At the funeral, 14

more than twenty years it could have been yesterday when i saw you last i have changed underground you would hardly know me it was my fault my fault you should have known about john before you married him i swear i thought it was over he was done he did too he would not have dragged you into it nor paxton never her it’s time i can’t bring myself to do it catherine she’s innocent of our world she knows nothing no matter how experienced jaded she thinks she is experienced in the ways of magic we know better better and worse i’m so sorry so sorry so wish you were still here you could have told her yourself sent her to me you drag me into the light who will guard while i am gone you know what happened last time i must have her blood now that you are gone there’s no one else it must be hers to mend the lock and now now i must speak to her not the right time not any right time was months ago when you knew you were dying catherine why didn’t you tell her say something do you expect her to believe it coming from a madman she won’t remember me you would hardly know me i am so changed my reflection i reach out to touch the man is broken and starved of life love it was my fault my fault catherine why have you gone why didn’t you why is that you shining from my mind’s shadow are you here can i go back to the darkness should i should i can’t breathe are you speaking are you screaming can you hear me catherine you should have passed on you should be beyond there is your daughter she would listen if you spoke there is a ghost woman who will hear you what’s wrong with catherine please stop it hurts please ah no does he have you catherine does he know his mistress has she seduced tricked offered him the world like the devil she would make the devil weep don’t leave me here catherine please don’t go please don’t please


Weeping solves nothing. The girl is leaving and there’s no better time than now. She’ll feel safe with her friends and that big son of a bitch she was with is gone. If she gets in that car and drives away I’m fucked. The only thing I’m good for anyway is making sure no one else gets to the end of the tunnel because if they do, I can’t do a goddamned thing to keep them out of her hands. The bitch. The whore. The foul stinking hell-cunt. If I ever meet John Hollister in another life, he’ll die by inches for this living nightmare, bosom friend or not.

One step after another after another. Not that hard after all, and each step brings me closer to some small measure of relief. I can’t be the only one to keep her locked up. I’m not enough. Catherine's daughter has to help.

A large hand grabs my arm to stop me and I shake it off, no more hesitation, absit reverentia vero, by God, but the hand clamps down again and squeezes. I turn and raise my eyes to another big son of a bitch and wish not for the first time that my father had been as tall as John Hollister.

“Do I know you?” he says, and I recognize the voice of Authority. He's a cop.

“I doubt it,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“Did you know Mrs. Hollister?”

“Yes,” I say, then “No. Not really.”

“Then what are you doing here, if I can ask?”

“You can't,” I say. The girl is leaving the tent now, surrounded by her friends and going to the long silver limousine that waits to take her wherever she's going from here. I wish to hell I knew where that was.

“Hey, look. I just need to ask you a couple of questions. You're not in trouble.”

“I have to go,” I say, and start away towards the group. The girl disappears into the car, followed by two more, but the older ones head towards the parking lot. If I run I can catch them, but I doubt they'll stop the car to talk to a dirty bum, no matter how calm I am, and I'm not feeling calm at the moment. I'm feeling that if I could, I'd knock this big fuck's block off.

Still, I try. I break into a lope that triggers piercing pain in my knees but I don't stop. The man is behind me, keeping up, but not stopping me. When I was young, I ran cross-country, but that body has disappeared into the tunnels and there's only this poor specimen left. I am fighting for breath in a matter of seconds. I am not surprised that I fall on my face, but I am surprised that the cop helps me up.

“Hey,” he says in a tone that doesn't sound like it comes from a cop's mouth, “No need for that. Here,” he says, and hands me a soft old-fashioned handkerchief. I clean the snot and tears off my face, and he says, “Keep it.”

“Thank you,” I say, watching the limousine drive slowly towards the cemetery gates.

“How do you know Paxton?” the cop says, suspicion creeping in the back door of his voice.

“I don't,” I say, with perfect honesty.

“Then what -”

“Thanks for the handkerchief,” I say, and walk away, to the footpath that leads to the pedestrian gate on Booth Avenue. There's a subway stop there, and just now I am longing to sit on a train, close my eyes, and, more than anything, pretend that I don't exist.

He doesn't follow. I don't care why.