The Uninvited (30 page)

While the others head for the group of mourners at the chapel entrance, Flynn lights a cigarette and I read some of the headstones. Most are crusted with lichen, the edges like the frilled coastline on a map.
Kenneth Melhuish fell gently asleep in 1922.
Freddy has turned his attention to a mottled yellow and white butterfly high-stepping between the petals of a rose. He grabs the insect so fast that by the time I fully register it, he’s swallowed it down and has turned his attention to a knobbled stick, whose bark he begins to peel off like ‘dead pirate skin’.
Connie Anne Kenderick passed into a fuller life aged 93.
There are many euphemisms for dying.
At rest. Left this world.
After ten minutes, the chapel doors close; a little later some music strikes up inside: I recognise the opening chords of ‘Abide with Me’
.

‘OK, Freddy,’ says Flynn, after the second verse. ‘Me and Hesketh are taking you in now. You can bring your stick.’

We walk him between us – one arm each – and enter quietly through the heavy door. He doesn’t resist. Everyone is standing for the hymn, and too busy singing to look at us.

‘First empty pew on the right,’ says Flynn. We slide into the empty back row and sit with Freddy between us. I am right next to the aisle.

I haven’t been to many funerals. My grandfather’s, when I was a boy. My father’s and then my mother’s, at both of which I read Herbert’s poem ‘The Flower’, which I quoted for Detective Mazoor. Mrs Helena Whybray’s. She had a humanist service, followed by a cremation. When the hymn comes to an end, we sit and after a great deal of rustling, the chapel falls silent. Naomi half-turns her head, spots us and gives a small nod.

Kaitlin’s coffin stands on a trestle near the pulpit. It’s white, and bears a simple bouquet that looks home-made. My rose is tucked into it, towards the centre. I am relieved that Felicity was not too distracted to engineer this because there is a symmetry – which I think Kaitlin would have appreciated – in the paper flower being my goodbye to her, as well as my hello.

Among the mourners there are several women wearing hats. There are a couple of teenagers, but no young children. I get a glimpse of Ashok in the row behind Stephanie, who is seated at the front with the family.

The vicar, small and bald-headed, looks sober against the vibrancy of the stained glass, which depicts the Crucifixion. He begins to speak ponderously. It’s a speech about the nature and function of grief, and the value of memory, and about how the life of Kaitlin was tragically cut short, in a painful and inexplicable way, and yet she will remain a cherished and beloved fixture in the hearts of all of us gathered here.

‘As long as that love is felt among us, she is immortal, and present still.’
Departed this life. Left this world. Fell asleep.

My belief is that when you die, that’s it. As a mature person, one should accept that. But despite the total absence of concrete evidence, billions on this planet are convinced there is more. Most curious.

Freddy shows no interest in the proceedings. He sits next to me, concentrating on picking the bark off his stick. After the Lord’s Prayer, the vicar nods and Kaitlin’s brother Alex gets to his feet. He’s naturally thickset, but fatter than last time I saw him. With obvious effort, he straightens up his body. He has a piece of paper in his hand, which he isn’t in complete control of: he holds it some distance from his face, then shakes his head. Someone in the front pew hands him a pair of reading glasses and he grunts his thanks. His face is streaked with sweat. He says that it hasn’t been an easy journey for many of the people here today and those who are absent convey their apologies.

‘We all know how hard it is nowadays to travel, especially from a distance. Kaitlin would have appreciated your presence here today. In these tragic circumstances. Knowing that her death was part of an unexplained epidemic doesn’t make it easier for any of us. It makes it harder.’ He takes off the glasses and rubs at his face, then loosens his tie. He is breathing heavily. He gazes, apparently lost, at the piece of paper in front of him. It’s still shaking. ‘We all remember a lovely mother and son. Kaitlin and—’

Freddy starts clicking his tongue. Gently at first, then louder. I nudge him to stop. Flynn leans over and makes a mouth-zipping sign. But Freddy keeps it up. The woman in the broad hat turns, sees the boy and sucks in her breath. People shift in their seats. As he clicks, he’s still peeling the bark off his stick, quite oblivious to his surroundings. There are crescents of grime beneath his fingernails. Alex continues. ‘Kaitlin and Freddy. This has been very hard for all of us—’

‘What is this place?’ Freddy asks me suddenly. His voice is loud enough to cause a ripple of attention.

Alex hesitates, then resumes his speech falteringly: ‘Harder than anything we could have imagined.’

Freddy again: ‘What are we doing here?’

‘It’s your mum’s funeral,’ I whisper.

‘Her what?’

‘We need to talk quietly Freddy K. Mum died. In hospital.’

His eyes flare wide. ‘She died?’ he whispers. ‘How? Why?’

‘She fell down the stairs at home,’ I whisper. ‘The fall damaged her brain and it bled into her skull and nobody could save her. I’m sorry Freddy K.’

His eyes gleam with clear, bright tears. Maybe Stephanie was right after all, about the funeral ‘bringing it home’.

‘But why did she fall down the stairs?’

‘You were there, Freddy K. When we found her she was near the bottom of the stairs and . . . you were at the top.’

His lip wobbles. The tears are spilling. ‘No,’ he whispers. Then he stands up and shouts: ‘NO!’

The effect is electric. People turn and look. Alex stops speaking mid-sentence and stands staring at us with his mouth open. An agitated murmur ripples across the chapel.

‘What’s he doing here?’ says a bulky man two rows ahead. ‘What’s he, I mean what the hell’s he—’ he stops. ‘Just get that creature out of here!’

‘No!’ Freddy shouts again. ‘Stop it! Stop it! She’s not dead!’

The vicar signals for calm with an air-patting movement. ‘May I ask you all please to—’

Flynn mutters, ‘Hesketh. This is going to get ugly. Let’s go. Now.’

Alex seems confused. Dropping the piece of paper to the floor, he sits down heavily on the steps of the altar. The priest signals to the organist to play, and some mellow chords strike up.

Shooting up from her seat, Naomi walks towards us fast. I grab one of Freddy’s arms and Flynn takes the other. He gives a sharp cry as we pull him to his feet. He drops his stick and starts shrieking wildly, trying to corkscrew his way out of our grip.

We hold on tight and keep heading out. But Freddy squirms: Flynn makes a sudden gasp and stops in his tracks. Something’s happened: Flynn has lost hold of Freddy. He’s doubled up in pain, clutching his wrist. There’s blood. A lot of it, dramatic against his white shirt.

‘He bit me,’ he mutters. ‘Go,’ he says, nodding at the door. ‘Go now.’

A man yells: ‘Get him!’ and there is a rising and rush of bodies. I charge to the exit, dragging Freddy. Naomi’s up ahead, pushing open the door.

‘Now you all sit down!’ shouts a commanding voice. The accent is American. It’s Ashok. ‘Sit the fuck down! Immediately! This is a funeral! The boy is leaving! He’s distressed. We all are. But he’s a kid. Let’s have some dignity here, guys!’

People hesitate. The music continues, waveringly. The vicar chimes in with his own more diluted appeal for calm, but panic has taken over. Lifting Freddy bodily, I barge out of the door. As Naomi closes it behind me she calls out: ‘We’ll meet you at the car!’

The daylight is dazzling after the gloom of the chapel. Freddy’s writhing furiously, but I keep my grip as I run, half-tripping, my arms round his chest, his legs flailing beneath. I’m heading for the car park when a searing pain shoots through my groin. Somehow or other, he has freed a hand and rammed me in the testicles. I crash to the ground and for a moment everything collapses into blackness. There’s movement in it: a smooth sickening shift of mass.

When I regain control of myself, Freddy’s hurtling across the cemetery towards the railway line, leaping over skewed graves, screaming as he runs, his black curls bouncing. My heart bangs.

‘Freddy! Stop!’ But I choke: my voice has no power in it. My groin is thumping with the worst pain I have ever felt. Behind me Flynn and Naomi are charging up, followed by Ashok. Stephanie emerges and a cluster of women forms around her. Several are in tears. A small crowd of angry mourners congregates at the chapel entrance. Struggling to my feet I sprint off in the direction Freddy went. Every footfall brings more piercing pain – but I’ve seen him and I know where I’m going. He charges down the railway cutting and across the tracks, then flits into the thicket on the other side, a few metres from a vast copper beech. Using the tree as a marker, I scrabble down the steep cutting in Freddy’s footsteps, through a mass of nettles, thistles, knotweed and willowherb. The voices from the cemetery grow fainter as I plunge into the woodland, shucking off Professor Whybray’s jacket as I go. No sign of Freddy.

I need a system. Trackers look for damaged foliage. I get to my knees. At the boy’s eye level, I spot a tunnel-like entrance in the bushes to my left. The stalks have been trampled. I enter and stumble through, my sleeves catching on briars. After a few metres I am standing at normal height again, scratched and bloody, in a waste tip. A rusted car, black plastic bags, old washing machines, a punctured Spacehopper. Nearby is a stagnant pool rainbowed with oil, full of half-submerged shopping trolleys and swathes of sooty bulrushes. My phone vibrates: it’s Ashok.

‘Where are you?’ I keep my voice low as I explain. ‘Flynn’s on his way, and I’m joining you as soon as we’ve got them back inside,’ he tells me. ‘They’re going to resume the service. Closure and all that shit.’

This is a relief. Just then, a small dark shape scurries through the trees towards a fence. ‘He’s here. I’ve got to go.’

I duck as Freddy darts through the scrub. I want to catch him on open ground. At the base of a huge pylon he halts and cocks his head, as though listening for something. There’s a rustle of vegetation. I hold my breath, keeping myself hidden. Something grinds in my chest.
I can’t lose him, I can’t lose him, I can’t lose him.

Then, through the branches – five metres away at the most – I see them.

They’re behind the tall rusty fence, packed in a huddle, their small fingers clinging to the wire, which rattles as they shift from foot to foot. They are making a soft clicking noise. I count eleven. Several are wearing adult sunglasses that are far too big. There’s a smell. Urine and something else. Something rotten. One of them – a black-skinned boy with a broken front tooth – puts a filthy fist to his eye and opens his hand in a salute. Freddy returns it, then runs towards them, hopping over the detritus in his path. Their hair is matted. Their legs and feet are bare and they’re wearing a minimum of clothing: T-shirts, underwear. One girl is in a torn dress, another wears just a swimsuit. Their flesh is scratched and soiled. Squinting to focus, I see that one boy is wearing a necklace like the one Freddy made for Stephanie. It’s rotten-looking. Then I see why. It’s made of bits of meat.

It takes a moment to absorb what kind of meat it’s made of.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

I have seen footage of the feral tribes. So I have to some extent already deduced the content of their more brutal rites. If Professor Whybray were here, it would prompt an energetic discussion. But this is not the time to be an anthropologist. It’s time to get Freddy back.

I have no doubt that I can catch him. But I want to make sure Flynn and Ashok are ready to back me up when I make my move. Just then, the tallest boy points to a hole at the bottom of the fence. Freddy nods, makes the eye-salute, falls suddenly to his knees and wriggles through. Once among them he is a fish absorbed into a shoal. Wordlessly, they turn and start scrambling up a patch of higher ground which is divided into individual allotments dotted with garden sheds. Staying hidden, I keep up with them in parallel along the railway track below. None of them looks back. If they’re worried about an adult presence, they don’t show it. I have no doubt that the funeral has vanished from Freddy’s mind, and me with it. He has entered a dimension in which our world is an irrelevance.

Once past the allotments, they turn and head for a parade of shops near the railway bridge. The street looks empty, with no sign of human life. I can intercept them higher up, if I climb the siding, and catch them unawares. When I reach the top, I get a clearer view of them from behind a lilac bush. I realise that more kids have joined them. Where from it’s not clear. There must be more than twenty. It’s hard to count, because they’re more agitated and fluid now, hooting and clucking and stirring about. I’m much bigger than any of them. But now that the group has swelled to double its original size, I hesitate. Still crouching by the railway bridge, out of sight, I send Flynn a text telling him where I am.

I’ll wait for you.

And that’s what I do. It’s intriguing to see them like this, in their feral state. An older boy and a younger girl in grubby goggles seem to be the ringleaders. They’re grouped in a car park next to a parade of closed shops. It’s a no man’s land. They don’t seem to have any particular focus, until almost idly, one of them picks a loose brick off the low wall of the Sainsbury’s Local car park and hurls it at the window of the store. The glass fractures, but doesn’t break. Apparently energised by his action, the kids begin loosening more bricks and joining in. Before long, they’ve smashed a hole large enough to get through, and they’re pouring inside. Freddy’s still with them, and as I lose sight of him my anxiety mounts: might there be a back door they’ll all escape through, and disappear? But a minute later they start emerging, clutching tins of food. An argument starts up, with shouts, violent elbowing, shoving and snatching. I’m too far off to catch the words, if there are any. More kids come out of the shop, weighed down with consumables, some bleeding from glass cuts. Several are clad in new eyewear, the price-tags still attached. Freddy, clutching a tin in each hand, seems completely at home among them, as if this were just an extension of life at the Unit. Then, for no obvious reason, the squabbling tails off. One of the kids must have some chalk, because he starts drawing the burst eye on the end wall of a row of terraced houses, in white. A group of ten or so makes encouraging noises while passing round a bottle of ketchup. In turn, they upend the bottle into their palms and smear the paste on their hands before stamping their prints on the wall. Then they lick their fingers and punch the sky with their fists, clicking and hooting. A baying cheer goes up across the whole group.