Chapter 11 #2
I glanced at the flowers spelling out the word ‘DAD’, an obvious bestseller in funeral floristry.
However, the other arrangement made me pause and recoil for a moment.
I squinted at it, double-checking to make sure I hadn’t misread or somehow accidentally jumbled the letters when I was preparing them.
‘KNOBHEAD.’
I frowned, checked again, and even considered the possibility of some very rare Dutch surname. But no, it was exactly as it appeared. Triple-checking that I wasn’t suddenly losing the plot, I caught Uncle Phil’s eyeline. He still looked frazzled from this morning’s chaos.
‘Uncle Phil, is this right?’ I asked, gesturing toward the rather explicit arrangement. ‘I’m really sure I want to get this right.’
He gave it a glance, then rolled his eyes with a long, drawn-out resigned sigh. ‘I’m afraid so…’ he replied.
I scoffed, the flowers had been placed so intricately, so carefully, to spell out a word that was meant to evoke some kind of sentimental meaning, yet here it conjured the absurd image of someone with a phallus for a cranium. Each to their own, I guess. Could it be a term of endearment, somehow?
As I finally laid out the ‘knobhead’ flowers in the centre of the hall, I saw Eddie and Clive finishing up with preparing the coffin.
Clive began rolling the gurney outside, and I crept over for a quick peek.
The fact that no one was screaming or flailing their arms in alarm reassured me that things were, probably, still okay.
I peered inside and saw Justin’s chest looked fine, no sign of the dark bloodstain on his shirt nor the fact he was currently storing a wholesale supply of kitchen towel in his ribcage.
His face retained the serene, neutral expression that Sophie had perfected.
No one would even know he was missing a heart, why the heck was I even worrying?
I let out what had to be the quietest burp of relief ever attempted.
‘Nasty way to go,’ Eddie muttered behind me in a grumble.
The only thing I hadn’t properly clocked in the chaos and havoc of what had been the past twenty-four hours, were the sunglasses.
Someone had fitted a pair of thick black plastic frames wedged over his slightly puffy, plastically enhanced face, great slabs of make-up painted on in wide brush strokes.
‘What’s with the shades?’ I asked Clive, bracing for a stupid answer from him.
‘Oh, the fish in the Thames ate his eyeballs, like reverse caviar.’
Gross. Also, I didn’t think he knew what caviar was.
But before I could ask for any more details, Uncle Phil’s hissing voice cut through the air.
‘People are arriving, Ruth,’ he said, loud enough to echo faintly around the hall but still laced with the strained pretence of a hushed, clandestine tone.
With everything set up, Uncle Phil and I took our places by the door, ready to greet the mourners.
Being on the welcoming committee with Uncle Phil was always a little bit nerve-wracking.
The man was a pro – the David Beckham, if you will, of funerals – and that came with a strange level of particularity about the smallest things.
‘Don’t say “good morning”,’ he’d once instructed to me, ‘as some people might hear it as “good mourning” or wonder why the morning is even “good”. And don’t smile too much, but don’t look unfriendly either and don’t say “how are you?” as chances are you’re going to get a stupid answer back. Basically, only speak if you need to.’
There were countless little nuances to keep in mind when dealing with people about to say goodbye to someone they knew and loved.
Or thought was a knobhead. For them, it was one of the most upsetting days of their existence.
For us, it was just a standard Saturday morning service and we would be thinking about what we were having for lunch.
Obviously, I wasn’t thinking about lunch, I was still wondering that maybe I’d gone too far in sending the heart directly to Detective Carlota.
I assumed my usual stance, hands clasped tightly behind my back, and mentally rehearsed the standard line:
‘Hello, thank you for coming. Please take all the time you need to pay your respects.’
It was a phrase I’d heard Uncle Phil use before, and I figured sticking to his example was the safest bet.
People in black attire began parking their cars and trickling in, the one commonality was that no one really wanted to be there, no one was power walking to make sure they were the first in line or striding to the community hall with a swift sense of purpose.
Everyone was dragging their feet, seeing just how slow their legs could carry them.
Turnouts at funerals varied wildly. Some were tragically quiet, with only a handful of attendees, while others felt more like herding unruly fans at a derby match.
I remember one young chap who came to the office one day and explained he’d been diagnosed with a vicious terminal case of prostate cancer.
But he had been very clear that he wanted his funeral to be a celebration of his life, rather than a solemn affair.
He didn’t want anyone to feel sad that he was gone, but rather happy they had known him.
He had grand plans: he’d asked his friends to wear the most offensive outfits they could think of.
So when the day finally arrived, the atmosphere was…
bizarre, to say the least. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Hitler wrapped up in chains and tight black latex, closely followed by a number of even more offensive costumes that I won’t mention.
The real kicker was him changing all the hymns to craptacular songs from the early 2000s.
If you’ve never seen two dozen grown men cry while trying to sing ‘Unwritten’ by Natasha Bedingfield, I can tell you it’s quite an unnerving sight.
A young family came walking up the path towards me, all four of the children dressed in suits.
The oldest looked around thirteen, and the youngest, a tiny lad no older than five, seemed to be trying to rip off a suit that looked like it was bought at Build-A-Bear.
The parents gave me a polite nod as they passed.
I hesitated, debating whether to mention the fact it was open casket.
Surely, it would be immensely disturbing for a child that young?
But I decided against making assumptions.
Instead, I offered the usual line and let them join the queue towards the coffin.
Judging by the steady pace of arrivals, this was shaping up to be a medium turnout for Justin, nothing at all to be sniffed at. The worst funerals were the quiet ones.
Then came a small group of men, all in their forties, all wearing long coats and flat caps and reeking faintly of booze.
There was always one drunk person at a funeral, whether you ended up noticing them or not.
However, it was looking like there would be at least eight of those delightful caricatures today.
One chap caught my eye as he shoved a very obviously open can of Stella into the pocket of his thick tweed coat.
I groaned as I steeled myself for the interaction, Uncle Phil had a very strict policy on this.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said, keeping my tone polite and hoping he’d be obedient. ‘I’m afraid there’s no drinking allowed inside today.’
‘What?’ His sunburned face blossoming into an even deeper shade of tomato red. ‘What do you mean, no drinking inside?’
‘Sir, this is an opportunity for family and friends to pay their respects,’ I said, already knowing this was going to be an unpleasant affair and hating the fact I was needing to be confrontational already. ‘The venue has made it very clear that no—’
‘What a load of bollocks,’ he snapped, cutting me off with a spray of beer-coloured spit as he spoke. ‘I can’t have one drink to cope with the pain of losing my best mate?’
‘He was everyone’s mate, Rob,’ someone quietly muttered from his little pack behind him.
‘Sir, I understand this is upsetting,’ I said, trying to make my tone even more diplomatic.
‘You’re not letting me in to pay respects to my best friend? What’s next? Going to say I can’t even wear my hat, is that it?’ he cried.
‘Sir, please,’ I said, noticing that his tantrum was now starting to block the entrance.
Not only was a bottleneck forming, which was very bad for funeral people flow that Uncle Phil placed a lot of importance on, but I could see mourners inside the hall craning their necks to see what exactly the commotion was about.
Meanwhile I was willing to bet my entire net worth of fourteen pounds that this chap was the guy who’d decided having ‘knobhead’ in flowers would be so outrageously funny that everyone would adore his witty and cerebral attempts at mourning.
I had hoped the incident would have been resolved quickly, but I suppose I’d let my na?veté get the better of me. The sight of Uncle Phil stomping towards me, a scowl firmly plastered across his face, made me wonder if he regretted offering me his job yesterday.
‘What is going on here?’ Uncle Phil asked, his tone making it clear he had no intention of approaching this sensitively.
‘We’re living in Nazi Britain, that’s what’s happening,’ the bloke shot back, his voice as loud as his wheezy, nasally vocal cords would allow.
‘This is nonsense,’ he shouted, waving his arms around like an infant mid-tantrum.
Some of his less inebriated mates began chiming in, trying to calm him down and reason with us.
‘What if he just doesn’t drink while he’s by the coffin?’ one of his slightly more sober chums suggested as a negotiation tactic. ‘That’d be fine, yeah?’
‘No,’ Uncle Phil and I said in unison.
The tension grew and thickened as all of our voices rose to try and speak over each other. I didn’t even realise who was shouting at who now when somehow, a young child’s voice seemed to pierce right through the chaos.
‘Mummy, why is Uncle Justin melting?’
My head snapped around to follow the voice, the words instantly striking a whole new level of anxiety and fear into me. It was the kind of horror I imagined a rodent may feel just as they saw the wingspan of an eagle block out the sun from above.
From my small elevation of the entryway, I had a clear view of the casket and more specifically, Justin.
The young boy I’d noticed earlier now stood frozen in fear, watching a scene that could have been ripped straight from some awful VHS Eighties body horror film.
Justin’s chest, once still, tight and puffed, was not only sinking but it was starting to collapse in on itself.
It was as though an unseen vortex were drawing the wings of his ribcage inward.
His suit crumpling and creasing towards the black, gory, bloody centre, as the fabric of his shirt distorted in a way I didn’t even realise was possible, like a soufflé five minutes out of the oven.
The commotion of the blokes behind me dissolved into a form of background static.
I could only stare at Justin’s stoic face, shades still fitted on the nose like he was the Fonz, giving the impression he was just so relaxed and oblivious to the grotesque transformation overtaking the remainder of his body a few inches below.
‘Ayy,’ I could almost hear him say.
See, I think I may have gone too far.