Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.
The poem is 'Funeral Blues' by W.H. Auden. I don't own that either.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
The silence is powerful. The house is full to the seams of people. People who've come to pay their last respects. John Rider stands in the centre of it all. His mother is crying in the corner. The bedroom is musky, the smell of pipe smoke over-whelmingly strong. Broken old men shuffle up to him. "A tragedy". "An awful loss". "Won't be the same without him". "We'll miss you Benjy".
I'll miss him. John's gaze falls his father. He seems smaller now. More fragile and pale than John remembers him. To John, he will never be the man lying in the coffin that is placed delicately on the bed. He will be the man who shows him how to tie his shoes on his first day of the school. The man who pats his head every night. The man with the booming voice who makes the monster under the bed go away.
John remembers him as a strong man, even in his last years. He would sit in his chair watching television, refusing to use a hearing aid because it mad him feel old. Even now he is still strong. His face is carved and craggy, even in his unnatural sleep. His hair is combed neatly to the side and the whiteness gives John a shock. When did he start to look so old?
John feels a hand on his shoulder and he turns. His mother smiles tenderly at him through her tears. He feels his heart pang. He knows she will not last without her husband. When they were young they'd both been wonderful. They had purpose. When he and Ian left, the two of them were alone. They learned about each other. Now John feels guilty. He should have called more. Should have taken them out more.
Now he will never hear his father's comforting voice again. He feels slightly lost. The house, even, feels much smaller. The garden used to seem huge to him. It had been everything he'd needed. His castle. His forest. His kingdom. He parked his car in the drive today and for the first time he saw how tiny the garden was. Is. Has always been.
John embraces his mother gently. He draws his strength from the knowledge that he has to be strong for her. Ian walks in and the sea of mourners parts slightly to let him through. "John will take it in his stride. After he moved out, they barely saw him from year to year. But Ian's their youngest. They were dreadfully close".
John hears the whispers and bites the insides of his cheeks. It's true, he can't deny it. He knows he was selfish. He knows he will have to live with the knowledge that Ian is a better son than he is. John is a better spy. He is a better agent. He is a better soldier. But Ian is a better son.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
John puts one arm around his mother and one around Ian. John is the eldest son. He is the leader of the family now. It is his duty to keep everything together. And he will. Ian is trying to hold back his tears. John has a lump in his throat.
"It's okay Ian. You can cry. Nobody minds" John hears himself say. Ian turns to look at him and there is something in his eyes. Something John has never seen before. Ian won't cry. John knows this. There is regret and shame in his eyes. John can tell something is hurting his brother. The death has rocked him to the core. And Ian is now shaking like a leaf on a half naked tree.
John feels slightly resentful. His father was such a good man. So why did he have to die?
John knows he will die. It is a fact. He doesn't know when. He doesn't know how. He simply knows it will come. He doesn't want to die like his father. He doesn't want a quiet funeral with local people coming simply because they know his family.
He doesn't want this for his father either. He wants his father to have the funeral he deserves. Front page on the newspapers 'Good Man Dies Aged Eighty-Three In His Sleep'. His father never lied or swore or drank or gambled. He had never missed a single Sunday in church. He'd always given beggars the few pounds he had to spare. Why didn't that make a difference?
Why didn't the world care that they'd lost a great man?
Why didn't God care?
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
Ian crosses to the casket in two steps. His fingers are trembling as he touches the silvery hair. The other mourners step back respectfully. They know Ian well. He is the son who visits for Sunday lunch every week without fail. The son who pays the mortgage and slides money into his parents bank account. John has known for years how Ian gives a quarter of his pay cheque to their parents. But they were too proud to take it. Tried to insist he spend it on a girlfriend or himself.
So Ian sneaks it in. The whole village knows it. The Post-Mistress tells them how Ian Rider, bless his soul, sneaks money into his parent's bank account. The village is old fashioned. Just a few houses among the hills and dales with a post office, a shop and a pub. Gossip is king.
And they all know John Rider. The other son. The one who misses birthdays. The one who turns up for Christmas every third, sometimes second, year.
The one who Benjamin and Margaret Rider always mention. The successful city slicker. The one who works for the government. Ian's career is never mentioned. He is a soldier still but John knows his brother will hear from MI6 soon.
Ian stoops and kisses his father's forehead gently. John imagines the leathery, parchment quality of the pale skin. He can imagine the taste. The taste of honesty. The taste of hard work. The taste of disappointment.
John finds himself remembering the first day he learned of death. His mind wanders and for a moment, he is not in the grief filled room. He is out under the inky sky and he is crying to himself.
"John, it's just a rabbit. Plucky is fine now. You'll be fine too". It doesn't feel like that. John just stares down at the rick black soil that is trapped under his pinky finger nails. The smell of fresh earth is overpowering.
"He's gone to rabbit heaven, hasn't he dad?" John picks at his fingernails. His father is rubbing his hair gently and John's tears are finally slowing to a stop.
"Yes. He's dead. That's where dead rabbits go". It was so simple back then. If you're good, heaven. If you're bad, hell. John wishes thinks could be that simple again.
"Will you die dad?".
A pregnant silence hang between the man and the boy.
"Yes".
"When?"
"I don't know. I hope not for a long, long time".
"Will I die?"
"Yes". The thought is strangely freeing.
"Why'd Plucky have to die now and not for a long, long time?"
"Because that was our Lord's plan".
"Okay. Dad?"
"Yes, John?"
"Will you live to be three hundred?"
"I'll try my best". That is all any man can do. He can try his best.
Ian returns and John pulls his arm from around his mother so that he can encase his younger brother in a hug. Ian blinks back tears. John swallows. He can still feel the strong, work hardened hand rubbing his fair hair.
He knows in a minute he will have to let go of Ian and carry the weight of his father on his shoulder. Carry him into the church for the funeral. Then he and Ian will talk. Remembering together their childhoods, that clashed upon each other so strongly.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
As John drives back to London, the beauty of the night disgusts him. Nothing will ever be beautiful again. Nothing is right. The world is off balance.
He wishes for nothing more than to fall into a dreamless sleep. He knows sleep will not come easy tonight. He knows he will lie awake. Fragments of the day flash before his eyes. He turns on the radio and leaves it between two stations, the fuzzy white noise blocking out all chance of thought. He feels dark.
He feels empty.
He feels cold.
He feels wrong.
Everything is wrong. He is calling for something but there is nothing he wants. He pulls over and buys a chocolate bar in a road side garage. It is the first time he's allowed himself to even think about anything sweet and unhealthy in months. But he can't eat it.
He leaves it on the dashboard. He has a long drive ahead of him. By the time he pulls into the car park of his Apartment Block, the chocolate has melted into a sticky mess on the leather of the dashboard. The smell of the cocoa is trapped in his nostrils.
But he doesn't care. All pleasure has been sucked from the aroma.
John goes to bed fully dressed. He does not sleep. In the morning when he wakes up,he changes and goes into work. He ignores the downcast eyes and the mumbled apologies. Everyone knows of the funeral.
He sits down in his office and blinks once. Yesterday he sat in his father's chair for the first time. His mother insisted. He didn't feel the comfort he expected. The chair is not the same. Once he would have given anything to sit in it. He knows now that he never will sit in it again. The chair is not the same. It feels empty even when it is full.
It was his. He is gone. Nothing now can ever come to any good.
If you are reading any of my other stories, please expect delays in updating. If they are not updated by the eleventh of July, they won't be updated for three weeks because I'm finally checking out of hospital tomorrow and then on the eleventh I'm flying to France for three whole weeks. YAY!!