* * *
From that day, I was like a woman possessed. Ihadto know what had happened and why. I needed to speak to his friends and, with a date arranged for the funeral, I had a valid reason for contacting them but, without his phone, I had no way of getting in touch. He’d always cycled to their houses so I only had a vague idea of where they lived – no exact addresses. Social media might have been an option but he’d never shown any interest in Facebook – joked it was for old people like me – and I wasn’t on any of the apps he used, so the only route I could think of was school.
I made an appointment with the principal and was shocked to discover that, after the summer break between his first and second year, Noah had returned to sixth form quiet and withdrawn. Across the autumn term, his attendance had slipped and his grades had dropped.
‘Why’s this the first I’m hearing of it?’ I demanded.
‘We’ve sent you several emails. Let me see.’ He clicked into something on his computer and rattled off a series of dates on which I’d allegedly been contacted.
‘I haven’t received any of those. Are you sure you have the right email address?’ It was fruitless me asking that as I’d had enough emails from school then sixth form over the years to know they had the correct details.
‘Is there any chance Noah could have accessed your email account and deleted them?’ the principal asked.
‘He’d never do that!’ I declared vehemently. ‘He’s not the sort to…’ I tailed off. I didn’t know what sort he was anymore. He’d split up with Jessie without telling me, was hanging around with some lads I didn’t know and taking drugs. Why should it even be a surprise to hear that he was dropping out of college too?
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news at what I can imagine is already an incredibly difficult time,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else we can do for you?’
‘I, erm… I wondered if I could speak to his friends. I wanted to let them know the date of the funeral and ask them about the party he was at on New Year’s Eve. He was…’ I couldn’t bring myself to saytaking drugswhen the principal presumably already had a low opinion of Noah from his poor record. ‘Erm… his phone’s missing and I wondered if he might have given it to one of them.’
‘His friends will be in lessons at the moment but if you can let me know their names, I’ll see what I can find out.’
I removed a piece of paper from my handbag and handed it to him, having noted down their names before I set off in case my mind went blank once I got here.
A couple of days later, I received a call from the principal with the news that Noah’s friends had been spoken to but the message was the same from all of them – Noah had pulled away from them across the summer and they’d barely spoken to him when the new academic year began. Another thing I didn’t know about my son.
None of it made sense and the only person who could give an explanation was lying in the chapel of rest at Trenham & Sons Funeral Directors.
I was so angry all of the time – angry that Noah was gone, angry about the cause of his death, angry that I had no idea what was going on in my son’s life, angry that he hadn’t confided in me about any of it, and angry at Flynn. So very angry at Flynn. Because Flynn didn’t need answers like I did. He’d wanted to know the cause of death but that was enough for him.
‘I don’t see where it’ll get us,’ he told me after pleading with me for the umpteenth time to let it go. ‘It’s not going to bring Noah back so what’s the point?’
‘How can you say that?’ I cried. ‘The point is we’ll know who’s responsible for our son’s death.’
‘Who? There’s no who. There’s a what and we know the answer to that already.’
‘But somebody gave him the drugs.’
‘Do you really think you’re going to find out who that is? Every question you’ve asked so far has only triggered more questions. Where’s it going to end? This isn’t doing you any good, Mel. You’re going to have to let this one go.’
If only I could have.
21
The day of Noah’s funeral arrived. It was dark and wet with storm clouds gathering – the perfect metaphor for my mood. My parents and Flynn’s, Maggie and Keith, had gathered at The Bothy so the six of us could travel together in a funeral limousine behind the hearse. I shuddered as I watched the two vehicles pulling into Whinlatter Close. Flynn went to the door and Maggie joined me by the window, putting her arm round my shoulder as the drivers navigated the turning circle outside our house.
‘It’s not the right way round,’ she said, her voice shaky with emotion. ‘No parent should have to bury their child.’
That damn phrase. I’d heard it so many times since Noah died, said it repeatedly myself, but it didn’t bring any comfort. Was it even meant to? I suppose it was a shared declaration that it felt wrong, but feeling wrong didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. I couldn’t force any words past the lump in my throat so I rested my head against Maggie’s to convey that I’d heard and agreed.
Nobody spoke during the journey to the crematorium, which was a good thing as I really didn’t want to make small talk. There was a sizeable crowd gathered outside but I lowered my eyes as the car pulled up, not wishing to make eye contact with anyone. I wasn’t strong enough to see their pain while drowning in my own.
The service began and I barely registered anything the celebrant said. During the eulogy, there were intermittent ripples of laughter, presumably in response to the childhood anecdotes we’d shared and it struck me how inappropriate it was to laugh at a funeral. Why had we shared humorous stories when there was nothing funny about any of this? With every passing minute, I became more tightly wound. I turned around at one point and cast my gaze across the mourners. There were several teenagers here, some of whom I recognised as the friends who claimed to have been ditched over the summer, and others who were strangers to me. Had one of them given Noah the drugs? Had one of his former friends done it and the alleged falling out over the summer had been a lie to deflect any suspicion?
Outside, the mourners gathered to look at the floral tributes and chat. I spotted Guy talking to Jan and Colin – our elderly neighbours who lived in The Stables – and the red mist came down once more as I marched up to him.
‘Helen and Jessie not with you?’ I demanded.
Guy visibly squirmed. ‘Erm, Jessie was too upset to come so Helen stayed with her.’
