The Arms of Morpheus

Chapter 6

Cedar Hill Cemetery, Suffolk County, New York - One week later.

The British Airways flight from London had been dreadful. A six-hour delay followed by problems in customs meant Noel had almost missed the funeral. After touchdown at John F. Kennedy airport he had just enough time to locate his hotel, shower and catch a taxi for the one-hour journey to the cemetery.

Situated on high ground, South of Port Jefferson, Cedar Hill cemetery had seen a wide range of internments in its 150-year history; poets and politicians, actors and villains. Some famous, some infamous. But Noel was not here to visit them. He was here to pay his last respects to his friend.

The NYPD had released the body of Fraser Gilchrist days before. After taking DNA swabs, photographs and conducting as many medical tests as the coroner needed, they allowed his body to be buried, indicating they would exhume his remains if they needed to.

Noel turned his face from the biting wind, feeling the first drops of light rain, watching as it speckled the white headstones of the countless deceased. He made his way towards the gathering of mourners assembled near the brow of the hill.

As he ascended, he heard the faint mumbling of the priest talking to the congregation; offering support before the funeral rites began. Occasionally, a sob could be heard; the grief of friends and relatives, lamenting their loss. He had arrived just in time.

Positioning himself respectfully at the back of the group, Noel listened, his head bowed. He was not a religious man – not any more - but he respected the rights of others to be. He knew Fraser was a Roman Catholic, a religion he knew intimately, and so prepared for a protracted ceremony. He was not disappointed.

Roman Catholic burials have three distinct phases. Thankfully, he had missed the first two: the vigil for the deceased and the funeral mass. These were conducted in church; a place he had abstained from for over 20 years. He stood now at the third stage: the rite of committal. The act of physically placing the body into the ground, praying for both the salvation of the soul and for comfort for those left behind. At least this was the shortest part.

Clutching a large, black bible with an inlaid gold cross, the priest began.

'Merciful Lord, you know the anguish of the sorrowful. You are attentive to the prayers of the humble. Hear your people as they cry out to you in their need.'

Listening to the words Noel grimaced, remembering his religious upbringing in Ireland. No matter how comforting they sounded or how articulate the orator, they remained what they were; just words written by men.

The ceremony lasted a little over 20 minutes. To Noel, it felt more like an hour. The old priest left the gathering of mourners, heading back to the lost sheep of his congregation. On this cue, the majority of well-wishers had departed, offering their condolences to Clarissa Gilchrist before they left. Now, as the wind subsided, offering the mourners relief from its onslaught, a small group of relatives and close friends remained.

Noel walked towards the group as they stared wistfully into the hole in the ground. Now that the throng had abated, his footsteps were easily heard.

Clarissa looked up, recognising him immediately; a sad smile surfacing from the despair of her grieving face.

'Noel, I am so glad you could make it', she offered him her hands, which he gripped firmly, 'I really am.'

Her face collapsed and she fell, despairingly into his arms. He held her, desperately trying to ease her suffering. She wept forcefully, her body shaking; cleaving his heart in two.