Nowhere to Go (16 page)

‘Was it, sweetie?’ I said.

‘The social worker who used to come and see me at Dad’s told me that. She used to know my mum, see. That’s how she knew stuff like that.’

I waited for him to continue, wondering where this might be leading. ‘What about it, love?’ I coaxed when he didn’t answer.

‘Well, it was just that I was watching it,’ he said finally, ‘and the lady that was on there just now, well, her mum died and she was sad because she couldn’t have a proper funeral because they never found her, so she couldn’t say goodbye to her …’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, wondering what terrible circumstances had been involved. Was that really the best thing for him to have been looking at? Apparently so.

‘Well, it was just, like, I wondered. Cam’ll have a funeral, won’t he? Like a proper one?’

‘Of course he will,’ I said.

‘So would you take me?’ he asked me. ‘So I can say goodbye to him properly?’

I perched at the end of the sofa, thinking fast before answering his question, because I didn’t want to promise him something I couldn’t deliver. Would social services be happy for me to take him, given his age and the circumstances? I thought they probably would, but having never been in this position before I couldn’t really guarantee it till I’d checked with John.

But something told me I was on safe ground. On what grounds would they refuse it? Cameron was Tyler’s closest friend; what could be inappropriate about taking him to say goodbye? However harrowing it might be – and I knew it would be that – if he wanted to go, it would be wrong to refuse it. In fact, if they did, I’d put my case till I could make them see reason. No, it would be fine. And yes, I’d take him.

‘I will, love,’ I said. ‘We’ll go together and we’ll take some flowers. We’ll say a proper goodbye to Cameron. We’ll be there, I promise. He was your best friend and it’s important that you’re there for him, isn’t it?’

Tyler nodded and smiled, albeit infinitesimally. But it was like a sun shaft coming down, even so.

As I’d suspected, John agreed to Tyler attending Cameron’s funeral, but almost as soon as I put the phone down I felt an unexpected wave of anxiety, bordering on mild dread. Yes, I’d always known I’d have to steel myself for the business of supporting Tyler through it. He was so young and so fragile, and it would be extremely traumatic for him. But it hadn’t really hit me before now that it would be so traumatic for me too.

I had never before been to the funeral of someone so young, and I had no idea what to expect. All I had to go on was my instinct as a mother, doing that thing that every parent can’t help but do from time to time, trying to imagine the unimaginable: how on earth I would go on if it was one of my own children who had died.

I was genuinely shocked by how upset I was by thoughts of Cameron’s mother and how on earth she was currently getting through each day. But then maybe it was inevitable; I knew this funeral would be unlike any funeral I’d been to before; knew I would have to be braced for the sheer punch-in-the-gut emotion of it all. Yes, this was going to be tough, no question. He’d been 15 years old. It was so wrong, so unfair. So distressing.

Mike had more prosaic concerns. ‘I’m going to take a day’s leave,’ he said, once Tyler had spoken to his friend James, and we’d established that it would take place the following Monday. ‘I think I should be there. Emotions can run pretty high at funerals,’ he pointed out, ‘and I don’t doubt there will be lots of the lad’s friends there.’

‘There’s no need, love,’ I said, conscious that annual leave days weren’t in unlimited supply. ‘We’ll be okay. What could possibly happen?’

‘Probably nothing,’ he said, ‘but I’d feel much happier being there, even so. Just in case anything kicks off – just in case things get volatile, that’s all.’

It was something that hadn’t occurred to me and it provided a new source of worry. Though logic told me that as Cameron had been the one behind the wheel, the family and friends of the other boys would have no axe to grind – he’d driven the car and he’d been the one to pay the price, hadn’t he? But Mike was right – we didn’t know everything, and the situation might have been more complex. There was always the possibility that it had been one of the other boys who’d instigated the plan, wasn’t there? And though my instinct was to shy away from even thinking what it must feel like to lose your child, I couldn’t help thinking of Cameron’s mum and what she must be going through right now. How was she going to get through the day?

No, I was grateful Mike would be there. He would also be a great support to Tyler. More than perhaps I’d even realised in the past few months, there was this connection between them now that was something really special.

Monday dawned and I opened the curtains to grey skies and drizzle. Fitting, yes, but at the same time so depressing. Just another shade of grey to add to the darkness of the occasion, and as we drove to the outskirts of town, where the crematorium and cemetery were, we couldn’t escape the date either. It was just two days before Halloween and didn’t we know it.

Once just the support act that happened before the big occasion of Bonfire Night, Halloween had changed beyond recognition since I was a child, and had kicked Guy Fawkes and fireworks into touch. Now it was all about the undead and was something of a freak-show, and it didn’t escape my notice how many houses were already decorated with cardboard ghouls and ghosts and RIP headstones.

I turned to look at Tyler, who was wiping the condensation from the car window – was he taking in the irony of it, too?

I felt a rush of love for him; he looked so vulnerable sitting there in his new black suit and snowy-white shirt, his normally unruly mop of hair wrestled into sleek order – combed down over the shaved patch and bruising and stitches – and his school shoes polished to an almost patent shine.

These were the important human rituals, the marks of love and respect to the departed, and going through them with him had been cathartic. Now he looked the part as well as felt it; his face pinched, his expression scared and anxious. Every inch the sad child
en route
to a funeral.

‘You okay, sweetheart?’ I asked him. ‘You sure you’re still up for doing this? It’s not too late to change your mind if you need to. No one would blame you if you decided you couldn’t face it, love. You can say goodbye in other ways if you’d prefer. Funerals are never nice.’

He already knew this to some extent as Mike and I had spent much of the week preparing him. From taking him to get the cheap suit in Asda, to explaining the logistics of the service and cremation, we’d done as much as we could to minimise the shock factor on the day. Even so, I knew he
would
be shocked. How could he not be? It was something that would stay with him for life.

‘I’m okay,’ he said firmly. ‘I want to go. I want to be there for Cam so’s he knows I care.’

And there was no arguing with that one. So we didn’t.

The crematorium and cemetery were in a beautiful setting, reached by a long, winding drive which was flanked by woodland. The trees had all but lost their leaves now and instead sent a lacework of bare branches up into the sky which, silhouetted, were equally beautiful in their way. There was also a river running through, today a glossy charcoal ribbon, which added to the sense that this was a place of peace.

I’d last been here not long ago, as it happened, when an elderly neighbour of my parents had passed away, back in the summer. I hadn’t known him that well, but I’d stepped in as chauffeur for the day, taking my dad and two friends – none of them drove themselves any more – so they could pay their respects.

And that was what it had been about – paying respects – as well as celebrating a long life, well lived. Yes, there were tears, of course there were, but there was also acceptance. There would be no acceptance at Cameron’s funeral – how could there be?

The crematorium itself sat amid huge formal displays of roses and other shrubs and flowers, their growth presumably aided by the ashes of many, many souls. It felt like a macabre thing to be thinking, but it was strangely apt, even so. Ashes to ashes. That was the fate of us all ultimately.

But too soon in this case, I thought, as we drove past the crematorium and on to the little chapel where the service was to be held. And it was brought home to me by the mass of young people who were clustered there; their sheer numbers feeling so out of place at
any
funeral – typically the preserve of the mostly adult and elderly.

As we swung into the car park I could see that well over half the mourners were teenagers, a few of the lads dressed in suits, like Tyler, but many others in jeans and trackies, as I’d expected.

‘Can I go and say hello to my mates?’ Tyler asked as we all climbed out of the car and I wrestled with the catch on my umbrella. People were now beginning to file in but the rain had got heavier, and with the log-jam at the entrance I wondered if the chapel would even be able to hold us all.

‘Course you can, son,’ Mike told him. ‘But wait by the door for us, okay? So we can all go in together.’

I had wondered before if Tyler would ask to sit with his friends, but he didn’t. And I was glad. It felt important that we were both right beside him.

I watched him run across, and, somewhat bizarrely, found myself worrying about him getting muddy water on his trousers, as he paid no attention to the puddles he was running through. How stupid, I mentally chastised myself.

‘Let’s give him a few minutes, shall we?’ I said to Mike, finally able to cover us both with the brolly, and managing to poke him in the cheek in the process. He took it from me – in umbrella terms, our height difference was a bit of a nightmare – and he tutted as he agreed. ‘Case, love, it’s a funeral, not a fashion show,’ he said, but gave my shoulder a supporting squeeze, even so.

We went across to the chapel entrance, where it looked like we’d just be able to squeeze in, though there was no chance of us getting a seat. Which was fine. In some ways it felt appropriate to be standing at a time like this.

We called Tyler over to us as the last stragglers entered, and as he walked across I felt glad we’d let him come and be with his friends. ‘I think he’ll be okay, you know,’ Mike whispered, reading my thoughts. ‘I think this might do him good, being here.’

I hoped so. Hoped so much, but how could we know yet? For all the trauma of today, the
real
hard part was what came next.

The service was heart-breaking, in the true sense of the word. Well, as close you could get to it without actually dying, I thought, as I watched the young woman at the front – clearly Cameron’s mother – having to be physically held up by two teenage boys.

Heart-breaking. There was no other word for it. From the coffin, which was white and was just short of being adult-sized, to the haunting, keening sound of mass crying. To know that the body that lay in the box on which all our eyes were fixed was that of an adolescent, not even fully grown before being taken – no, I hadn’t known him, but I felt that grief myself.

He was loved – that much was clear. And this was the place to express it. And
only
it – no recriminations, no blame, no sense of waggling, hectoring, lecturing fingers. Love was all that mattered now, it was clear.

It was funny being at the funeral of someone I barely knew, though, Mike and I standing among a congregation of complete strangers. I felt slightly detached, and though that meant I didn’t feel the visceral pain of those who had known him, Tyler included, what I felt in its place was almost as intense; an objective sense of the depth of the grief I was seeing, from the elderly couple – possibly his grandparents? – who were trying so hard to maintain their composure, to the teenaged friends who were wailing loudly and unashamedly – staggered beyond reason by this cruel intrusion of death into their young lives. They clung to one another, literally, holding each other up, and it was so plain to see how they simply couldn’t process the knowledge that they would never see their friend again.

I could see Tyler feeling it, too. The tears ran unchecked down his face, which was contorted as if in agony as he tried to take in what he was seeing and hearing; chiefly the horrible, horrible pain of all his friends. And when the service finished and it was time to make our way to the crematorium I leaned towards him. ‘Go and be with them,’ I told him. ‘Walk up there with them. We’ll be right behind you.’ I hugged him. ‘Go on, go.’

He took my forearm in both his hands and then he squeezed it. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. And I realised he was referring to my own tears, which were still spilling over my cheeks.

It stunned and moved me to see the concern in his eyes. ‘I’ll be fine, love,’ I said, hugging him. ‘You go on.’

I looked at Mike then and I could see he was beyond words himself. There
were
no words, really. Not one.

If the service had been gruelling, the cremation itself was even worse, and words are not sufficient to explain what that day did to me. It wasn’t about me – far from it – but I defy any thinking, feeling person not to be affected, and on a very deep level, by the ritual of death as played out with the very young. My next clear memory was of the coffin finally leaving us. Of it moving off, behind the velvet curtains, accompanied by a haunting, beautiful song called
White Flag
, by Dido, and of what remained – a large framed photograph of a 15-year-old boy, smiling out at our stricken faces, as if to demand that we remember him as he was: so cute, so good-looking, so full of life.

I tugged at Mike’s sleeve then. I had to get out of there.

Outside, I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before everyone joined us. Specifically, Tyler, who I needed to be strong for. This was tragic, but, strictly speaking, it wasn’t our tragedy. I needed to leave the mourners and be by myself for a bit, so I could compose myself, blow my nose and wipe away the tears. ‘I need to go and sit in the car for a bit,’ I said to Mike, ‘if you don’t mind waiting here for Tyler. No rush. He’ll want to say goodbye to his friends, won’t he?’

Thankfully, Mike understood. I knew he wouldn’t want me standing in the rain waiting for the next wave of distress. He gave me the car keys and I hurried off gratefully.

It must have been ten or 15 minutes but it felt like only moments had passed before I heard the back door of the car open.

I swivelled round. It was Tyler, holding the order of service pamphlet over his head, as if it might in some small way protect him from the lashing rain. He clambered in, looking pale but dry-eyed now, thank God.

‘No Mike, love?’ I asked him, there having been no corresponding clunk of the driver’s door.

He shook his head. ‘He met someone. Some friend of his. From another funeral, I think.’

As would be expected. Funerals were a business and a production line, like anything else.

‘So I thought I’d come back and see if you’re okay,’ he added. ‘Are you all right?’

I reassured him that I was. ‘But I think I need a hug,’ I said, opening my own door and clambering back out so I could climb into the back seat beside him.

‘More to the point,’ I asked as I drew him close to me and we settled back into the seat, ‘are
you
okay?’

He considered for a moment, as I rested my chin on the top of his head. His hair felt soft and smelt of our coconut shampoo. ‘I’m better now,’ he said at length. ‘Now it’s over. And you know what’s funny?’

‘What’s funny?’

‘I just kept on thinking about my mum. You know, while it was all going on, all the singing and praying? I just kept thinking how my mum never had that, like on Jeremy Kyle, like I said to you? It was like, so
weird
, it was like I was saying goodbye to her too. And, like, I dunno, like he was going off to be with her. That she knew he was my best friend so she was up in the sky waiting for him, you know?’

‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean, love.’

I found myself smiling as I followed his thought process.
Yes
. I didn’t know how he’d got that, but he’d
got
that. Made the link between the two significant deaths in his young life, and it had brought him comfort. I kissed the top of his head.