over when there was a commotion in the middle of the pew behind her as someone pushed past several pairs of knees without apology. A slender Indian man wearing a grey, chalk-stripe suit, red woollen gloves and a tightly knotted red scarf appeared in the aisle, stared about him with a wild, almost insane look, and made his way to the front, where he laid his hands on the top of the coffin. He stood for a full minute with his head bowed. Kate moved so she could see him better.
‘Darsh,’ she murmured under her breath. She hadn’t thought of Darsh Darshan for at least a decade. The first time she had seen him was in a church, a scrawny mathematics prodigy who arrived at Oxford on a scholarship and whom she found one dark winter evening sitting in New College chapel in an almost catatonic state. David took him under his wing and saw he was all right.
Without turning, he spoke. ‘In my culture we draw near to death. We hold the dead close and we comfort them on their journey.’ He let his hands drop, looked over his shoulder then turned very slowly. His head was curiously oblong and his hair brushed forward so it curled above a domed, almost bulbous brow. His eyes burned with fierce self-possession that was new to Kate.
‘We are forgetting David,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see that? This is David, lying here! Can any of us doubt our guilt in that fact?’
The congregation looked at each other embarrassed, shrinking in their seats with the English terror of someone making a scene.
‘Even if we shy from death this is no time to forget who David was and what he stood for,’ continued Darsh. ‘David was murdered. No one has used that word but that is the reality of his death. We still don’t know who murdered him, and that is an important fact to remember today.’
The vicar stepped forward, looking flustered. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said. ‘But if you would return to your place now.’
‘I haven’t finished,’ Darsh said quietly, then rubbed his gloved hands. ‘My name is Darsh Darshan and I was a friend of David’s for twenty years. There was no one like him, but more than this simple declaration of his individuality and of my love for him I attest to his courage, his loyalty to high principle and the cause of decency. David played the long game and he was good at it. He was patient and he respected detail. Yet he was no machine. He took his bearings early and stayed true to his course: he knew who he was, where he was at any given moment and where he was heading. He was imperturbable, inspired, unbending, brilliant and funny. You could wish for no greater friend. His mind was truly clear. So often the answer came before your question was out because he had already asked it of himself, and on the rare occasions when he hadn’t thought of the problem, he seized it with a delight that was a pleasure to behold. His brain was remarkable but his character was a glory. Such a man makes you think God is possible.’
He paused and swept the faces in front of him. Although the majority of the congregation were convinced that Darsh was out of his mind, one or two heads were now nodding encouragement in the curious aquarium light that spilled from the stained-glass windows on the south. He placed a hand on the lid of the coffin again and patted it possessively, throwing a smile of recognition up the aisle as though David Eyam’s ghost had stumbled late into the church. Then his eyes drifted to Glenny. ‘And when our friend the minister here says that David understood power . . . Well, yes, sir, you are right. He did. But his purpose was not to have it for himself but to control it, to place obstacles in its way and to set up boundaries to restrain it.’ Kate was not sure that was absolutely true but she nodded. Darsh stopped and walked to within a few feet of the end of the home secretary’s pew and stood in a shaft of light, apparently unaware of the bodyguards who had moved from somewhere behind the
‘Darsh,’ she murmured under her breath. She hadn’t thought of Darsh Darshan for at least a decade. The first time she had seen him was in a church, a scrawny mathematics prodigy who arrived at Oxford on a scholarship and whom she found one dark winter evening sitting in New College chapel in an almost catatonic state. David took him under his wing and saw he was all right.
Without turning, he spoke. ‘In my culture we draw near to death. We hold the dead close and we comfort them on their journey.’ He let his hands drop, looked over his shoulder then turned very slowly. His head was curiously oblong and his hair brushed forward so it curled above a domed, almost bulbous brow. His eyes burned with fierce self-possession that was new to Kate.
‘We are forgetting David,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see that? This is David, lying here! Can any of us doubt our guilt in that fact?’
The congregation looked at each other embarrassed, shrinking in their seats with the English terror of someone making a scene.
‘Even if we shy from death this is no time to forget who David was and what he stood for,’ continued Darsh. ‘David was murdered. No one has used that word but that is the reality of his death. We still don’t know who murdered him, and that is an important fact to remember today.’
The vicar stepped forward, looking flustered. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said. ‘But if you would return to your place now.’
‘I haven’t finished,’ Darsh said quietly, then rubbed his gloved hands. ‘My name is Darsh Darshan and I was a friend of David’s for twenty years. There was no one like him, but more than this simple declaration of his individuality and of my love for him I attest to his courage, his loyalty to high principle and the cause of decency. David played the long game and he was good at it. He was patient and he respected detail. Yet he was no machine. He took his bearings early and stayed true to his course: he knew who he was, where he was at any given moment and where he was heading. He was imperturbable, inspired, unbending, brilliant and funny. You could wish for no greater friend. His mind was truly clear. So often the answer came before your question was out because he had already asked it of himself, and on the rare occasions when he hadn’t thought of the problem, he seized it with a delight that was a pleasure to behold. His brain was remarkable but his character was a glory. Such a man makes you think God is possible.’
He paused and swept the faces in front of him. Although the majority of the congregation were convinced that Darsh was out of his mind, one or two heads were now nodding encouragement in the curious aquarium light that spilled from the stained-glass windows on the south. He placed a hand on the lid of the coffin again and patted it possessively, throwing a smile of recognition up the aisle as though David Eyam’s ghost had stumbled late into the church. Then his eyes drifted to Glenny. ‘And when our friend the minister here says that David understood power . . . Well, yes, sir, you are right. He did. But his purpose was not to have it for himself but to control it, to place obstacles in its way and to set up boundaries to restrain it.’ Kate was not sure that was absolutely true but she nodded. Darsh stopped and walked to within a few feet of the end of the home secretary’s pew and stood in a shaft of light, apparently unaware of the bodyguards who had moved from somewhere behind the
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