FUNERAL OF A FRIEND

1.
That winter the snow fell thicker than normal and I bought a long black coat which buttoned
across itself and I wore a hat and I could see my breath as I walked across the university campus.
There was a large square fountain in the centre of the courtyard and it had frozen up mid-flow
somehow like an ice sculpture and the library was warm and full of students with their hats and
scarves and coats piled up all over the seats. Paul had gone home to see his parents over Christmas but
there were plenty of us there and some people had Christmas parties in their flats. I spent Christmas
on my own that year.
When Paul came back at the end of January I was upstairs and I heard the door unlock and I heard
him close it behind him and come upstairs. I was reading Finnegans Wake by James Joyce and I was
up to Chapter 8 but there was a great deal a good 80 or 90 percent of it, actually that I couldnt
understand. He interrupted me in the middle of a sentence, Well Old Humphrey was as glum as a
grandpa, with the weeds at the door, and plague, and no-one daring to show a lamp in a kitchen or a
church, and holes appearing on the street, and deadly mushrooms appearing on the heros tomb,
when he spoke.
Bryan, he said. I closed the book and looked up at him, I might have been smiling, but then I saw
the look on his face and I knew that there was something wrong straight away.
Whats the matter? I asked.
Simons dead. he said. He said it all matter-of-fact like that, but I suppose there wasnt any other
way of saying it really.
Why didnt you text me? I said.
Its not really the sort of thing you text. he said.
No. I suppose not.
The funeral is next Wednesday. he said.
Have you told anyone else? I asked.
I told Naz, he said, And Sam already knew.
Are you alright? I asked him.
I just need to get my head down. he said.
Well talk later, then, I said. Thanks for letting me know.
Paul left the room and closed his bedroom door behind him. I picked up Finnegans Wake and finished
the rest of the sentence, and weeds growing on the great tribunes grave mound, sitting on his seat,
dreaming away, questioning himself, and checking for births and deaths in the papers, not defending
himself as the guttersnipes worked on him, not eating, fearing his fate, dreaming into the night in his
black stockings and wide breeches and with the birds and pests about him, wondering whether Dublin
was worth the bother. Thanks for that, Joyce, I said to myself. I poured myself a glass of whiskey
from a bottle I had sitting on the bookshelf and I drank it slowly and I thought about a great deal of
things that night before I went to sleep.
On the Tuesday, Paul and I got the train to Manchester. I stayed at in a single room in town
which cost 25 and had a shower that barely worked but I managed to borrow an iron from the
reception and iron a shirt and a pair of trousers. I got a taxi and met Paul, Sam and Naz at the church
at about half-past nine. They were gathering in the courtyard beside the church and it was a much
bigger gathering than anyone would have expected, given the circumstances. Simons family were
stood closest to the door of the church, and at the centre of them I could see his mother, sobbing
uncontrollably, and his father standing there with a face fixed like stone. From where I was standing I
could see his fathers broad chest heaving as he breathed in deeply and the priest talking to him
quietly and the father nodding and the priest leading them quietly into the church to view the body.

Outside, people spoke quietly amongst themselves. You could hear them saying what a shame it was
and what a waste, and how you could never really tell with the quiet onesand what about his poor
mother, losing her only child like that. It was a grey and bleak morning and I remember the guests
standing there like ghosts waiting for the family to return. After a while the priest emerged from the
church and Simons parents were following behind him and now his mother had turned pale and calm
and quiet and it was his father, instead, who was crying. He cried in front of all of those people and
we tried not to watch but it drew your eyes straight to it the spectacle of the thing.
The priest called the others forward and we watched as they went into the church with their heads
bowed, married couples holding hands, and families, with their children buttoned up awkwardly in
little formal suits. They entered the church a few at a time and then emerged a short time after and
some of the smaller children were crying. Some of the women embraced Simons mother and cried
while the men would nod their heads respectfully at his father before moving on. Finally, as the last of
the visitors came out of the church and the priest looked as though he was about to turn away, we
walked over to the church to enter.
Hello, said the priest, Have you come to pay your respects?
How do you do, father. Paul said, before I had time to speak.
They dont call them fathers anymore, I said, Weve come to see him off, yes.
All four of you? asked the priest.
All of us, yes. said Sam.
Very well, said the priest, Come with me, then.
The priest took us through the doorway which led into the main chamber. The room was empty and
our footsteps echoed in the hollow room as we walked between the pews. Paul nudged me in the arm
as the priest led us towards the altar. At the front, a dark wooden coffin lay in solitude, with flowers
and letters and cards placed all around it.
I moved forward tentatively and peered into the coffin at Simon. He was colourless and had his eyes
closed, looking neutrally at the ceiling through his eyelids. He was dressed neatly in a blue shirt and
trousers and his hands had been neatly folded across his stomach. He looked calm and slightly
pleased, as though he had been watching the whole of the proceedings and that they had thoroughly
amused him. You could half expect Simon, knowing his sense of humour, to jump up in a minute and
tell everybody it had been a fantastic joke, and thank you everyone for coming, but that the priest
could go back to molesting children now.
Jesus. I said.
Did they cut his hair? Naz said.
Maybe he cut it himself. said Sam, standing behind me.
No, I think they cut it. You can tell.
Shush! said Paul.
The priest cleared his throat.
Come on, lets go. I said.
Alright, then.
We said goodbye to the corpse.
Goodbye, Simon.
All the best, Simon.
Goodbye.
The priest led us back outside and I tried not to think about what Id just seen. When we came out,
Simons family were standing off at the side of the church, gazing up at the steeple with weary looks
on their faces. Most of the others had already started to leave. I nodded my head at Simons parents as
I walked past them with my hands in my pockets. There was a chilly breeze which whipped up the
leaves and made me shiver as we left.
Right. said Paul.
Thats that. I agreed.

We walked down the road past the dark green railings of the cemetery and turned left down a small
street which joined onto the main road. There was barely anybody around at this time of the day and
the sun had only just started to break through the clouds. On the corner was a pub called The Smithy
Arms. We entered the pub, which was deserted, and the landlord came out from an adjacent room and
turned the light on behind the bar.
Hey, gents, he said, How was it?
Quiet, really. I said.
A lot of crying. said Sam.
Whatll you be drinking, boys? asked the bartender.
Five pints, please. Paul said. The bartenders face changed for a moment; just a split second really,
and then it was back to normal.
Whos getting them in? someone asked, and we all started reaching for their wallets. The bartender
shook his head.
On the house, lads, he said, Dont worry about that.
Thanks. we said.
We went and sat at a long table in the corner. I could tell that Paul was shaken by it all and I was too,
but it had also been a long time since the four of us had been sat at a table together. Naz was working
in journalism in London and Sam was studying his Masters at Lancaster. We were an odd bunch,
really, and the only thing we had in common was that we knew each other. And that we knew Simon.
We all took a fairly long drink and I rubbed my hands together in the corner.
Alright, wasnt it? said Sam.
More than he would have expected. I said.
I still dont understand why they cut his hair like that. said Naz It seemed unnatural, you know?
Sams right, I said, For all we know he shaved it off himself.
No, he definitely wouldnt have, said Naz, And he wouldnt have worn his shirt with the collar
buttoned up either. We all looked at him in amazement, and fell silent.
Whens the last time any of us spoke to him, really? asked Sam. We all shrugged and looked at each
other.
Simon was always a bit unhinged. I said.
Remember when he got in an argument with a Jehovahs Witness at the train station?
He always used to go on about vanity. And he hated losing.
Do you remember when he had that boxing match?
He was stalking the man he was going to fight on Facebook. Tried to guess the guys reach from his
profile picture.
He bought all his clothes from charity shops.
I think he wanted to save the world.
He was depressed, thats all. said Paul.
He didnt know what he wanted, I agreed, Sometimes I felt like grabbing him and saying, This,
this is all there is. You just need to get on with it and enjoy as much as you can.
Thats true. Sam said. He went to get us some more drinks.
Well Ill be travelling back down to London tomorrow. said Naz.
Hows the job? I asked.
Its cool. I get to meet a lot of cool people down there. he said.
You look well, anyway. Its good to see you all again. said Paul.
We should definitely stay in touch more, all of us. I said.
Sam came back to the table with four pint glasses precariously held together. He put them down and
went back to the bar. He came back with four glasses of whiskey and placed them on the table.
I thought we could use these. he said.
I was just saying, Sam, we should stay in touch more. Dont let it go to your head, you know.
You mean like Naz?

2.
In the morning when we came to Paul had already left. He had woken up early and gotten a taxi back
to his house, where his backpack was packed and ready to go. He left a note inside the flat and locked
up and posted the keys back through the letterbox in a brown envelope.