Just Last Night(35)

“I’m Justin,” says Justin, who’s too far away for a handshake, so he waves.

I can’t stop raking Fin’s features for resemblance to Susie’s. It’s the tingle of having a shadow of her returned to me, her genes in someone with even less body fat, and more testosterone.

But though he has her lips, it’s interesting how character comes out as you age, because they are set in a superior sort of pouty sulk. You can see he looks down on everyone around him, no acquaintance needed.

Don’t they say they have the face you deserve by forty? Tick tock motherfu—

“You don’t want to get a drink?” Ed says, of the space on the table in front of Fin.

“I’m not keen on the coffee here. I’ll get one somewhere else after we’re done.”

Wow.

“Do you want to go somewhere else now? It’s no trouble,” I say, my arse rising, if not literally.

“No, it’s fine.”

“We all loved your sister very much and we are all so, so devastated about what’s happened,” Ed says, partly by way of diverting us from subpar roasting beans. “It’s horrific. But I don’t need to tell you that.”

“Thank you,” Fin says, levelly. For a frightening second I think he’s not going to say any more, then he adds: “There’s a complete meaninglessness to it that is tough to process.”

We three nod vigorously and mutter agreement, as much in relief that he’s given us something to work with, I think.

“. . . Though what meaning does any death have, I guess? It’s not as if a fatal illness has intrinsically more significance,” he concludes. I can’t say I’m surprised that Fin doesn’t do cozy platitudes.

“No . . . ,” Ed says and I suspect, in the brief silence that follows, we’re all mentally sifting potential responses and discarding them.

I could say that the difference for me is that if you’re going to get sick, you’re going to get sick. There is an inevitability, a mystery.

What tortures me is that there were so many tiny but necessary contributory factors in that evening that cumulatively brought Susie to be standing in the way of that car, in that single second. Playing variables, as Ed said. She wouldn’t have been there if the taxi had taken longer to arrive. If it had stopped at more red lights. If the quiz had been shorter, or longer. If we’d gone back to mine for a nightcap. If the person in the car who had the stroke had chosen a different route, or if that bulging blood vessel wall in their brain had held out a moment longer. There was chance upon chance to survive, and she didn’t.

Our environment is so extraordinarily perilous. That’s what I can’t unknow, sitting in rooms abuzz with ignorant noise. Nothing is for granted, and everything you know can be taken away in an instant.

Nevertheless, even if I didn’t suspect Fin to be both hostile and toxic, I can’t stop obsessing that your younger sister could’ve so easily escaped her untimely end is not a remotely comforting or acceptable thing to say to anyone.

“So. Regarding the funeral,” Fin says. There’s no trace of transatlantic in his voice. No Midlands either, but then the Harts are from the sort of postcode where everyone’s accent sounds posh-neutral to the point of southern. “You said you’ve not been able to confirm a date for it yet?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling the onus on me to take charge. I explain we should be able to, very soon. I describe the readings and the music choices and a rough order of service, and Fin nods, neutral, throughout.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to do a reading?” I ask him.

“No, thank you,” Fin says. I try not to judge this, without knowing his reasons, though obviously I’m judging it hard. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t elaborate why, beyond that curt confirmation.

“As to the venue for the wake, there’s a hotel at the top of Derby Road called The Waltons. It’s chintzy and pretty, but not too stuffy. We thought that’d be fitting? It has a bar and we could put out a buffet. I don’t want it to be too youthful and like a party, but Susie would’ve hated something . . . fogeyish? For want of a better word.”

Fin nods. “The family will pay for this, obviously. Give us costs and if anything needs paying upfront, I’ll transfer to you straightaway.”

I nod back. Just as I think this is going to pass off without controversy, I say (congratulating myself this is a thoughtful touch, he will appreciate it): “We called the church about the churchyard where your mum was buried, and they have a plot free for Susie.”

I can’t believe I’m saying these words. She is arriving fifty years ahead of schedule.

“It’s not right by your mum, but it’s very near. Under a tree, which seemed . . .” I was going to say nice, and realize that there’s nothing nice about this whatsoever. “A good idea.”

“I don’t want her to be buried,” Fin says. “Absolutely not.”

I startle. “What? Why?”

“It’s how I feel,” he says, fixing intense eyes on me. “I hate the thought of her rotting in the ground. She’d agree. Cremation only.”

“I think . . . Susie would like the thought of being near her mum, though,” I say.

Fin’s eyes focus harder upon me. He clears his throat.