Free What to Do When Someone Dies by Nicci French Page B

here?’
    ‘What do you think? I’ve come to see you. But what on earth have you been up to? You look –’ He stopped, staring at me with a kind of fascination. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said finally.
    ‘Oh, nothing. I just went out and it started pouring with rain,’ I said feebly. I didn’t really want to talk about my day, not even to Joe.
    ‘You’ve got blood all over your face.’
    ‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. It probably looks worse than it is because of the rain. Do you want to come in?’
    ‘Just for a minute.’
    I managed to get the door open and we stepped into the hall. I pulled off my mud-caked boots and struggled out of my jacket, then stood dripping on to the floor.
    ‘Here,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not important but I thought you’d want this. It was in the kitchen and we missed it.’
    He’d brought me Greg’s favourite mug. It had the photograph of him finishing his marathon last year printed on it, although repeated washing had faded the image. I took it from Joe and looked at it, at Greg’s triumphant, exhausted smile. I’d met him afterwards and put my arms round his sweaty body and kissed his sweaty face and his salty lips.
    ‘And I wanted to check if there was anything I could do for the funeral.’
    ‘You probably just wanted to check, full stop,’ I said.
    He smiled ruefully at me. ‘Well, I can see you’re taking excellent care of yourself. Go and have a bath.’
    ‘I’ll do that.’
    ‘While you’re at it, can I do anything for you? Tidy up a bit or make you a warm drink?’
    ‘That’s kind of you, but no thanks.’
    ‘Ellie?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘You’re all right?’
    ‘What? Yes. You know.’
    ‘You’ll tell me if you’re not?’
    ‘Yes.’

Chapter Eight
    Afterwards, I remembered the funeral only as a collection of random moments, all of them bad. We had been told we had to arrive five minutes before the eleven thirty start because there were funerals before and afterwards. So, we found ourselves standing outside the north London crematorium waiting for our turn. We were a collection of old friends, family members, hovering, not quite sure what to say or do. I noticed people recognizing each other, breaking into a smile, then remembering they were at a funeral and forcing sadness on to their faces.
    The hearse arrived, the back door opened and the wicker coffin was exposed. Mr Collingwood always referred to it as a casket, as if that was more respectful of the dead. It wasn’t lifted by pall-bearers, but trundled into the chapel on a silly little trolley that looked as if it should be moving packing cases into a supermarket. It rattled clumsily over the cracks between the paving stones. Mr Collingwood had warned me about it in advance, saying it had been forced on them by their insurers. There had been reports of serious back injury.
    A middle-aged woman, who must have been a relative of Greg’s, asked if we should follow it in.
    ‘They’re going to get it in position,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure if the group before us has finished.’ It was as if we’d booked a tennis court. Greg’s relative, if that was who she was, stayed next to me. I felt no need to try any small-talk.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
    I still hadn’t worked out what to say when people said how sorry they were. ‘Thank you’ didn’t seem quite right. Sometimes I’d mumbled something meaningless. This time I just nodded.
    ‘It must be so terrible for you,’ she said.
    ‘Well, of course,’ I said. ‘It was such a shock.’
    Still she didn’t go away. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘the circumstances were so awkward. It must be so… well, you know… for you.’
    And then I thought, Oh, right, I understand. Suddenly I felt bloody-minded. ‘What do you mean?’
    But she was tougher than I was. She wouldn’t be diverted. ‘I mean the circumstances,’ she said. ‘The person he died with. It must be so upsetting.’
    I felt as if I had an open wound and this woman had put her finger