Fog drifted lazily through the dark streets of London, appearing to have no purpose other than to obscure the dark alleyways even more. The tall clock in the middle of the city chimed ten, though it seemed there was no one there to hear it. But wait—a black shape appeared in the distance, and in a few minutes it was recognizable as a man in a long raincoat. The collar was flipped up to his ears, and a black felt hat sat atop his head. He walked quickly, with the air of one who was not quite sure whether or not he was doing the right thing. Once, he stopped, turned around and started back the way he had come, but then stopped again, turned again, and continued the way he had been going in the first place, shaking his head If anyone was listening intently, he could hear him muttering to himself, the word 'reunion' being the most prevalent.

Farther along the street, a brightly lit bar sat on the corner, and it was here that the man stopped his walk. He raised his hand, as if to knock, then shook his head again and opened the door. A small bell rang, signaling his arrival to the bartender, alone in the room.

"Hullo, Ralph," commented the bartender, as he put down the glass he had been polishing. "I wasn't sure you were coming."

"I almost stopped, twice," Ralph replied, hanging his coat on the hook by the door.

"Why'd'ya come, then?"

"I don't know. I'm still used to being leader, I guess."

"Huh."

Ralph took a casual seat in front of the bartender, and cocked his head to the side. "You know, when you called to say we were all going to get together, I was angry at first."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know. I guess I still felt like you were calling a… an assembly."

The bartender laughed, scratching his red head. "20 years later. Maybe we're all messed up, y'know?"

Ralph didn't say anything, just sat at the bar. There was a silence for a few minutes, as the bartender returned to polishing his glass, but then Ralph spoke.

"Did you invite everyone?"

"As many as I could. Some littluns, some biguns."

There was another pause as Ralph considered this information. "Who's coming?"

"I'm not quite sure."

The dimly lit bar was silent again, as Ralph picked up a newspaper and the bartender picked up a new glass. A clock ticked away in the corner, each second predictable and solid.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

What if no one was coming? Ralph thought to himself. What if they were all gone? –dead, or moved away? What if—

Dingdingding.

Ralph glanced up from his paper quickly as a blast of cold air gusted through the open door. Two men in matching raincoats entered, one with scars on his face. Confused, Ralph cocked his head. "Sam? Eric?"

Sam hung up his coat. "Yeah. Long time no see, Ralph."

Ralph knew it was rude to stare – he himself had been the object of many curious glances once he came home. He could not keep his eyes from the pale lines marring his friend's face, though. "Eric? How did you do that?" he asked. As soon as the words left his lips, he remembered…

"The beast followed us—"

"I saw it slinking behind the trees—"

"Nearly touched me—"

Ralph pointed fearfully at Eric's face, which was striped with scars where the bushes had torn him.

"How did you do that?"

Eric felt his face.

"I'm all rough. Am I bleeding?"

Eric touched his right cheek gently, the web-like scars barely visible in the dingy light of the bar. He seemed about to answer but Sam, quickly turning the subject away from a matter none were comfortable with, asked the bartender, "Jack? Is that you?"

The bartender glanced at him sardonically.

"The name of the bar is 'Merridew's."

"Right." Samneric sat down, choosing the stools farthest from Jack. This fact was not lost on him, and he began polishing his glass with renewed vigor. Ralph watched him, bored, and then changed the subject again when the glass seemed to be in mortal peril from Jack and his rag. "Why'd'ya call us all here, Jack?"

The rag slowed its circular motion, and there was a dull thunk as the glass was set down on the counter.

"I… wanted…. Let's wait till everyone gets here."

At that moment, the cold air blew through once again as if on cue, and a group of five men in their late twenties entered the room, joking with each other and lightening the mood considerably. They introduced themselves as Francis, Piers, Michael, Neville, and Donald. Ralph decided that they must have been littluns, because he didn't remember anyone by those names on the island.

The talk turned to the island, as they knew it inevitably would. "Do you remember the log?" asked Francis. Oh yes, Ralph remembered that unbalanced log.

On the left were four small logs, one of them—the farthest—lamentably springy. Assembly after assembly had broken up in laughter when someone had leaned too far back and the log had whipped and thrown half a dozen boys backwards into the grass. Yet now, he saw, no one had had the wit—not himself nor Jack, nor Piggy—to bring a stone and wedge the thing.

Ralph groaned loudly, trying to dispel the memories. "Why did we put up with that stupid thing?"

Everyone laughed. Sam adopted a semi-serious tone and a teacher-like stare, "Now, now, Ralph, we were just children." He ruined the effect by giggling a little at the end.

"That doesn't mean we had to put up with it."

Donald mimicked being flung by the log, and the room erupted into laughter again.

The wind blew through again, bringing with it a chill deeper than the temperature. They all turned their heads to see the new arrival, but they didn't have to.

"Hello," said Roger, taking off his black wool coat. The silence in the room was audible, and when Ralph's bar stool squeaked, everyone flinched.

Roger's black eyes gazed solemnly at them from under dark bushy eyebrows. His black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, bringing back the memories.

He stood halfway along the neck and gazed at the savages intently. Freed by the paint, they had tied their hair back and were more comfortable than he was. Ralph made a resolution to tie his back afterwards.

Ralph self-consciously ran a hand over his buzz cut. Roger said nothing, but sat down at a booth in the corner. Gradually, the talk resumed. More men trickled in, some of whom Ralph remembered, and some whom he did not. He stood up from his stool and made his way around the room, greeting others and being greeted himself. Here was Wilfred, as far away from the man behind the counter as he could get. There were Henry and Fredrick, who had struck up a friendship in the past five minutes, and were talking like they'd known each other for years. A few yards away were Percival, Robin, Johnny, and Digby, the four youngest of the group.

"Hullo, Ralph," said a voice behind him. A well-built man with dark hair and light blue eyes smiled as Ralph jerked around, startled.

"Oh, it's you. Hullo, Maurice."

"I just wanted to ask if you knew why Jack invited us here."

"Nope. He said he'd tell us when everyone was here."

Maurice glanced around. "Looks like just about everyone to me."

Jack's voice rang through the crowded room. "Hullo, everyone."

The talking slowly died down.

"I'm calling an assembly!"

Everyone laughed. Ralph pursed his lips and sighed, annoyed that Jack had stolen his idea.

"No, really, I just wanted to… to say…" Jack stopped.

Everyone waited, listening for the one thing that made Jack uncomfortable.

"Piggy," he forced out, as everyone had known he would. Roger sat in the corner, his face impassive. Jack lowered his eyes, looking at the water-stained wood, but not really seeing it. "I know that… he…"

Jack raised his head again, his reddish bangs falling into his eyes. "Piggy died, because we were too far gone to realize what we were doing. Every time I close my eyes, the image of him comes back, stronger and stronger."

…the only whiteness here was the slow, spilled milk, luminous round the rock forty feet below, where Piggy had fallen. Piggy was everywhere, was on this neck, was become terrible in darkness and death.

Jack bit his lip. "And, I know it's not entirely my fault…" Everyone turned to look at Roger, who gave no notice that he even knew Jack had been talking, "…but I still want to do something for him."

Robert stepped up. "So he talked to me." All eyes were instantly on the new speaker, and Jack sank back against the wall with relief. "I did a little bit of research because, if you remember, there wasn't anybody to collect Piggy once we finally were back in England."

There were small noises of surprise and embarrassment, which was just to be expected. All had been too preoccupied with their own parents and families to notice those of a dead boy.

"So, I went back to our school, and talked to a couple of the teachers, and the principal. Eventually, I found out something." He paused, for effect. Ralph nearly groaned at all the drama.

"Piggy was an orphan."

"What's your father?"

Piggy flushed suddenly.

"My dad's dead," he said quickly, "and my mum—"

Ralph made a noise of disgust. "Well, we already knew that. He was always going on about that auntie of his."

Robert stopped him with a raised finger. "Ah, but was he? I found out that Piggy lived in an orphanage in West London, not in a candy shop like he told us."

He took off his glasses and looked vainly for something with which to clean them.

"I used to live with my auntie. She kept a candy store. I used to get ever so many candies. As many as I liked. When'll your dad rescue us?"

"What this all means," Jack added in, "is that Piggy doesn't have a grave."

Robert continued the story. "The orphanage heard he was dead on an island, and didn't have enough money to pay for the burial of a nonexistent body. So, there's no headstone or anything."

"And what do you propose we do?" Ralph asked, touched that Jack would think of something like this.

"We bury Piggy."

Before anyone could object to the ridiculousness (or excessive drama, in Ralph's case) of this statement, Jack reached under the counter and lifted out a pair of small black glasses, the left glass smashed beyond repair.

The room was deadly silent as all remembered Piggy, and the ever-present specs; useful, horrible, and eternal. "I kept them," Jack whispered.

He led the group outside, where a small plot of land served as a sort of backyard for the bar. Most of it was just dirt and trash, but a square about a foot in each direction had been grassed over, and a small headstone stood at the top. Jack handed the specs to Ralph, without saying anything.

Ralph took the cue, and made his way to the little grave. He knelt down, dropped the pair of glasses into the small dirt hole, and then covered them up. He felt like he should say something, but he didn't know what. Instead, he read the headstone in silence.

It seemed that Jack hadn't known was to say either, for only three simple words and a drawing were inscribed in the stone.

Here Lies Piggy