chapter eleven

The bank manager is buried on the same day at a different cemetery. We don’t combine the events and hold one giant two-for-one funeral party to save money, or to make it easier on the media so they can save gas.

We pick up handfuls of dirt and throw it onto the coffin. It’s a tradition I’ve never really understood. I’ve done it four times in the past: my mother, my sister, both my grandparents. Now my wife. I don’t ever want to have to do it again.

The rest of the dirt is underneath a grass-colored piece of canvas, hidden away, and it’s another tradition I don’t understand. Are they worried the dirt will cement the reality that my blood-covered wife, funeral arrangements, and coffin could not? I don’t know. Maybe it’s the traditions that get people through the day.

Sam picks up a small handful of dirt and sprinkles it onto the coffin. She doesn’t ask why. In fact she hasn’t asked anything at all today—she’s done what she’s been told, quietly following me since we woke up this morning.

After the funeral we all drive to Jodie’s parents’ house. I look at the streets and the people and I want to leave this city and wish I’d done it years ago. The Christmas traffic slows us down—even at four o’clock on a Monday afternoon. Soccer mums are driving their kids around the city in SUVs and heading to the malls.

There are about thirty cars parked in my in-laws’ street, and only two media vans. I have to park two blocks away. The distraction thing happens while I drive—I’ll see a car getting ready to run a red light and I’ll brake, I’ll avoid him, the moment passes, and then Jodie hits my thoughts with such brutality I almost burst into tears. My days are made up like that—the memory of her loss impacting on me over and over, trying to break me. Or maybe no longer trying—maybe succeeding.

The weird food/funeral thing is taking place. It’s another of the traditions. It was the same when my mum and sister died, my grandparents cooking a thousand sausage rolls for the guests, cracking open bottles of lemonade and grape juice, swallowing down food and sorrow and sharing stories. The house is almost standing room only with the amount of people here, but they part for me and Sam, and I lead her through the living room and out onto the porch into the sun. I tell her to go and play in her playhouse but she doesn’t want to. She wants to keep holding my hand, and that’s okay with me. On and off during the afternoon she’ll smile at me like she’s in on some secret that I don’t know about. She thinks her mum is returning.

“Mummy’s a ghost,” she said as Jodie hid under the sheets from her on the day she died.

One by one the guests fade away. I’m given handshakes and hugs and words of condolence, and none of them help. I’d put any one of these people into the ground if it would bring Jodie back.

In the end there’s only family—and none of it is mine, except my daughter. It’s Jodie’s family, and as much as I want to leave and never see them again, I can’t. None of this is their fault. None of it is my fault. I guess it’s just one of those things. That’s what murder is these days—just one of those things that happens, get used to it, deal with it, move on.

Sam is finally out in the playhouse Nat built for her a couple of years ago. Nat spent twenty years as a builder and the last ten years running a hardware shop. I’m sitting out on the porch watching her when he comes out and hands me a beer. His suit jacket is gone, his sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is askew. He has big forearms with long white hairs, and big hands that he uses to pry the top off his beer. I suddenly realize for the first time that as hard as it is for me, it’s perhaps even harder for him.

“Hell of a day,” he says, and he sits next to me at the outdoor table he built.

“Yeah.”

“Hell of a service. They did . . . a great job,” he says, maybe recognizing how hollow his words sound. “Notice how people came out of there saying the service was nice? I don’t know what the hell they mean by that,” he says. “I mean, I think I know what they mean, and I’ve probably said the same thing at other funerals. But the word doesn’t fit. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.”

“I figure there’s no alternative, right? I mean, what the hell else are people going to come out saying? That it was a bloody awful service? That they had a bad time? That they had a great time? I guess it’s all you can say.”

“I guess it is.”

He lifts the bottle up to his lips and takes a long swallow. “They’re going to catch those bastards,” he says. “I wish to hell they’d put me in a room with them one at a time. I wish . . . ah hell,” he says, and then, “I keep thinking I’m dreaming.”

“I know.”

Sam waves at us, then goes back to her world, talking to her teddy bears, maybe telling them about how nice the service was. Mummy’s a ghost. Yeah, maybe she’s talking to Jodie too.

“You have to feel the same way, right? If you could get your hands on those people?”

I’d love it. The words don’t come out, thankfully, and they’re not even my words. I’m not sure whose they are. “I’d kill them,” I say, knowing that’s what he wants to hear, wondering if it’s actually something he thinks I’m capable of. Maybe he’s hoping I am.

“It’s going to be hard, taking care of her yourself.”

“I know.”

“But you’re a good kid,” he says. “You’ll do great. I know it. And, well, we’re always here for you.”

I open up my beer and take a long sip so I don’t have to speak.

“I know that you’ve always thought we didn’t think much of you. And I know why you think that. And I admit, in the beginning, it worried me when Jodie told us she was dating you and who your dad was. Shit, don’t think for a moment that we didn’t know it was unfair to think like that, I mean, we’re good people, we don’t have prejudices against anybody. Doesn’t matter who you are, you’re good to us, we like you. Could be anybody—hell, even gay people. But, well, you don’t imagine your daughter growing up and being with somebody whose father is a serial killer. And before you judge me on—”

“I don’t judge you. I understand. I’ve lived with it my entire life.”

“I know you have, son, and you don’t deserve it. But it is what it is, and you’ll go through it in ten years or more when Sam is old enough to date. Truth be told, I think we would have been fearful no matter who Jodie brought home. It took some getting used to, with your dad’s past and everything, but I want you to know how proud we are of you, and we love you and we know how happy you made Jodie, and we have a granddaughter who means the world to us. We wouldn’t have that precious little girl if you’d never met our Jodie.”

I take another sip of beer, following his thought process, wondering if he chose those words specifically and hoping he didn’t. He’s saying they wouldn’t have Sam if it wasn’t for me. But he’s also saying they’d still have Jodie.

“I wanted to let you know how much we believe in you,” he says. “And that, well, we don’t blame you for what happened. We know how, how you called out, how you tried to stop them from shooting that woman.”

“Jodie would still be alive if I hadn’t.”

He doesn’t answer for about twenty seconds. Just keeps working away at his beer. He wipes at his mouth and turns toward me. “I know,” he says. “Don’t think that I don’t know that. And part of me, part of me is angry at you for that. Part of me thinks if you’d kept your mouth shut, none of this would be happening.”

“I—”

“Let me finish,” he says.

“But—”

“Please,” he says, and holds his hand up. “You were doing the right thing. Me, in that situation, I don’t know what I’d have done. Maybe nothing. I’d have been a coward and let that woman get shot, most probably. But you stood up. You didn’t know you were risking Jodie—all you knew was you were risking yourself. You did a good thing, but part of me is always going to hate you for that, Eddie, and I can’t help that.”