Read The Last Time I Saw You for Free Online

“What you up to anyway?” he adds, already more cheerful. “Married? Babied up?” I mutter a halfhearted response, looking around at the throng. How many of these people are moved by the loss of Sally herself rather than by the ghoulish, faintly thrilling reminder of our mortality?
    Now the hearse draws up. The undertakers open it, the dark-suited pallbearers step forward: Sally’s father is there, as well as a cousin I met once and her brother. Last to take his place is William, her husband. He’s kneeling on the ground, eye level with a dark-haired little girl clad in a blue velvet frock. He’s holding her small hands in his, urging her toward Sally’s mother, the tableau almost too painful to watch. He gives her a hug, a gentle little push, then helps heave the coffin aloft, shouldering the weight. He doesn’t stumble or break down, he just keeps his eyes fixed on the black mouth of the church doorway.
    We file in behind them, the coffin now resting at the front of the church. I can’t tear my eyes from it, it’s only now it really seems real, if you know what I mean; the idea that Sally’s body is held by that wooden box feels chilling to me, absurd and horrific. I stare at it, keep thinking that this isthe closest I will ever be to her. I lean into James, sucking in the warmth and solidity of him, my jaw clenched tight.
    The energy in the church feels physical in its intensity, taut and stretched. I can hear Sally’s mother sobbing from the front of the church, a heart-wrenching sound that makes me want to go to her, even though it would be totally inappropriate. But then, nothing about this is appropriate.
    It’s a Catholic funeral, full of pomp and circumstance, which should be comforting but is somehow the absolute opposite. I don’t remember Sally ever talking about religion, let alone Catholicism. The priest tries his best to instill some kind of sense of spiritual order to things, talking about how we can’t always know why, how tragic it is to preside over a funeral of this kind, and as he speaks I can’t help but grow more and more frustrated. Surely there is no order to this, divine or otherwise—parents burying their children can never be right. I wish I knew for sure what I believed—I wouldn’t want to be a spooky happy-clappy type, thumping a tambourine and urging people to repent, but I would love a little more certainty. Even the certainty of real atheism would be better than my wistful half belief: I want there to be something—for Sally to be playing whist with my grandmother, wise enough to have consigned our feud to the fires of hell—but wanting and believing are very different things. I try to engage with his description of her, to feel her presence conjured up by his words, but the blushing bride and obedient schoolgirl he describes don’t resonate.
    We sing a hymn, voices breaking, then listen to a reading her cousin gives. Now William crosses to the pulpit, slow and dignified. There’s a longish pause before he begins to speak, emotion pulsing and surging in the heavy silence.
    “I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “It feels so extraordinary to be stood here that it’s hard for me to find my words. The last time I took my place here was for my wedding, and I would never have envisioned that this would be how I would return.” He speaks so beautifully, despite his distress. He’s incredibly posh, but it’s not the grating version, instead his words weave and dart, taking you on the path he’s carving out with them. “When I first met Sally I couldn’t believe that someone as vital and lovely as her would look twice at a dull old fart like me.” What a relief to have a moment’s levity, a tiny lifting of the smog of tension. “But incredibly she did. All I had to do now was convince her I was more than a flash in the pan, and so began my relentless courtship. She was far too clever to let me know I’d made an impression, she kept me guessing right up