“Passed away in his sleep, 14 February. Reunited with his dear wife Freya. Private funeral. No flowers. I’d been leafing idly through the courtesy Evening Mail at the Chinese takeaway. In the kitchen, someone added garlic to a pan; two middle-aged men were condoling with each other on West Bromwich Albion’s recent bad performance. – Passed away in his sleep— ‘Two frie’ ri’e; chicken and bean sprou’; beef with green pepper?’ No! No, not Andy. Someone else. Andrew Rivers was a common enough name. ...This Andrew Rivers couldn’t be my cousin Andy. I’d know the moment he died, without having to read about it in a evening paper. I’d know. ‘Don’t use their heads, see. All those lofted balls …’ – dear wife Freya— I forced myself to look at the TV on the corner of the counter, but they’d turned the sound down. The decor, then: I tried to concentrate on the tasselled lanterns and what seemed to be a shrine next to the till. But my eyes wouldn’t focus, and when I closed the paper firmly my hands opened it again.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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