Funerals are strange times.

A time when one is supposed to celebrate the life of another, perhaps a loved one, perhaps a friend, a
parent in my case, yet in all I have been too I have never felt quite like celebrating as such. As I looked beyond the coffin that lay in front
of me I scanned the church through dreary eyes. Familiar faces at the front and strangers at the back, stretching far out through the
wide door at the rear. Work colleagues I had guessed. You could tell by the way they stood, the clothes they wore and by the fact that I
didn’t know them. There must have been several hundred that had turned out in all; all dressed smartly in blacks and greys, the
occasional red flower upon a lapel or a darkened bonnet. As I started to address the audience they looked on in expectation as if I stood
there with reasons as to the untimely death. There had been numerous investigations into such and even today had been put back to
accommodate more digging. I was glad that part was over. You want to know what happened and you want to know why but you want
to say goodbye also. You want to try and move on and to rebuild your life the best way you can. I wanted to go back to school too for the
brief time I had left. I wanted to be looked down upon from upstairs fondly, and to make sure that the life we were today celebrating
seemed somehow worthwhile.

I remember that day too well. Not because I wanted to, it would have been nice to forget and remember the good times alone; that is
for sure. The repetitive nature of the guests however ensured that that was not to be the case and it is something that will never leave
me. I was continually told that “good potential had now gone to waste” and that “those that were at wrong were to be held accountable
for their actions”. Even at such a tender age I knew this to be incorrect. They didn’t know who did it. They didn’t know what it was or
how it was done either. Six months later and I could still read my surname in newspapers worldwide yet I was still to believe that those
who “were at wrong” would be found. Chances are they would be long gone now anyway; a mere memory, perhaps only alive in the
myths and stories of his or her kind.

Let me introduce myself anyway. I’m Alec and I am now twenty two and I have one parent. You know that already of course and it’s not
like I see them very much anyway. It’s quite hard when you’re touring Afghanistan. Not too many high end hotels if you know what I am
saying? Occasionally I’ll fly home but what’s it got left to offer me? There are far more problems on the streets of the UK then out here
and besides back home you don’t get the sun. From that moment onwards I knew that this is what I wanted to do. I gazed out into the
hundreds that had arrived and knew that one day I would be here and so it came to happen. I shook the hand of all those that had
turned out that day and many more since and even now the investigations that ran for years arrive at no answers. We all knew they
wouldn’t and in the end it wasn’t a great surprise that nothing was found. It didn’t faze us. Sure the death did. The death rocked the
family but the ambiguity was no real shock if I am being totally honest. In the end we just had to cope with it. My brother Tony and I
joined the forces whilst my family sat at home and made cups of tea and walked the dogs.

You know in six years you begin to forget things. Even when walking through a desert with more time on your hands then sense you
start to forget. Then again though when you start to think about it I suppose that is what is so wonderful about memories after all. You
can start to create your own. Sure, even now I can tell you the exact hair colour and height or even under which eye that mole used to be
but what happened that Christmas? What happened when Tony broke the sofa or when I got caught smoking behind the bike sheds at
school? What was said? How did people react? I think I know. In fact I am sure I can recreate the stories for you if you asked me but
how accurate is such? Do I remember them the way everybody else does, the way those hundreds of people did and the way history
always will? Doubtful, but I expect I would give the better account. You see when you lose a parent you begin to re-evaluate everything
and that in itself is what has led me here.

“Alec will be proud of you kid.”

That was Uncle Harris consoling Tony shortly after the funeral. Harry as we’d all come to know him was one of those friends that wasn’t
an uncle but someone who’d always been called such. The garden was awash with people who had now started to lose their darkness
and looked a lot brighter in the sinking summer sun. He forced his sweaty palm down into Tony’s hair and gave it a shake. I never quite
worked out why adults did that but hey they always did, so who was I to argue?

“You alright Tone?”

Silly question really. I am sure just like me he loved the prospect of growing up with just one parent who happened to spend the
majority of their time on foreign soil. I had to ask though, it got him away from Harry for long enough to get up the stairs and out of sight
before another barrage of funeral clichés. That was another problem with the day. I mean, it’s bad enough burying a loved one whilst
still a child but I am guessing, heck I know, that people have been dying for quite a while by the time this had happened. Surely people
would have worked out something better to say and do afterwards?

I followed Tony up the stairs and broke off into my own room. I closed the door softly behind me and stood there for a second admiring
the silence and lack of people. I wasn’t going to be here for much longer I knew that but whilst I was; I was determined to spend most of
my time in here. This is where I had often hidden and where I would hide many more times after. There was nothing special here. No big
wardrobe or chest or lots of curtains and rugs, it was just a bog standard, pretty boring, sixteen year olds room. The back wall which
supported my bed was covered in photos of friends from schools and holidays. Moments that were ‘meant to last forever’ but just like
everything else came to an end at some point. Underneath them was my bed, still in the heap I’d left it. I’d meant to make it, and some
months later I’d come to learn the importance of such but today there’d been more important matters at hand.