RIP (Rest
In Peace) Jackie Leven
Jackie Leven - Scottish
songwriter and folk music singer.
I (1, number of Roman system).
He'd made sure he wasn't standing too near the open grave. Closed
ranks of the other mourners between him and it. The pall-bearers (pallbearer- a
person who helps to carry a coffin) had been called forward by
number rather than name - six of them, starting with the deceased's son. Rain
wasn't quite falling yet, but it had scheduled and appointment. The cemetery
was fairly (less than very) new, sited on the
south-eastern outskirts of the city. He had skipped (avoided)
the church service, just as he would skip the drinks and sandwiches after. He
was studying the backs of heads: hunched (bended into a rounded shape) shoulders,
twitches (uncontrolled movements), sneezes (when liquid
come out of your nose and mouth in a way you cannot control) and
throat-clearings. There were people here he new, but probably not many. A gap
appeared between two of the mourners and he caught a glimpse of the graveside.
The edges of the grave itself had been covered with sheets of green cloth, as
if to mask the hard facts (when it is true/real and not imaginary) of the
matter. Words were being uttered
(said)
but he couldn't catch all of them. There was no mention of the cancer. Jimmy
Wallace had been 'cruelly taken', leaving a widow and three children, plus five
grandkids. Those kids would be down the front somewhere, mostly old enough to
know what was going on. Their grandmother had given voice to a single
piercing (sound
that is high, loud and unpleasant) wail (long, high cry) and was being comforted
(the state
of feeling better after feeling sad).
Christ (Jesus),
he needed a cigarette.
How well had he known Jimmy Wallace? Hadn't seen him in four or
five years, but they'd worked in the same cop shop (police station) a decade or more
back. Wallace was uniform rather than CID (Criminal Investigation Department- the part
of UK police that does not wear uniform), but the sort of guy you'd
talk to anyway. Jokes and gossip and the occasional snippet (a small and
interesting piece of information) of useful information.
He'd retired six years ago, which was around the same time the
diagnosis appeared, along with the chemo (chemotherapy) and hair-loss.
3
Born with his trademark humour…
Maybe so, but better to be miserable and alive. He could feel the
pack of cigarettes in his pocket, knew he could back away (to move
backwards away from something or someone) a few yards (unit of length equal to three feet or 0.91 m.), maybe hide himself behind a
tree and spark up. The thought reminded him of schooldays, when there had been bike sheds
blocking the view from the headmaster's (someone who is
in charge of a school) window. Teachers occasionally arrived and
asked for a light, or a cigarette, or the whole damned pack.
A well-known figure in the local community...
Well known for criminals he'd helped put away (to send someone
to prison, a mental hospital, or a home for old people), too.
Maybe a few of the old-timers had come to pay their respects. The
coffin was being lowered into the grave, the widow giving cry again, or perhaps
it was one of the daughters. A couple of minutes later it was all over. He knew there would be a mechanical digger
hidden nearby.
It had dug the hole and would be used to fill it in again. The
mound of earth had been covered with more of the green baize (material made
from wool) cloth. All very tasteful. The majority of the mourners
didn't linger (to take a long time to leave). One man, face
heavily lined, mouth permanently drooping
(hanging
down as from exhaustion, to hang or incline downward), stuffed his
hands into the pockets of his black woolen coat and approached with the
smallest nod of recognition.
'John', he said.
'Tommy', Rebus replied,
with another nod.
'Got to be us one of
these days, eh?'
'Not yet, though.'
The two men started
walking toward the cemetery gates.
'Need a lift (a free journey
in another person's car)?'
Rebus shook his head.
'Car's outside.'
'Traffic's a nightmare
- as per (as usual).'
Rebus offered a cigarette,
but Tommy Beamish told him he 'd stopped a couple of years back.
'Doctor advised me they
stunt your growth (to stop something from developing to kill a person).'
Rebus lit up and
inhaled. 'How long have you been out of the game now?' he asked.
'Twelve years and
counting. One of the lucky ones.
4
Too many like Jimmy - get the gold watch, and soon after they're
on a slab (a broad flat square or rectangular piece of wood).'
'A cheery prospect.'
'Is that why you keep
working? I heard you were in Cold Case (a criminal investigation that has not been
solved after a considerable time but remains on the books, police departments
are opening Cold Case units whose job is to re-examine cold case files).' Rebus nodded slowly. They were almost at the gates
now.
The first of the cars was passing them, family
members in the black, eyes fixed on the road ahead. He couldn't think what else
to say to Beamish. Different ranks, different cop shops.
He tried to conjure up (to make a picture or idea appear in mind) the names of
colleagues they might both have known.
'Ach,
well…' Perhaps Beamish shared his difficulty. He was holding out his hand.
Rebus shook it.
'Till the next time, eh?'
'So long
as it's not one of us in the wooden suit.'
With a
snort, Beamish was gone, turning his collar up against the falling rain. Rebus stubbed
the cigarette out (to stop a cigarette
from burning by pressing the burning end against a hard surface) beneath his heel,
waited a couple of moments, then headed for (to
go in the direction of) his car.
The
traffic in Edinburgh was indeed a nightmare.
Temporary lights (temporary
traffic lights i.e. road works), road closures, diversions. Long tailbacks (a line of
vehicles that have stopped or are moving only very slowly, because of an
accident or other problem on the road in front of them) everywhere.
Most of it to accommodate the construction of a single tramline between airport
and city centre. While stationary
(not moving),
he checked his phone for messages, unsurprised to find there were none. No
urgent cases required his attention: he worked with the long dead, murder victims
forgotten for the world at large (generally, involving most people). There were
eleven investigations on the books (belong to organization, forming part of legal system)
of the Serious Crime Review Unit. They
went as far back as 1966, the most recent dating from 2002. Where there were
graves to visit, Rebus had visited them. Families and friends still left
flowers at a few (some, a small number), and the names on any cards
had been jotted (write something
in a quick informal way) into his notebook and added to the file -
to what end he wasn’t entirely sure.
When he turned on the car's CD player, Jackie Leven's voice - deep
and visceral (based on deep feeling and emotional reaction)
- emerged from the speakers. He was singing about standing in (to take
person's place at an event) another man's grave. Rebus's eyes
narrowed. For a moment he was back in the cemetery,
5
content to be staring at heads and shoulders. He reached over
(to reach
above or beyond) to the passenger seat and managed to wrest (to get
something with effort or difficulty) the lyric booklet (booklets which
come inserted into the Compact Disc case) from its case. The track
was called 'Another Man's Rain.'
That was what Jackie was singing about: standing in another man's
rain.
'Time to get your ears
checked,' Rebus muttered to himself. Jackie Levin was dead, too. A year or so
younger than Rebus. They shared a Fife (an administrative area and historic county
of Scotland) background. Rebus wondered if his school had ever
played the singer's at football - almost the only time kids from different
schools might meet. It wouldn't have mattered: Rebus had never been picked for
the first team, consigned (to send) instead to offering encouragement
from the frozen sidelines (if you do something from the sidelines, you are not
actively involved in something) as tacklers (try to take the ball from (an opponent) by intercepting
them) and goals went in and insults were traded (insult each
other or say rude things to each other).
'And standing in every
bastard's rain,' he said aloud. The horn was sounding from the car behind. Its
driver was in a hurry. He had meetings waiting for him, important people he was
letting down (to disappoint someone by failing to do what you agreed to
do). The world would crash and burn if this traffic didn't start
moving. Rebus wondered how many hours of his own life he had wasted like this.
Or sitting on a surveillance (the careful watching of a person or place, especially by
the police). Or filling in forms, requisitions (officially ask
for something to be given), and time
sheets (a
document on which workers record the number of hours they have worked).
When his phone pinged with a message, he saw it was from his boss.
Thought you said 3!
Rebus glanced at his watch. It was five minutes past the hour.
Twenty more minutes would see him at the office, more or less. In days gone
by (passed
by), he might have had a siren and flashing light. He might have pulled out (move onto road)
into the oncoming lane (lane that's going in the other direction you are)
and trusted to the fates that he wouldn't end up in A&E (Accident and
Emergency: the part of hospital where people go when they injured and need
treatment quickly). But these days he didn't even have a proper warrant
card (a
card that is proof of identification and authority carried by police officers),
because he wasn't a cop.
He was a retired cop who happened to work for Lothian and
Borders Police (is an area in south east Scotland along with Scottish
borders) in a civilian capacity.
6
What's the rush? Rebus
texted back, just to be annoying (to make someone feel
angry). Then he
turned up the music, repeating the same track as before. Leven still seemed to
be standing in another man's grave.
As if rain wasn't bad
enough...
7
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