small, sad-looking woman wrapped inside a pale green overcoat, grey hair spilling out from beneath a matching woollen hat. Bryce watched her through guilty eyes as she shuffled a few yards away, a posy of flowers clutched to her chest, a large handbag dangling from a bony hand, as she waited patiently for Bryce to finish. He winced with embarrassment.
Despite the cold it was a beautiful day. A late September sun shone in the sky, a cobalt-blue dome that stretched from horizon to horizon, randomly dotted with tiny cotton-wool clouds. Closer to earth, birds flitted across an untidy mix of tilting headstones and cheerless stone angels, and dead leaves tumbled and scraped along the path, piling around his feet before scattering on a gusting breeze. It was only on days like these that Bryce visited, days when the sun shone. It was a poor excuse for his less than regular visitations, but he truly hated winter here, the cemetery ringed by lifeless trees, damp soil under leaden skies, the depressing Victorian spectacle of organised bereavement. How he wished that Lizzie’s family had opted for cremation.
He glanced toward the old woman again. Still she waited. He waved at the bodyguard to let her through, after which she had to suffer the indignity of having her bag searched. Bryce watched her as she walked stiffly towards a nearby grave, changing the flowers that wilted in a small vase. The memorial was a basic arrangement, a simple weather-beaten headstone, a border of white gravel littered with dead leaves. A small Union Jack planted at the base trembled in the breeze, and a photograph in a silver frame lay propped against the stone, the soldier’s proud pose faded by time and the elements. Bryce nodded politely to the woman and looked away.
The graves marched down the hill in solemn ranks toward a distant line of poplars that bordered the cemetery. Dozens more flags caught his eye, adorning the headstones of soldiers killed in the meat grinder that was Afghanistan. He shivered, burying his chin deep inside the cashmere folds of his overcoat.
And what had it all been for, anyway? Despite the continued presence of the United Nations, the Afghanis had returned to their feudal existence, the Mullahs once again ruling from the ruins of Kabul, the provinces carved up amongst the warlords, the poppy fields thriving. And the drugs continued to pour into the west, an unstoppable tide of misery that plagued Europe in ever more inventive chemical manifestations. It was just one more problem to be tackled, a growing list that was rapidly piling up outside Bryce’s door. A drum began to beat behind his forehead and Bryce pinched the bridge of his nose to stem the growing headache.
He stared at Lizzie’s headstone and whispered: ‘Where are you when I need you, love?’ She never answered, of course. Lizzie had been dead for over four years now, and in truth she’d been his only real friend, a true companion. She was always at his side, beautiful, smart as hell, a pressure valve when things got tough. Bryce often joked that she should of been PM instead of him, but now there was no-one to laugh with, no-one to confide in, to lay down by his side. He was the leader of a nation of seventy million inhabitants, surrounded by advisors, ministers and bodyguards – and yet he was alone. He still wasn’t ready to meet anyone else, to endure the awkward first dates, to discuss Lizzie with another woman, to live with the guilt of never visiting this bleak cemetery again. It still seemed too soon.
He glanced to his right where the woman sat on the next bench, handbag resting on her lap. Bryce got to his feet and approached her, hovering a short distance away. The woman turned, raising a hand to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight.
‘Good morning.’ Bryce gestured to the bench. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Please,’ the woman replied, inching further along. She was well-spoken, in that bland, Home Counties Way, and subconsciously Bryce
Despite the cold it was a beautiful day. A late September sun shone in the sky, a cobalt-blue dome that stretched from horizon to horizon, randomly dotted with tiny cotton-wool clouds. Closer to earth, birds flitted across an untidy mix of tilting headstones and cheerless stone angels, and dead leaves tumbled and scraped along the path, piling around his feet before scattering on a gusting breeze. It was only on days like these that Bryce visited, days when the sun shone. It was a poor excuse for his less than regular visitations, but he truly hated winter here, the cemetery ringed by lifeless trees, damp soil under leaden skies, the depressing Victorian spectacle of organised bereavement. How he wished that Lizzie’s family had opted for cremation.
He glanced toward the old woman again. Still she waited. He waved at the bodyguard to let her through, after which she had to suffer the indignity of having her bag searched. Bryce watched her as she walked stiffly towards a nearby grave, changing the flowers that wilted in a small vase. The memorial was a basic arrangement, a simple weather-beaten headstone, a border of white gravel littered with dead leaves. A small Union Jack planted at the base trembled in the breeze, and a photograph in a silver frame lay propped against the stone, the soldier’s proud pose faded by time and the elements. Bryce nodded politely to the woman and looked away.
The graves marched down the hill in solemn ranks toward a distant line of poplars that bordered the cemetery. Dozens more flags caught his eye, adorning the headstones of soldiers killed in the meat grinder that was Afghanistan. He shivered, burying his chin deep inside the cashmere folds of his overcoat.
And what had it all been for, anyway? Despite the continued presence of the United Nations, the Afghanis had returned to their feudal existence, the Mullahs once again ruling from the ruins of Kabul, the provinces carved up amongst the warlords, the poppy fields thriving. And the drugs continued to pour into the west, an unstoppable tide of misery that plagued Europe in ever more inventive chemical manifestations. It was just one more problem to be tackled, a growing list that was rapidly piling up outside Bryce’s door. A drum began to beat behind his forehead and Bryce pinched the bridge of his nose to stem the growing headache.
He stared at Lizzie’s headstone and whispered: ‘Where are you when I need you, love?’ She never answered, of course. Lizzie had been dead for over four years now, and in truth she’d been his only real friend, a true companion. She was always at his side, beautiful, smart as hell, a pressure valve when things got tough. Bryce often joked that she should of been PM instead of him, but now there was no-one to laugh with, no-one to confide in, to lay down by his side. He was the leader of a nation of seventy million inhabitants, surrounded by advisors, ministers and bodyguards – and yet he was alone. He still wasn’t ready to meet anyone else, to endure the awkward first dates, to discuss Lizzie with another woman, to live with the guilt of never visiting this bleak cemetery again. It still seemed too soon.
He glanced to his right where the woman sat on the next bench, handbag resting on her lap. Bryce got to his feet and approached her, hovering a short distance away. The woman turned, raising a hand to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight.
‘Good morning.’ Bryce gestured to the bench. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Please,’ the woman replied, inching further along. She was well-spoken, in that bland, Home Counties Way, and subconsciously Bryce
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