The Rebirth of Henry Whittle

THE FUNERAL

The day of Angela's funeral, sixth form is closed. We assemble in the playground, walking in a procession to St Lawrence's. Sitting in a pew, I glance around. It's wrong, these young faces instead of a sea of senior citizens.

The detective's here and she looks at me; not a glance, but a purposeful assessment.

In the front row Angela's parents sit rigidly; their eyes averted from the white coffin. I pick up an 'Order of Mass' pamphlet entitled 'A New Angel in Heaven'. Oh, please! She was the anti-christ.

Mrs Wade gave the Eulogy, it was a complete misrepresentation of Angela.

"She was a guiding light."

No, she fuckin was not.

"A young woman of great promise, a friend to everyone."

No! A bitch to everyone.

My mind is cluttered with negativity. I shouldn't be here; I don't mourn her. Even in death Angela thwarts me. Yet a sadness so deep has settled on me like a second skin and I can't brush it off. I'm being haunted by an eleven-year-old Angela with spindly legs skipping across the playground. My head is running out of space for dead people.

"Life is a glorious gift, one that should not be discarded lightly."

The killer doesn't share Father McIntyre's sentiments. Did Angela's murderer record her last moments; does he rerun them in his mind, like I replay my Mum's death?

"Can we ever know the depth of another's suffering?"

How bad had it been? What had Angela endured while imprisoned? Had he shown mercy and killed her swiftly or been cruel? I hope death was quick.

"All sins shall be forgiven."

No. You can't extinguish a life and be absolved. Thou shall not kill. It's bloody rule number one!

The remainder of the mass is foggy; I'm there but I'm not. It's a small period that I refuse to form into a memory. I don't hang about.

At home, I'm restless, unable to eat or settle down to homework.

He's been in his office all day and evening. I bet his book's bloody boring. I think he's avoiding me until I hear the tv between the floorboards; Match of the Day.

It's a code red; my stomach is cramping aggressively and my bum aches from sitting on floorboards. As mental strain burns behind my eyes, I drop my Physics book into my lap and rub my forehead. I'm totally pissed off; with myself, with him. It had been my turn to cook; partridge! Who even eats partridge? Nobody fucking normal, not in this century. I couldn't face another drama, so I googled - partridge was doable. I'd concentrated on the bird then the mash, whisking it till it was lumpless. I hadn't realised the Brussel sprouts were frozen until, attempting to pierce one, it hurdled off the plate. He'd also found my Peppa Pig knickers in his wash and hung them from the chrome ceiling rack, next to the omelette pan. He's evil. I want to dig up his newly-laid lawn with a spoon and dismantle his house screw, by nut, by fucking bracket...with a chisel.

I plod downstairs, my bloated stomach pushing uncomfortably against my waist band. He stretches on the sofa. He may look relaxed, but this man is alert, he's the ultimate predator. I stomp through the lounge and into the kitchen: opening drawers, banging them shut, running the tap on full, putting frozen fruit in the smoothie maker; that was peak. I sneak a looksy around the arch. He's wearing a white t-shirt and grey trackies, stretched out so casually you'd mistake him for normal. The sofa is custom-made to fit his six-foot something height, his feet are bare as usual, he's on his front, a cushion squeezed tightly beneath his head, his eyes on the football. I throw myself noisily into the armchair opposite and crunch loudly on ice. I decide on the direct approach.