none of them was that stupid.
As the sky continued to lighten the four of them drifted away from the cliffs, heading back into town, to their beds, ready to spend the whole of Sunday recovering. They split at the bottom of the High Street, David and Gary heading west, Neil and Colin going north, waving sloppy goodbyes to each other, half arranging to meet up the next night for a quiet Sunday pint. The gulls were out in force, squawking and diving for carry-out food scattered up the High Street. It was the last time David ever saw Colin. When he got home he crawled into bed, fantasizing about a girl he’d been chatting up that night (was it Nicola? He couldn’t remember now) and already thinking about a fry-up for breakfast.
He was woken at eleven by a phone call. It was the police telling him that Colin had been found dead at the bottom of the cliffs. He was hungover and still drunk, and he didn’t really get it at first. Yes, they’d been to the cliffs, he told the officer, but they’d all left and gone home, and Colin was fine. No, he didn’t know what time that was, but it was getting light. Yes, they had joked about jumping off, but it was just a joke, and no, Colin hadn’t seemed depressed, what the hell was he implying? Suicide? No fucking way. David was probably his best friend, but he was friendly with everyone, charming, clever, fit, funny, happy – all the other positive things you could think of. It was not suicide. David couldn’t make sense of it. What the hell was Colin doing back there after they’d left? He just couldn’t get his head round it.
He phoned Neil, who sounded even more hungover and shocked than he did. Neil confirmed they’d just headed home, and he’d said goodbye to Colin five minutes after they’d left David and Gary. It didn’t make any sense. It just didn’t add up. He couldn’t work it out at all. He hung up, went back to bed and lay there for a very long time, his head pounding, his mind whirring in confusion and his body shaking from the hangover and the shock.
There was an inquiry into the incident which came back with death by misadventure, whatever that was supposed to mean. Colin had a high level of alcohol in his blood, but the same would’ve been true of any of the four of them, of anyone between the ages of fourteen and forty in the whole bloody town on any given Saturday night. David couldn’t understand it – he just wasn’t drunk enough to have fallen accidentally, but there was also no way he would’ve jumped, and nobody would’ve pushed him, the thought was fucking absurd. And what was he doing there? Maybe he’d left something there, or lost something, and he’d gone back to look for it, or he couldn’t sleep and had gone for a walk, a piece of the clifftop giving way under him. You were always hearing scare stories about bits of the cliffs crumbling away, sandstone was notorious for eroding at a fair rate in the onslaught of the sea’s force, so maybe that was it, maybe it was just a stupid accident that could’ve happened to anyone.
David was still puzzling over this and still somehow in shock by the end of the week, and Colin’s funeral. It was the first funeral David had ever been to and with almost unbearably poignant timing it was the day before what would’ve been Colin’s eighteenth birthday. You couldn’t make this shit up, thought David as he trudged the short distance past Keptie High to the Western Cemetery. It was a stupidly hot day, utterly incongruous with the atmosphere of the town, as if the heavens couldn’t believe that this sort of thing could happen and had refused to play ball by providing the appropriate rain and wind and cold. David was sweating as he walked up the hill, feeling like a different person in a borrowed suit, borrowed black tie and school shoes that hadn’t been out the cupboard in a month.
This was the eighties, before Britain had a culture of mass-media mourning, and with school out for the summer
As the sky continued to lighten the four of them drifted away from the cliffs, heading back into town, to their beds, ready to spend the whole of Sunday recovering. They split at the bottom of the High Street, David and Gary heading west, Neil and Colin going north, waving sloppy goodbyes to each other, half arranging to meet up the next night for a quiet Sunday pint. The gulls were out in force, squawking and diving for carry-out food scattered up the High Street. It was the last time David ever saw Colin. When he got home he crawled into bed, fantasizing about a girl he’d been chatting up that night (was it Nicola? He couldn’t remember now) and already thinking about a fry-up for breakfast.
He was woken at eleven by a phone call. It was the police telling him that Colin had been found dead at the bottom of the cliffs. He was hungover and still drunk, and he didn’t really get it at first. Yes, they’d been to the cliffs, he told the officer, but they’d all left and gone home, and Colin was fine. No, he didn’t know what time that was, but it was getting light. Yes, they had joked about jumping off, but it was just a joke, and no, Colin hadn’t seemed depressed, what the hell was he implying? Suicide? No fucking way. David was probably his best friend, but he was friendly with everyone, charming, clever, fit, funny, happy – all the other positive things you could think of. It was not suicide. David couldn’t make sense of it. What the hell was Colin doing back there after they’d left? He just couldn’t get his head round it.
He phoned Neil, who sounded even more hungover and shocked than he did. Neil confirmed they’d just headed home, and he’d said goodbye to Colin five minutes after they’d left David and Gary. It didn’t make any sense. It just didn’t add up. He couldn’t work it out at all. He hung up, went back to bed and lay there for a very long time, his head pounding, his mind whirring in confusion and his body shaking from the hangover and the shock.
There was an inquiry into the incident which came back with death by misadventure, whatever that was supposed to mean. Colin had a high level of alcohol in his blood, but the same would’ve been true of any of the four of them, of anyone between the ages of fourteen and forty in the whole bloody town on any given Saturday night. David couldn’t understand it – he just wasn’t drunk enough to have fallen accidentally, but there was also no way he would’ve jumped, and nobody would’ve pushed him, the thought was fucking absurd. And what was he doing there? Maybe he’d left something there, or lost something, and he’d gone back to look for it, or he couldn’t sleep and had gone for a walk, a piece of the clifftop giving way under him. You were always hearing scare stories about bits of the cliffs crumbling away, sandstone was notorious for eroding at a fair rate in the onslaught of the sea’s force, so maybe that was it, maybe it was just a stupid accident that could’ve happened to anyone.
David was still puzzling over this and still somehow in shock by the end of the week, and Colin’s funeral. It was the first funeral David had ever been to and with almost unbearably poignant timing it was the day before what would’ve been Colin’s eighteenth birthday. You couldn’t make this shit up, thought David as he trudged the short distance past Keptie High to the Western Cemetery. It was a stupidly hot day, utterly incongruous with the atmosphere of the town, as if the heavens couldn’t believe that this sort of thing could happen and had refused to play ball by providing the appropriate rain and wind and cold. David was sweating as he walked up the hill, feeling like a different person in a borrowed suit, borrowed black tie and school shoes that hadn’t been out the cupboard in a month.
This was the eighties, before Britain had a culture of mass-media mourning, and with school out for the summer
Similar Books
