘Fuck you!’
Colin punched him full in the face. Already stumbling backwards, Brian sank down on to one knee, shook his head, and pushing himself up awkwardly to his feet, charged forward, arms flailing. Stepping aside, Colin thrust out a leg, sending his brother sprawling.
‘Bastard!’ Colin said, and kicked him as he lay. ‘Drunken piss-arse bastard!’
‘Colin! Don’t!’ His sister, Mary, seized hold of his arm, tried to pull him away. ‘Don’t, please.’
‘She’s right, lad,’ Barry Hardwick said, coming close. ‘Let it be.’
Colin shook himself free of his sister’s hand, cast one last glance towards where his brother lay, and strode off between the graves. Mary bent low and, taking a tissue from her bag, dabbed at the blood dribbling from the side of Brian’s mouth.
‘Come away now,’ her husband said softly. ‘Come on away.’
On the ground, Brian Hardwick groaned and was still.
The
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