through, burying their baby, sending her on ahead to wait for them. And not because of an accident, or an illness. Because of someone else, someone who quite possibly could put their hand on their shoulder today, comment on how wonderful their baby was and say how sorry they are for their loss.
A few younger people get out from the back of the car, brothers, cousins maybe. I’m sure I’ll find out once the service starts. I was so caught up with having my own baby I didn’t pay much attention to the details been spoken around Vicky’s murder and the family left behind.
The cortège slowly enters the church. A lone piper plays Vicky up the aisle. Her mother’s step buckles once or twice. My heart is aching for her. What she is going through, burying a child, should never happen. Is she thinking this was not the way she imagined Vicky making this journey? She should be in a white dress, her gallant hero glancing back in his bow tie at the top of the altar. Not this. Not a wooden coffin.
Noel and Abbie manage to shuffle into the pew beside Conor and me. People stand in every space they can find. The churchyard must be full with the overflow. Olive is in the row in front of me, head bent, a tissue dabbing her eyes. I’ve never had a best friend die. It must be really sad for her.
When the service gets underway, I think of little Shay and what he’s doing now. Is he asleep? Drinking his bottle? I hope to God Amanda isn’t swinging him again. What if he fell? What if he hit his head on that low beam over the island? Panic is rising inside me, but I must control it. Taking Conor’s hand, I close my eyes and attempt to pull myself together.
The service is long, just like I expected it to be. The priest talks about the tragedy but also about the wonderful person Vicky Murphy was to so many people. He talks about her intelligence, her beauty, her kindness, everything that no one probably mentioned when she was alive.
To my right, I can just about make out Georgina sniffling into a tissue. She doesn’t believe the killer was an outsider, she believes it was a local. In the seat behind her Maggie sits tall, head in the air, eyes concentrating below the peak of a navy hat. Maggie has outfits for everything – a glamourous woman, with expensive tastes. She catches me looking at her before turning her stare back to the altar.
The priest asks everyone to take a moment’s silence and the church sounds like it has emptied out; not a thing can be heard, not even a cough. Then there is a ringing sound, a mobile… someone’s mobile phone is ringing, it’s close by. Whose could it be? No one dares check. The silence is broken for a second time by the priest asking everyone to be seated.
‘Switch off your bloody phone,’ Conor whispers.
‘What? That wasn’t me, was it?’
It was. Shit, the ringing came from my bag. Discreetly, I slip my hand in and silence it. I hope no one saw me. Maggie is glancing with a disapproving frown, but she couldn’t possibly know for certain it was mine; it could have been Conor’s, or anyone’s sitting nearby. I don’t have a personalised ring tone. If she asks, I’m going to tell her it was Conor’s.
Then I feel a bolt of fear. Who had called? It had to have been Amanda; something dreadful has happened or she wouldn’t have rung me. My heart almost stops. I reach into the bag and take out the phone. I stifle a sigh and take a deep breath. The number is unknown to me, not Amanda’s.
‘Put that away.’ Conor’s whisper has an edge of anger to it. I shove the phone into my pocket and whisper back that I thought something might be up with Shay.
‘Switch it off.’
He turns his head towards the altar, and I’m left sitting here feeling like a twat. Does he not understand? I thought it was about Shay, his son. Would he rather I didn’t care? That I ignored the call, rather than embarrass him in front of his army of worshippers? Maybe Conor should be on the altar.
Turning away from him, I glance at Abbie who’s sitting beside me. There’s a smile hiding below her expression and she winks at me. Thankfully someone supports me.