Free Out of This World by Graham Swift Page A

grave.
    There were so many cars parked in the sunshine in the laneby the church. So many black, chauffeur-driven cars. Except, of course, one. Ray would get driven, in a hearse all of his own, to Epsom crematorium.
    Three, four police cars. And further down the lane, at a discreet distance, the press and TV contingent. They were supposed not to move in till the service was over. But it didn’t stop them testing their equipment as the cortège glided past. Positioned like snipers, behind trees, hedges, on the roofs of their cars.
    I thought I would never get through that day. I thought I would not be able to hold my head on my shoulders, to put one foot in front of the other. But as we ran that first little gauntlet I looked at Harry on the seat beside me, and I knew I would make it. His head was turned away from the window. Fuck you, Harry. Don’t even you have the power to stop them? Your colleagues, your goddam accomplices! He was staring at the floor of the car. I knew from then on his helplessness would buoy me up. I knew I would make it because I could say to those eager pressmen at any time: Hey, you want a good story? I mean, another story, a spicy sub-story. It hasn’t happened yet, but it’s going to be called ‘What Became of Harry Beech?’. You want the inside facts? You want to know how Harry Beech was the true journalist, the real professional, right up to the very end? Want to know what I know?
    We had to walk through the lych-gate, Joe with Frank and Stella Irving behind us, following the coffin with its froth of flowers. So many wreaths, so many tributes. So many black cars glinting in the sun. And if half the language that was being used had actually taken solid shape, there’d have been muffled drums and plumes and rifle volleys.
    How does it happen? How do our little lives get turned into these big shows? Even when all that’s left of us is little pieces. How do they get made into public property?
    We had to walk back again, afterwards, down the same path,knowing that this time they were waiting in full ambush, clustered round the gate. Primed and loaded.
    I was clutching his arm. But, you see, nobody could tell it was really the other way round. He was clinging on to me, and under the pressure my flesh was hardening, giving nothing. I was thinking: This is simple. This isn’t real, I am simply not here. I am still in a white daze, I am still in the white, numb, noiseless daze that follows the blast of a bomb. When it clears, I’ll be on the terrace again, with Grandad pouring champagne and saying he’s getting out. I’m not here. I’m just watching this. But Harry’s here. No longer just watching. He thinks he’ll never get out of this churchyard.
    Come on, Harry. Why so reluctant? Remember my wedding day. These are your pals here. No? You can’t do it?
    Very well, very well. I’ll do it. If it helps. I’ll go soft, I’ll pretend I’m really leaning on you. I’ll pretend to be faint with grief (as if I should be faint with grief!). I’ll do it for you, and Frank and BMC and the whole, gawping British public. Since I can’t do anything for Grandad right now.
    It’s amazing, isn’t it, how you never know your own strength?
    I leant. I let my legs go a little weak. The papers said: ‘almost stumbled’. At the same time I lifted my hand to my face, because suddenly, like some fit of induced vomiting, I found I could cry. Simple.
    We were almost at the gate when he said, so softly, under his breath (to me? to them?), ‘No, please.’ And as if that were a signal, they all fired away. Zap! Zap! Zap!
    You should see the pictures, Doctor K. Look them up in back numbers. They’re great pictures. He with his arm round me and me with my leg bent and my hand to my face. You wouldn’t believe from those pictures that he was really clinging to me, or that something had finally snapped between us, and something had snapped inside him.
    Snap shots! Ha ha!
    And you wouldn’t believe that that