I'm Gone

The first half of the first chapter of "Black Vinyl" - link and other stuff in comments below.

“Jimmy Endicott was murdered.”

Bernard says this straight into the recording app on my mobile. It’s less a phone, more an Everything Machine nowadays, and right now it’s a dictation device. He claims he’s doing this so’s I can hold on.

Hold on. I’m not there yet. Nowhere near. Best to start where Debs comes in.

Which is also an ending.

#

I don’t do goodbyes.

Can’t stand them. All that awkward hovering. Picking the moment, making the choice. Handshake or hug? Are we still doing elbows? Fistbumps? Then there’s the “Don’t be a strangers” and “I’ll call yous”. None of them genuine.

If they were, there’d be no need for reunions, would there?

What I mean is, if you think about it, the whole public ta-ra’s a selfish thing at heart.

There’s everybody else – laughing, joking, having a good time – and then you with your leaving face on. Maybe you’ve got a train to catch or a cab waiting or you just can’t be arsed any more. Fair play. But why make a show?

Best let them all crack on, sling your hook and slip away.

No words, no waves.

Some people call that an Irish Farewell. Whoever they are, they never saw The Big Man leave a New Year’s bash. By the time he was done with all the Auld Lang Synes, you were halfway to hiding your Easter eggs. That said, I do love a funeral.

L

O

lovelovelove

V

E

Not that I’m the maudlin kind. Hardly about to spend my days clutching lilies and a rosary. But there is something about a hole in the ground that gets me where it counts.

And it’s not the weeping or the eulogies or the choice of music.

(Speaking of which, I have left instructions regarding the soundtrack to my service. No novelty numbers. Doesn’t have to be hymns or classical. Classic will be fine: a spot of Ella, maybe some Marvin or Sam. But I swear, if they are leaving the church to Morecambe and Wise, I will come back and haunt someone.)

No.

It’s the predictability of it all.

Everyone outside as the box is lowered. Handfuls of earth. The wobbly relative, preferably an uncle, throwing himself at varnished oak. Tear-soaked and whiskey-sodden. Wailing “too soon, too soon” as he’s picked up and carried off in grief to the free bar. Draped between two burly nephews, necks as wide as their heads. The three of them, first to drown their sorrows.

A proper family funeral is a thing of beauty in an uncertain world. A privilege, too. You’re lucky to get one.

Not that there’s anything beautiful or privileged or predictable about Jimmy Endicott’s final departure.

For one thing it’s a cremation, and no one throws themselves at an oven.

For another, it’s one of those humanist jobs. No frills, no prayers, no God. The place still looks enough like the church it used to be: stone walls, stained windows, pews that could numb the fullest of arses. It’s just had all the holiness removed. At least we’re all in black. Some traditions remain.

Funny enough, I’d always had Jim down as a closet left-footer. The man loved a confession. Not even sixty by the time he’d shuffled off and already two autobiographies under his belt. A third on the way, or so I’m told.

Reckon that’s the last chapter sorted now.

So: no holy, no hole, no fistfuls of muck and no “Jerusalem”. Instead, we have a bird.

(Okay, strictly speaking she’s a celebrant, but if there’s anyone who more resembles a plump duck outside of a church pond I’ve yet to meet them.)

For someone who barely knew the man, she certainly talks a lot. Mostly about humanism. It’s like she’s touting for business. By the time Jim’s box trundles towards the burners, and we’re all stood for a croaky rendition of Rebel Rebel, I reckon I can feel myself being drawn to the light simply for something better to do.

Finally, the rollers stop their rolling and we tuneless stop our crooning. Shutters are shut and it’s done. But not before the duck waddles up before us one last time and quacks: “If you’d like to know more about humanism –”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” comes a voice from the back. “Can we kindly get rat-arsed now?” I don’t need to turn to know that’s Debs Endicott, daughter of the deceased. Twenty-four years old and already as tight as a straitjacket’s arms.

Who needs a wobbly uncle, eh?