‘I wouldn’t be much to find, would I?’ Father blew his nose, wiped it three times. Once from left to right, again left to right, finishing right to left. Never failed. Then he slipped away. ‘Old shithouse.’
A toy train let out a long blast on its horn as it passed and Gavin looked up. There he was – himself – standing absolutely still a few yards away. He was wearing the same clothes he’d put on a week ago when he’d left the flat. They looked creased and shabby from constant wear. But the flesh! Oh, the flesh was more radiant than his own had ever been. It almost shone in the drizzling light; and the tears on the doppelganger’s cheeks only made the features more exquisite. ‘What’s wrong?’ said Gavin.
‘It always makes me cry, coming here.’ It stepped over the graves towards him, its feet crunching on gravel, soft on grass. So real.
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Oh yes. Many times, over the years – ‘
Over the years? What did it mean, over the years? Had it mourned here for people it had killed?
As if in answer:
‘ – I come to visit Father. Twice, maybe three times a year.’
This isn’t your father,’ said Gavin, almost amused by the delusion. ‘It’s mine.’
‘I don’t see any tears on your face,’ said the other.
‘I feel. . .’
‘Nothing,’ his face told him. ‘You feel nothing at all, if you’re honest.’
That was the truth.
‘Whereas I . . .’ the tears began to flow again, its nose ran, ‘I will miss him until I die.’
It was surely playacting, but if so why was there such grief in its eyes: and why were its features crumpled into ugliness as it wept. Gavin had seldom given in to tears: they’d always made him feel weak and ridiculous. But this thing was proud of tears, it gloried in them. They were its triumph.
And even then, knowing it had overtaken him, Gavin could find nothing in him that approximated grief.
‘Have it,’ he said. ‘Have the snots. You’re welcome.’
The creature was hardly listening.
‘Why is it all so painful?’ it asked, after a pause. ‘Why is it loss that makes me human?’
Gavin shrugged. What did he know or care about the fine art of being human? The creature wiped its nose with its sleeve, sniffed, and tried to smile through its unhappiness.
‘I’m sorry,’ it said, ‘I’m making a damn fool of myself. Please forgive me.’
It inhaled deeply, trying to compose itself.
That’s all right,’ said Gavin. The display embarrassed him, and he was glad to be leaving.
‘Your flowers?’ he asked as he turned from the grave.
It nodded.
‘He hated flowers.’
The thing flinched.
‘Ah.’
‘Still, what does he know?’
He didn’t even look at the effigy again; just turned and started
up the path that ran beside the church. A few yards on, the thing called after him:
‘Can you recommend a dentist?’
Gavin grinned, and kept walking.
It was almost the commuter hour. The arterial road that ran by the church was already thick with speeding traffic: perhaps it was Friday, early escapees hurrying home. Lights blazed brilliantly, horns blared.
Gavin stepped into the middle of the flow without looking to right or left, ignoring the squeals of brakes, and the curses, and began to walk amongst the traffic as if he were idling in an open field.
The wing of a speeding car grazed his leg as it passed, another almost collided with him. Their eagerness to get somewhere, to arrive at a place they would presently be itching to depart from again, was comical. Let them rage at him, loathe him, let them glimpse his featureless face and go home haunted. If the circumstances were right, maybe one of them would panic, swerve, and run him down. Whatever. From now on he belonged to chance, whose Standard-Bearer he would surely be.