The Long Call

THE
DAY THEY FOUND THE BODY on the shore, Matthew Venn was already haunted by thoughts of death and
dying. He stood outside the North Devon Crematorium on the outskirts of
Barnstaple, a bed of purple crocus spread like a pool at his feet, and he
watched from a distance as the hearse carried his father to the chapel of rest.
When the small group of mourners went inside, he moved closer. Nobody
questioned his right to be there. He looked like a respectable man, a wearer of
suits and sober ties, prematurely grey-haired and staid. Not a risk-taker or a
rule-breaker. Matthew thought he could have been the celebrant, arriving a
little late for the service. Or a diffident mourner, sheepish and apologetic,
with his soft skin and sad eyes. A stranger seeing him for the first time would
expect sympathy and comfortable words. In reality, Matthew was angry, but he’d
learned long ago how to hide his emotions.