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with the paradox I saw in the miles of these ugly highways of Europe; absurd incompatibilities with an inexorable shared destiny. The politicians' vision seemed just another money-making scam or another crass power-trip. We ate up these dull roads before reaching St Malo. After checking into a cheap hotel Anna and I got roaring drunk. The next morning we boarded the ferry to Jersey.
    We arrived Monday afternoon and found another hotel. There were no funeral notices in the Jersey Evening Post. I got a phonebook and looked up Le Marchand. There were six, but only one R. A man's voice came down the receiver.
    — Hello.
    — Hello. Could I speak to Mister Robert Le Marchand?
    — Speaking.
    — I'm really sorry to bother you at this time. We're friends of Chrissie's, over from Holland for the funeral. We understand that it's tomorrow. Would it be alright if we attended?
    — From Holland? he repeated wearily.
    — Yes. We're at Gardener's Hotel.
    — Well, you have come a long way, he stated. His posh, bland, English accent grated. — The funeral's at ten. St Thomas's chapel, just around the corner from your hotel as a matter of fact.
    — Thanks, I said, as the line clicked dead. As a matter of fact ... It seemed as if everything was simply a matter of fact to Mr Le Marchand.
    I felt totally drained. No doubt the man's coldness and hostility were due to assumptions made about Chrissie's friends in Amsterdam and the nature of her death; her body was full of barbituates when it was fished out of the dock, bloated further by the water.
    At the funeral, I introduced myself to her mother and father. Her mother was a small, wizened woman, diminished even further by this tragedy into a brittle near-nothingness. Her father looked like a man who had a great deal of guilt to shed. I could detect his sense of failure and horror and it made me feel less guilty about my small, but decisive role in Chrissie's demise.
    — I won't be a hypocrite, he said. — We didn't always like each other, but Christopher was my son, and I loved him.
    I felt a lump in my chest. There was a buzzing in my ears and the air seemed to grow thin. I could not pick out any sound. I managed to nod, and excused myself, moving away from the cluster of mourners gathered around the graveside.
    I stood shaking in confusion, past events cascading through my mind. Anna put her arm tightly around me, and the congregation must have thought I was grief-stricken. A woman approached us. She was a younger, slimmer, prettier version of Chrissie . . . Chris .. .
    — You know, don't you?
    I stood gaping into space.
    — Please don't say anything to Mum and Dad. Didn't Richard tell you?
    I nodded blankly.
    — It would kill Mum and Dad. They don't know about his change ... I took the body home. I had them cut his hair and dress him in a suit. I bribed them to say nothing ... it would only cause hurt. He wasn't a woman. He was my brother, you see? He was a man. That's how he was born, that's how he was buried. Anything else would only cause hurt to the people who are left to pick up the pieces. Don't you see that? she pleaded. — Chris was confused. A mess. A mess in here, she pointed to her head. — God I tried, we all tried. Mum and Dad could handle the drugs, even the homosexuality. It was all experiments with Christopher. Trying to find himself... you know how they are. She looked at me with an embarrassed contempt, — I mean that sort of person. She started to sob.
    She was consumed with grief and anger. In such circumstances she needed the benefit of the doubt, though what were they covering up? What was the problem? What was wrong with reality? As an ex-junky I knew the answer to that. Often plenty was wrong with reality. Whose reality was it, anyway?
    — It's okay, I said. She nodded appreciatively before joining the rest of her family. We didn't stick around. There was a ferry to catch.
    When we got back to Amsterdam, I sought out Richard. He was apologetic at having