The day of the funeral was dull but dry, the sky a grey, wool blanket trapping the air which smelt of steel. Outside the church a crowd of reporters with cameras filmed everyone arriving. They kept a distance, behind the railings across the road, and they were quiet, though there was the click and flash and ding and sizzle as they took their pictures. The church was full, people standing at the back, and folding chairs brought out to create extra rows behind the pews. As people arrived there were greetings, men shaking hands and hugging each other, acquaintances waving, people who hadn’t met at the nine nights smiling in surprise and recognition. Cheryl’s heart kicked when she saw Vinia and her mother: had Carlton come? Of course not, he’d be a fool to do that for all his front.
Cheryl, Nana and Milo were three rows back, behind the immediate family who would follow the coffin into church. Above the altar hung a huge banner, a picture of Danny. It wasn’t a formal one, not a school photo or a pose from a family wedding, but something more relaxed. As if someone had just caught the moment: Danny, his head tilted a little, his eyes alive with merriment, his smile wide and open. The life in him! Danny Martin Macateer, read the words beneath in black edged with gold, 1993-2009. It brought a lump to Cheryl’s throat, it hurt to swallow.
‘Who took the picture?’ she asked Nana, who’d been party to many of the arrangements.
‘Nadine.’
Cheryl wondered what it was like to lose a twin. Had they shared that special bond you read about? When Danny was shot, had Nadine felt it? Or sensed something really bad was going down? She’d been in church at the time, had she turned dizzy or felt a spike of pain pierce her heart?
Music started up, some piano sounding sweet and low, and the procession came down the central aisle. Reverend James and then Danny’s coffin, a huge bouquet on top, yellow roses, white lilies, green ferns and golden dahlias. The family followed and slid into their places. Cheryl could see Nadine’s back, the arch of her neck, the shape of her head, so like her brother’s.
There were prayers from the Reverend and readings from the Bible then testimonials. People queued up to speak about the boy, to make jokes, and share memories, read poems and quotes. Mr Gaunt, Danny’s music teacher, spoke and Mr Throstle the school head whose voice wavered towards the end of his praises. Danny’s uncle and his cousin took a turn, then another cousin. Danny’s band played a song he’d written, the little guy on the drums, his eyes red from weeping. Bobby Carr, the community leader, spoke about the peril that stalked the streets and the need for hope and vision, the need to take the guns from the hands of the boys who were lost and brutalized and deadly and give them work, hope, life. He promised Danny Macateer should not die in vain. Cheryl clamped her teeth tight together and felt the acid rise behind her breastbone, the sweat prickle around the edge of her hair.