Free Fly in the Ointment by Anne Fine Page A

giggles. There was a man in a black suit who stood so straight I guessed he must be representing the police, and I was quite touched to think they took the time and showed the sensitivity to go to the funerals of people whose bodies they’d pulled from the water. Next to him stood a couple in dark but casual clothing. Were they plain-clothed officers? Or from the probation services? And was the fact that these three knew each other well enough to sit together proof that my Malachy’s life had carried on with its slow slide?
    And, sitting directly across the aisle from the three of them, there was my father. He’d turned at the creak of the door but looked my way with not a sign of recognition. A shiver of pure hatred ran down my spine. Just how cold was his heart? He must at least have
thought
I would be there for Malachy. Would it have killed him to have been waiting outside until the music soared, hoping to greet his onlydaughter, comfort her, and lead her in on his arm?
    I took a seat at the back. I was the last in, but whole minutes passed. The whispering increased. Finally the canned organ dirge broke off and something much the same but a little more rousing started up instead. Everyone took it as a hint to stand, and, sure enough, almost at once in came the coffin with Janie Gay behind it. As she walked past, her high heels vulnerably wobbling as she was forced to slow her steps to match the coffin-bearers’ steady pace, I sneaked a glance. She looked a whole lot better than I remembered. Both times I’d seen her before, of course, her face had been disfigured by snarls, and she had somehow managed to seem, at the same time, both bloated and half-starved. Now she looked much, much younger – almost Malachy’s age – and, in her plain dark suit, a good deal less tarty. I found that a great comfort. Nobody likes to think their son was such a loser that he could end up sharing the last of his run-down life with some rock-bottom slattern who can’t even scrub up for his funeral. Still, it was hard for me to melt with sympathy as she came past. I’d seen her martyred little look, as if my son’s death had been one more irritation to make life awkward in a tiresome week.
    It was a dismal service, straight from the printed pamphlet lying on the pew ledge, with no additionsor readings, nor even any singing. Someone I took to be a crematorium employee did give a short address, saying exactly the sort of thing you would expect him to say about a young man he openly admitted he’d never met (and probably guessed hadn’t amounted to much): ‘Everyone equally valuable in the sight of God . . . so much more sad when someone is cut down before their full potential can be realized’ – that sort of thing. I tried as hard as I could to push away unruly thoughts crowding my brain. How was I going to get out at the end without speaking to anyone? Where was this famous baby? At one point I even found myself having to force down a rush of terror as I imagined my father churning in his mind something about the stance of that red-headed woman whom he’d watched walk in, then swinging round to point a finger. Even as the curtains were closing around the coffin I couldn’t keep my Malachy in mind. Almost before the perfunctory service was over I’d sunk to my knees, prudently burying my face in my hands, as though in earnest prayer.
    It wasn’t long before the murmuring began, followed by the shuffling of feet and the rustle of abandoned pew sheets. I kept my face well hidden as all the other mourners made their way past, waiting till I was sure the chapel was empty before I warily raised my head and hurried to the back, past thecollection plate that had stayed so dispiritingly empty.
    I pushed the door open a crack. The lad with the floppy marmalade-coloured hair was down on one knee, struggling with a snapped lace as he continued to discuss with a friend the people