There are buzzards in the fields around where I live. I never thought ours was the sort of town that would have buzzards, or any kind of big bird like that—not vulture types. We’re more of a pigeon place. Blackbirds and blue tits. Seagulls, sometimes, at a push. But no, we have buzzards. And the way I found out is: I saw them when I was walking the dog along the rough path, well up the hills. There were four of them picking at something on the ground, and the something was Robert.
He was weathered like he’d been out for a while, but he couldn’t have been up there for long because Id seen him two days before, waiting at the bus stop. He’d waved. And I’d waved. And we’d both acted like I hadn’t been there when he lost his license, as though it was nothing to do with me. I didn’t ask Dad to stop and give him a lift, cause we weren’t really talking. But, you know, even though we weren’t talking, he was alive. He was breathing, is my point. You can’t sit at a bus stop and wave and not still be alive and well.
I nearly talked myself out of it being him. But I recognised his posh trainers that he paid almost nothing for on eBay. And I recognised his hair and I recognised a bit of what was left of his face. But mostly I was just trying to chase the dog off him. She’d scared the buzzards away so she could have a good sniff, and they were still wheeling over our heads.
They’re massive birds. Have you ever seen them? Massive. Terrifying—if they didn’t eat just dead things you’d be running. And then I suddenly wasn’t sure that’s all they eat, and Robert was the only dead thing up there that we could see. So I grabbed my dog and I went back down the hill until the signal came back in for my phone. And then I called the police because that’s what you do when you find a body, isn’t it? You call the police. And then I called my dad, to tell him I was going to be late, but I didn’t say why.
And then I just kind of walked around a bit. I couldn’t stay still. Even with the sun out, it’s flipping freezing up on that hill. And there was the smell. Not bad, cause the wind wouldn’t let it hang in the air, but just every so often . . . Like when a rat died in our garden in the hedge—that smell, with overtones of aftershave. And there was the way, no matter how much I tried not to look, my eyes kept turning towards it. Him. The body. Robert.
The police took ages to come. I’m sure in TV shows when someone calls in with a body, it’s all hands on deck, but not in real life. By the time they arrived, the sun was going down in the way it does when a hot day has clouded over. You know it: the massive stretch of sky is grey and shining, and everything on the hill smudges blue apart from the line of bleeding red behind fields.
And then the clouds did that thing where they melt against the force of the sun, when those lines of light come down. The sort of thing that people paint into pictures and stick in museums and, like, believe it’s God. And I suppose sitting up there, you could, for a second, think Yeah, God’s smiling down on our town. But mostly all I could think was how he wasn’t smiling on us. Hadn’t felt smiled on for a while, what with everything, but especially then, sat up in the wind and the shadow, waiting for slow police. I never felt so cold and alone.
I think maybe I sound callous, but it’d not sunk in yet that Robert was at a bus stop, and now he was dead on a hill. You can see the whole town from up on that hill, and right then I still mostly believed that he was down there walking around, maybe, or on the bus. Or just sat at the bus stop, glaring at passersby and especially people who know him who don’t stop to give him a lift. Knew him, I mean. Didn’t.
Robert’s not on the hill anymore. Once the police’d done marking out the scene and making important-sounding phone calls, they took me to one side “for a little chat”. They wanted to know what I was doing up there. They weren’t mean or anything, but I was a bit done with it all, by then. I wanted to go home.
I told them, I was just “walking the dog. I always walk the dog up here.” And then they wanted to know what he was doing up there, and I was like, “I’ve got no idea. We haven’t seen each other for two days. We haven’t spoken longer—two weeks, cause he lost his license cause he always drives like a prick.”
And then one of the officers goes, “Oh, aye, I thought I recognised you,” and I realised she’d been one of the ones there that day, and then I realised I’d said always. And then I realised that Robert was just a body and there wasn’t really an always anymore for him. If you’re religious, maybe there’s an always, but not for Robert who drives like a prick and Robert who, you know, kissed me that one time after we’d been to the cinema because he thought it was a date, even though I thought he knew I would definitely never ever be interested. I started crying—bit ashamed of that, of the way the officer was so nice about it. She walked me down the hill and gave me and the dog a lift home. I heard later they moved Robert by helicopter. So he’s gone off the hill, is Rob. And gone.
Like, how’d you get your head around Robert being gone? But you do. You have to.
There’s a funeral soon and his mam’s asked me to talk even though we weren’t talking when he died. She said we would have been talking again eventually. I was just having a little shit-on with him. Just having a little bit of being bothered—because you nearly killed someone, Robert! You nearly bloody did!
Did I tell you he nearly killed someone? He clipped this lad with the car. He broke the lad’s leg and ribs and stuff. There was a court date set—he was being prosecuted for dangerous driving and driving under the influence.
I’m partly to blame for it, because I should have stopped him, I suppose—taken the keys off him. But then there would have been no way for us to get home.
He was dead sorry, Robert. He hadn’t even had his license that long. He was so sorry that he was in tears.
That’s the other thing. He wasn’t really talking to me, either. Mutual snittiness. Silence on both sides. He didn’t want anyone to have seen him like that. He thought he was dead tough. He thought he never cried. He was, you know, toxically masculine, even though he thought he was really woke and a bit feminist.
But he’s just like any other lad from round here, really: doing his best. Bit shit at it, cause his best is a bit shit. So, yeah. It’s going to be weird, speaking at the funeral for someone who isn’t speaking to me. Wasn’t, I mean. Probably still wouldn’t be.
So weird. I go to the funeral and everyone’s looking at me. I’d had a few messages off people, but I thought like . . . I thought Beth and them might message me and see how I was, because it was in the news that I’d found him. It wasn’t a secret. I’ve been getting messages from other people, but they aren’t from anyone I know. Just the usual Facebook shit: “Oh poor lass must of bin a proper shock” “good kid calling the police”.
I’ve been lurking on the socials, and of course there’s been a few other people doing the other usual: “I want to know what they were doing up there anyway!” Like, calm your tits, Angela. I was just walking the fucking dog. I’m always walking the fucking dog. It’s practically my job. What else do you do apart from walk the fucking dog? There’s nothing else to do around here if you haven’t got a car, and I didn’t have a car cause Robert was the driver and he didn’t have his license anymore.
Anyway, I haven’t really heard from anyone. Not Beth, no one. There’s nothing till I’m at the funeral and his mam . . . his mam is dead nice to me. She gives me a hug and I give her a hug, and she has a little cry and I feel awful, because I can’t cry. I try to cry. But I can’t do it. My eyes just get hot and sore, and my jaw aches from grinding my teeth, but there’s no tears. Partly I think it’s because everyone is looking at me.
But also I just kept thinking of Robert, in the car. That kid on the ground. And the police sirens coming in, and me saying “you idiot” and him gawping like, “Dad’s going to kill me. He’ll kick me out.” And then tears, floods of them, and him pushing me away: “Stop, stop looking at me. Stop it, don’t you dare tell anyone you saw me cry.” As though that was the problem, and the problem wasn’t he was about to lose his license and get arrested because he knocked a kid off a bike and broke him. There’s so many people here at the funeral who hated him after that. They said that: they hated him.
And fair enough. I mean, wailing about being seen wailing? Priorities, Robert. You never really had them did you? But here, at the funeral, I sort of get it. My priorities are as messed up as his were then, and instead of reading the eulogy, which is what I’m supposed to do, I’m just frozen at the front of the room, gawking at the gawkers. All these gawkers who hated Robert for an accident that anyone might have had, come along for a little gossipy feed on the leftovers of his life.
I need to look down at my bit of paper—I wrote out everything I thought Robert’s mam would want to hear today. But my eyes, my bloody eyes, yet again, won’t do what they’re told. Won’t look down, won’t look away, and because I can’t help but stare at the crowd of them I can’t help but see him. Robert. There.
No, I mean, Robert’s there. He’s sat right there. In the middle of the group, his suit on that he got for the school prom and looked pretty good in, actually, but he still spent the whole time ripping the piss out of school and dances and why bother and how he was getting his car tomorrow. He was getting his new second-hand car, but he still drank a load, smuggled in of course. He’s in that suit and it still has a bit of a dark stain on one side where he spilt something down it. His face is tanned and the skin shrunk close to his head so it looks like the sort of bad facelift you see in tabloids. He’s turned slightly away but I can see the edge of his cheek where it’s sort of darker, drier—not quite complete. Where the buzzards pecked at him. He nods at me, lifts his hand like he did at the bus stop. My heart about stops in my aching chest and I start coughing, and that’s a good thing because it shakes my voice loose and finally I can do the eulogy.
Robert-the-not-body sits and listens to the whole thing, and I’ve never spoken so flat and so hard before in my life. I can hear myself saying how much I’ll miss him—and I do. And I did. And I will. But I sound as though I’m taking the piss. The words might as well have just been the alphabet for all the emotion coming out of my mouth. Too easy; too . . . nothing.
And Robert-not-the-body thinks it’s hilarious, just like Robert would have. He’s creased up silent laughing and at one point he rests his forehead on his aunt’s shoulder he’s laughing so hard, and she doesn’t even notice. He loves that I froze up. He always called me a performing monkey cause I love being on stage in front of people. Love it. But not that day, not with everyone staring at me. Not with Robert watching.
I find my seat, second row from the front, about five rows in front of Robert, and I’ve no idea what anyone else says about him because the whole time I’m twitching, trying not to turn around and look at him. Almost impossible. The only time I manage to still myself, the only time at all, is when the curtains close over Robert the body’s coffin, and it slides to cremation. I don’t want to know, then, if Robert is watching. I look sideways instead.
Rob’s Mam is just shaking. Trembling. Like she’s coming down. But her eyes are dry.
Robert’s dad’s not crying either. He’s not hugged Robert’s mam or anything, or held her hand. His face is set in the same scowl as when he picked Robert up from the police station after the crash. I felt my spine go water from the backlash of it. God knows how Robert felt, not that he would ever have told us. And when I look back to the front, Robert-not-the-body is standing right there by the curtains, saluting himself going into the flames.
And I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect Robert-not-the-body to break down. He cries. He cries and wails so loud I can’t hear the nice woman next to me offering us a tissue, which is when I realise I’m crying too. Robert the body is gone. He’s gone. My Robert. And Robert not-the-body is stood there crying and just like always, no one sees him but me.
You know, I don’t really want to talk about this. I don’t really want to think about it. So we’ll just move on.
And then it was afterwards. You know, food all laid out, and everyone’s really solemn and shaking hands and saying, “I’m so sorry for your loss” through a mouthful of egg mayonnaise. People were coming up to me who I didn’t know, not even as haters of Robert. Some of them I recognised, though—his aunt, for one. I’ve seen her in pictures around Robert’s house, but I don’t remember him ever mentioning her as someone who visited or anything. She came up to me and she was just so sympathetic, but I couldn’t stop staring at the smudgy patch on her shoulder where Robert-not-the-body had leaned his head when he was tired laughing at me screwing up the eulogy, and it took me a little while to realise, really, that she needed me to comfort her.
Which—that’s how the whole thing felt, as though I needed to comfort other people, as though I should have been comforting Robert. Just like when Robert hit that kid and I smacked my head.
Did I mention that? I don’t think I mentioned that. The seatbelt was flappy and loose and broken, and I’d jokingly said, “Oh, that’s fine. I’ll just hold it around my waist and we’ll be all right.” But then he clipped that kid, and he hit the brake, and it flung me forward, and afterwards I realised I’d smacked my head against the windshield. There was a crack on the windscreen glass, and I did have actual concussion and a bruise shaped like a pawprint, as though my face isn’t disfigured enough. “A face for filters” is what Robert liked to call it, the prick. And then he adds a bloody great bruise.
So I should have been crying, not him. But he was crying and I had to, you know, say I was sorry and it would be all right even though I had nothing to be sorry for and it wasn’t all right at all.
I’m still mad at you, Robert. I see you, watching me. Couldn’t even let me grieve right, could you?
He was killed, they reckon, by someone. Himself, maybe. Or someone else. Unclear. It wasn’t natural causes, anyhow. I’m not thick, and I smelled the aftershave with the rot, you know, and I saw his best trainers that he’d never normally use to come up that hill. And surely not all the damage to his face was buzzards. But what do I know?
The police came round and kept asking me questions and re-asking me questions, like who had he pissed off? What was his state of mind? And I told them, “He broke that kid’s leg. He was pretty cut up about it. I don’t know what else he was into.” Which was a fudge answer: he was into all sorts, I knew that. Just not the specifics. And he’d been a bit twitchy of recent, and I know after the accident they found more than alcohol in his system.
There’s rumours, of course. Lots of rumours. I’m one of them. I saw Beth and Steven finally, at the end of the funeral and Beth just came out with it, with Robert’s Mam stood right there: “You know, everyone’s saying that you did him.”
Behind them, Robert-not-the-body creased up laughing again, and I wanted to lamp her. Instead I played stupid: “Did him how? Like, shagged him?” And Steve goes: “No, did him like killed him.” And then they just looked at each other out the corners of their eyes. I saw them, and I saw Beth do that thing that she does where she shrinks in on herself, and her shoulders hunch, and her chest caves in as though she doesn’t have massive boobs. She does it when she knows she’s over-stepped. And then she kind of did a little head-shake at Steven, but he just ignored her, kept staring at me. He stared for so long that Robert-not-the-body started swatting at him, shouting silently. It was disconcerting, watching Robert’s hands pass through Steven’s mouth and out his ear.
Eventually Steven said, “I heard it might be that lad’s brother did it.”
And Beth said a bit quietly, “I heard he did himself.”
I pretended I didn’t hear, but what I thought and didn’t say to those nosy wanker is: it felt like he was left for me to find. I felt like he was left for me.
I could feel Robert-not-the-body walking with me when I left them. I’d like to imagine we were holding hands.
I’m back in the fields on the hill because it’s the best place I know to walk the dog and not see anyone—except Robert-not-the-body, it turns out, who vanished from town after the funeral, but up here he hangs around. The clouds shift him from here to gone. When the sunlight casts through him, he becomes nothing but dust motes and restless air, and I can’t breathe for a bit, thinking him proper gone.
Robert’s death was “inconclusive”, which is somehow really on the nose. He was a prick who couldn’t drive and couldn’t make decisions, so of course he managed to be inconclusive at the end, too.
It’s been a month now since I found him, six weeks since we last talked. Four weeks and two days since he waved at me from bus stop and I waved back. I play through that scene a lot, but he left no clues in the lifting of his hand, no hints in his smile that he’d be found picked at by buzzards two days later.
Imagine if I’d asked Dad to give him a lift.
There’s a rock at the side of the track and it’s like a bench, looking down at the best view of the house, the roads, the shops. Robert-not-the-body is sat next to me, and I think I can smell his aftershave.
“Will you tell me what happened?” I say to him. First words to him since after he clipped that kid.
He leans in close and his lips move, but not clearly—they’re twisted by his tan, by his picked skin. I shrug at him. He shakes his head and points at the horizon.
The sky has opened out, up and out, and those birds are there. Those massive birds wheeling up in that great grey sky stretching on and on, and that shaft of unfriendly light pressing through the clouds, blessing our pigeon town.
It’s too much. It’s too much to even think of walking down into that damning light. Robert would’ve seen it too, wouldn’t he? The spotlight on the kid still bandaged up in the hospital, the crushed bollards; the spotlight on his dad telling him to get out; the spotlight on his best friend leaving him to catch the bus on his own. Why would you ever want to walk back down the hill, Robert? Why would I?
