Among the Dead

They thought he was acting strangely perhaps, drunk or crazy or on drugs. And he was acting strangely, Alex himself was able to maintain enough distance to see that. Standing on the edge of that platform though, nothing else had been more real than the feeling that he was about to be pushed.

It would have been convenient too, if someone was trying to kill them all. A death on the tube - suicide or accidental, no one would have thought twice. Even if people had asked questions, what would they have been told? That he’d been distressed at the death of a friend, had fainted on hearing the news, had been acting out of character.

He pushed onto the train once it had stopped and stood with his back to the carriage partition, still studying the other people, becoming more comfortable only as the faces changed station by station, a foreign family with small children the only people left who’d boarded with him.

And as he began to relax the pendulum swung back in the other direction and he was embarrassed, angry with himself for losing his cool like that. It made him more determined too, that he’d go to America and see Matt, because he couldn’t go on like this, his mind slipping into a surreal struggle with itself.

He needed to speak to Matt, to find out one way or another whether he was involved in these deaths, and he needed to speak to him about that night ten years ago, about the things he knew, the truth. Whoever Matt had become, he still needed to speak to him, to put things right, or at least those few things that could still be put to rights.



It had been overcast in the morning but the sky had cleared now and as he walked into the long street where Rob had lived the sun was shining as brightly as it had a couple of weeks before. The white houses looked fresh and bright, the small trees that lined the road looking like they were about to bud.

It was cold though and he kept his overcoat on and walked quickly. He rang the bell a couple of times when he got there but got no response, the house giving out no sound. The cremation was for family only but he’d heard people talking about some sort of reception so maybe Rebecca had gone there.

He checked his watch and then sat down on the step, loosening the black tie before taking it off altogether and putting it in his overcoat pocket. He kept his coat huddled around him but the sun was warm on his face and time turned fluid as he sat there, marked only by the occasional car or pedestrian passing on the quiet street.

He wasn’t looking out for her but turned at the sound of heels clacking steadily up the street. It was Rebecca, wearing a short black skirt and jacket but with a beige raincoat over the top, still giving the impression somehow that she wasn’t used to dressing formally.

He guessed she’d seen him but she didn’t look in his direction, even though he kept his eyes fixed on her as she approached. She kept looking ahead, dignified, composed, her features fixed. She was almost at the house but still didn’t look, and then, as if she hadn’t seen him, she walked past and continued along the street.

He turned, puzzled, and looked at the house number, hearing the footsteps come to a stop then. When he turned back she was standing a few yards away smiling at him.

‘Have you seen The Third Man?’

‘No.’

She threw her arms up and said, ‘So much for that - I was re-enacting the final scene. Alex, you must have seen it! Orson Welles?’

He shook his head as she walked back towards him.

‘Sorry. Am I Orson Welles?’

She was standing over him now, the smile still there but fading as she said, ‘Joseph Cotten. Orson Welles is dead. I was his girlfriend.’ Alex stood up and she regrouped the smile before saying, ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Sure.’

She opened the door and let him in, pointing towards the kitchen. He walked through, glad that she was in good enough spirits, but hovered for a while then, wondering why she hadn’t followed him in. Finally he stepped back into the hall and looked towards the door.

She’d got no further than putting the lock on behind her, had slid down the wall where she was crouched now, her head buried in her arms, weeping silently, only the movement of her shoulders giving her away. His heart sank. He thought this was why he’d come, to comfort her, and yet now he was here facing it, he didn’t know what to do or what he had to offer.

He walked along the hall and stood above her, made to put his hand on her shoulder but stopped, feeling hopelessly, ridiculously English. He sank down onto his knees instead and put his hand on hers, the small reassuring gesture he’d already seen twice today.

She looked up, her face more composed than he’d expected but run with tears. She wiped her eyes with her free hand and said, ‘This is so bloody stupid. I hardly knew him.’ This was how people were; they cried for the people they’d lost.

‘I don’t think it’s stupid at all.’

‘I could have really fallen for him,’ she said, her face disfiguring with emotion, a fresh pulse of tears running down her cheeks.

Kevin Wignall's books