had been a good boy. One of his best. Harrison's appraisal of his brother's character had done little to relieve the pain which Carter felt. A pain which, after the death of his father, he had not thought he would ever experience again. But now, standing at the graveside, he felt that same hurt and it was all the more acute because of his realization that he was now completely alone.
He had no one.
He glanced briefly across at Tina who was looking down at the grass beneath her feet.
No, he had no one.
When the time came, the priest approached him and led him towards the graveside, allowing him to peer down at the polished coffin.
Persuading him to throw in the first handful of earth.
Carter felt, for one ridiculous moment, like a child who had won some kind of fairground competition.
`Go on, sonny, you can be the first one to throw dirt on your brothers coffin. Go on, just get a handful and throw it in'.
He bent and scraped up some earth, hesitated a second and then dropped it in.
Bullseye, he thought as the dirt hit the brass nameplate.
Anything from the top shelf.
Carter smiled to himself. Perhaps he was going slightly crazy. Perhaps the pain-killers that the doctors had given him were making him high. Or perhaps he merely couldn't stand the solemnity of the occasion any longer. Fuck it, he thought, stepping back. Jim was dead and all the weeping and wailing in the world couldn't bring him back to life.
Harrison stepped forward and added his own handful of earth to that already scattered on the coffin lid.
The gang boss stood with his back to Carter who looked across at Tina once more and found that, this time, her eyes were on him.
They exchanged a brief glance, aware of Harrison's men all around them. They could afford no tell-tale flicker of emotion in those fleeting looks. She gave him a thin, brief smile and he nodded almost imperceptibly in return.
The other members of the firm filed past the coffin, one or two of them crossing themselves.
Jim had been well-liked by his companions and Carter was gratified to see that there were almost two dozen of them present. Each moved dutifully past the grave, head bowed in reverence until Carter was left alone on one side of the yawning maw. The priest looked at him and then turned to Harrison but the gang boss merely shook his head, motioning for the priest to leave the graveside, to leave Carter alone.
Tina hesitated for a moment but Harrison gripped her hand and guided her away.
She chanced a quick look back as they walked to the waiting cars and saw Carter standing close to the grave looking down into it, as if in silent conversation with his dead brother.
With the wind whistling around him, he stood for what seemed like an eternity, gazing down into the hole, fighting back tears of both rage and grief.
Then, finally, he turned and strode back towards the waiting cortège.
Behind him, the birds began singing in the trees.
Carter held the black suit before him on the hanger, plucking a stray hair from the collar. Then he opened the wardrobe door and replaced it among his other clothes.
Harrison had told him to take the rest of the day off despite the fact that Carter didn't much feel like being cooped up inside his flat alone after the funeral. He returned to the small dwelling in Finsbury, showered and then went for a walk.
His seemingly aimless ramblings took him back towards Islington, towards the street where he and his brother had lived most of their lives but when he reached the street he hesitated and turned back, wandering home again. He spent the evening in front of the TV and dropped off to sleep, a bottle of vodka beside him, a glass gripped in his hand.
By the time he woke the sun had fallen behind the jagged skyline of the capital, flooding the twilight sky with crimson, until the heavens resembled a floor cloth soaked in blood. And with the evening came a chill.
Carter pulled on a sweatshirt. He'd jammed the Smith and Wesson 9mm in
He had no one.
He glanced briefly across at Tina who was looking down at the grass beneath her feet.
No, he had no one.
When the time came, the priest approached him and led him towards the graveside, allowing him to peer down at the polished coffin.
Persuading him to throw in the first handful of earth.
Carter felt, for one ridiculous moment, like a child who had won some kind of fairground competition.
`Go on, sonny, you can be the first one to throw dirt on your brothers coffin. Go on, just get a handful and throw it in'.
He bent and scraped up some earth, hesitated a second and then dropped it in.
Bullseye, he thought as the dirt hit the brass nameplate.
Anything from the top shelf.
Carter smiled to himself. Perhaps he was going slightly crazy. Perhaps the pain-killers that the doctors had given him were making him high. Or perhaps he merely couldn't stand the solemnity of the occasion any longer. Fuck it, he thought, stepping back. Jim was dead and all the weeping and wailing in the world couldn't bring him back to life.
Harrison stepped forward and added his own handful of earth to that already scattered on the coffin lid.
The gang boss stood with his back to Carter who looked across at Tina once more and found that, this time, her eyes were on him.
They exchanged a brief glance, aware of Harrison's men all around them. They could afford no tell-tale flicker of emotion in those fleeting looks. She gave him a thin, brief smile and he nodded almost imperceptibly in return.
The other members of the firm filed past the coffin, one or two of them crossing themselves.
Jim had been well-liked by his companions and Carter was gratified to see that there were almost two dozen of them present. Each moved dutifully past the grave, head bowed in reverence until Carter was left alone on one side of the yawning maw. The priest looked at him and then turned to Harrison but the gang boss merely shook his head, motioning for the priest to leave the graveside, to leave Carter alone.
Tina hesitated for a moment but Harrison gripped her hand and guided her away.
She chanced a quick look back as they walked to the waiting cars and saw Carter standing close to the grave looking down into it, as if in silent conversation with his dead brother.
With the wind whistling around him, he stood for what seemed like an eternity, gazing down into the hole, fighting back tears of both rage and grief.
Then, finally, he turned and strode back towards the waiting cortège.
Behind him, the birds began singing in the trees.
Carter held the black suit before him on the hanger, plucking a stray hair from the collar. Then he opened the wardrobe door and replaced it among his other clothes.
Harrison had told him to take the rest of the day off despite the fact that Carter didn't much feel like being cooped up inside his flat alone after the funeral. He returned to the small dwelling in Finsbury, showered and then went for a walk.
His seemingly aimless ramblings took him back towards Islington, towards the street where he and his brother had lived most of their lives but when he reached the street he hesitated and turned back, wandering home again. He spent the evening in front of the TV and dropped off to sleep, a bottle of vodka beside him, a glass gripped in his hand.
By the time he woke the sun had fallen behind the jagged skyline of the capital, flooding the twilight sky with crimson, until the heavens resembled a floor cloth soaked in blood. And with the evening came a chill.
Carter pulled on a sweatshirt. He'd jammed the Smith and Wesson 9mm in
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