Hymn by Graham Masterton Page B

sounds like a street direction to the Vatican.’
    Gino swallowed wine and shook his head. ‘Lettuce, fried. It’s wonderful. But I can’t explain how to do it, I have to show you.’
    Just then, Gino was called back to the kitchen to whip up some coste di biete saltate, and Lloyd was left to finish his wine on his own. He was glad of the chance to be silent. He was summoning up all of the courage he possibly could, so that he would have the strength to visit the place where Celia had died. He had to go. It was not just an investigation, it was a pilgrimage. He had to know exactly where it was before he could begin to visualize it, and then to understand. He couldn’t imagine what pain had been suffered by wives in wartime, to learn that their husbands had been killed, but never to know exactly where. It seemed to him then that the place where somebody dies is even more important than where they were born.
    He stood in the car-park opposite McDonald’s with his hands by his sides, staring at the smoke-stained kerb. Some of the bushes had been scorched, too, so Lloyd could judge how fierce the fire must have been. He wished he had brought some flowers. Lilies had always been Celia’s favourite.
    What a place to die. Barren and public, noisy with traffic. He couldn’t imagine why she had chosen such a dreary location.
    He tried to say a prayer. He hoped that her soul was at rest. He hoped that she hadn’t suffered. He hoped that she would forgive him, for not understanding that she was suffering so much that she wanted to die.
    â€˜And one day we’ll meet again, for sure. Amen.’
    He was walking back to his car when one of the chefs came out of the side entrance of the McDonald’s restaurant and began to walk hurriedly toward him. A bulky man, with a startling wide-apart cast in his eyes.
    â€˜Pardon me!’ he called. ‘Sir!’
    Lloyd waited for him to reach him. He was in his fifties, grey-haired and sweating. He smelled strongly of hamburgers.
    â€˜I’m sorry to bother you, sir,’ he said, wiping the palms of his hands on his apron. ‘But I couldn’t help noticing you standing over there.’
    Lloyd said, ‘I’m not one of your sensation-seekers, if that’s what you think. The girl who was burned . . . well, she was my fiancée.’
    â€˜I figured something like that. Well, I saw the BMW. Your average ghoul doesn’t usually turn up to gawp in a BMW.’
    He held out his hand. ‘Bob Tuggey. Most people call me Unca Tug.’
    â€˜Lloyd Denman.’
    Bob said, ‘I was here when it happened. I tried to stop her. It was terrible.’
    â€˜You were the one with the fire-extinguisher?’
    Bob lowered his eyes, and nodded. ‘I tried, believe me, but I just wasn’t fast enough. Fifteen seconds sooner, and I could have saved her.’
    Lloyd looked back toward the burned bushes. ‘I appreciate what you did.’
    â€˜I saw her walking across the car-park, swinging this yellow can. I should have guessed right away what she was planning on doing.’
    Lloyd shook his head. ‘I don’t think anybody could have guessed what she was planning on doing.’
    â€˜I was in Saigon,’ Bob told him. ‘I saw one of those monks setting himself alight. Your young lady sat right down, crosslegged, exactly the same way that monk did, and then I knew for sure what she was going to do. I just wasn’t fast enough.’
    â€˜Well, thanks anyway,’ Lloyd told him.
    â€˜Hey, listen . . .’ said Bob, reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt. ‘I found something afterwards, in the bushes. I was going to take it to the police yesterday but I didn’t have the time. It must’ve been hers, so I guess the best person to give it to is you.’
    Between finger and thumb, he held up a small gold charm, discoloured by heat. Its link was broken, as if it had been tugged from