Dance On My Grave

So I’ll add only this. Yesterday, after I’d written Bit 38, I wandered down to the beach by Chalkwell station, thinking my Record of Death was finished, and feeling happy-tired. Happy to have finished, tired because I’ve done nothing much else for three weeks now but write everything down and relive my seven weeks with Barry, and face his death again.

I was feeling relieved too, but sad, in a way, to be done with it all—except for my court appearance, which seems now like an irrelevance. I don’t care what they decide to do with me, because I’ve decided what I have to do with myself. I’m going back to school, for a couple of years in Ozzy’s Sixth. Not that I want the exam qualifications; and I don’t have any ambition to go on to university. What I want is the time. To let everything settle. I want to read more, and write some more too, because I’ve enjoyed doing that so much. There’s something ahead for me; I can’t see what it is yet, but I know it is there, waiting. And I just feel I’ll get to it better by staying on at school than by getting a job.

It wasn’t exactly music I’d have thought of dancing to on someone’s grave. Not that I’d ever thought of dancing on anyone’s grave till now. But it was all I could hear. So I picked up my feet to its gawky rhythm and set about a knees-up as best I could. And soon the music faded and the beat became something of my own, quickened in pace and vigour, a tattoo In Memoriam of Barry’s needless death and in celebration of what he had been to me, which no one else could ever be again.

It was when my dance became more celebration than memorial that the black shape of the hidden B.-in-B. rose, like Death himself, from behind a gravestone only a row away and came swooping down upon me in a flying rugger tackle. We both crashed to the ground on the path by Barry’s grave. Instantly the B.-in-B. was on his booted feet again, grabbing me by the collar and an arm, and braying with evident satisfaction, ‘All right, sonny, that’ll do for now. You’re under arrest.’

What he, poor bloke, couldn’t understand, was why I burst into squalls of uncontrollable laughter.

39/You know the rest.

‘I’ll get your breakfast,’ she said, retreating.

I spent most of the rest of the day brooding on what Kari had said and scribbling in my diary.

38/That Monday night I waited, knowing I would dance as I had promised this time.

By ten-thirty my patience ran dry. I wanted it over.

The same pretext: I was going out for some fresh air and to give my foot some exercise.

‘You in training for a job on the night shift?’ Dad said. ‘Or is it that bird again?’ He had been chirpy ever since coming in from work, twitting me at every opportunity about Kari.

The same way into the cemetery (though being earlier there were more cars to dodge and one or two people on the road). The same path to the Jewish section.

I paused at the hedge, looking for movement among the graves. Saw nothing. Pushed my way through the divide and went straight to Barry’s grave.

At once, as I approached, I saw that his father’s headstone had been re-erected, firm and square now, and the hole I had dug had been filled in and the soil smoothed over. A new number plaque was staked at the foot.

The thought flashed through my mind: If they’ve repaired the damage maybe they’re on the lookout for me. But I paid no heed. Since then, I’ve wondered whether I wanted to be caught. Like they say criminals often want to be caught and punished for their crimes, and even unconsciously leave clues to their identity, and return to the scene and make themselves conspicuous.

Well, I was conspicuous enough that night. I just stood there at the foot of his grave, nothing clear-minded going on in my head, and my torch shining like a spotlight on the oblong heap of his deathbed in front of me. I was quite calm; none of that anger and madness of three nights ago. Tears started down my face again, but I wasn’t heaving or distressed at all, but making, I think, a kind of farewell. Letting him go.

After a few moments like this, I heard in my head the funny little tune that Laurel and Hardy films always begin with.