The Horse With My Name Read Online Free PDF Page B

.’ he whispered. We grinned conspiratorially. ‘So how’re you doin’?’
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘I was speaking to Trish the other day.’
    ‘All good, I trust?’
    He rolled his eyes. We settled for a minute while a small, impoverished-looking minister appeared through a side door and took his place behind a lectern that was a little too high for him. There was a microphone which he had to bend down to his level, which resulted in a wave of feedback that had everyone wincing. He cleared his throat then and began to address us on the life and times of Mark Corkery. There were too many people in the place for me to see clearly who was sitting on the front row, if there were any obvious family members present. For some reason I had assumed that he didn’t have any family, that he’d been an only orphan married to his job. Mouse wasn’t aware ofany either, and I had only Corkery’s assertion that he’d been hit by the Shorts landing gear while making love to a girlfriend to suggest any kind of relationship with another human being, but any or all of that story could have been fabricated, he had the perfect track record for it.
    The minister was whittering on. What he said bore little or no resemblance to the man we knew, the King of Crap, but that was pretty standard for funerals. I whispered, ‘I hear he got hit by a car.’
    Mouse shook his head. ‘A car fell on him.’
    ‘ Fell? You mean he was walking down the street and a car fell outta the sky?’
    ‘Don’t be daft. He was fixing his car. Had it jacked up, working underneath, jack gave way. Result, one flat Corkery. The car was fixed, if that’s any consolation.’
    We grinned into the palms of our hands, then sang ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’. Not just us, the whole congregation. I watched as the minister, still leading the singing, moved several yards across to his left, stopping by the large counter on which sat Corkery’s coffin. With a dramatic flourish he lifted his index finger into the air, held it there for a moment, then plunged it down towards a red button set into the side of the counter. A moment later the plain wooden box juddered once, then began to descend, the minister with his hymn book in one hand and his finger still stuck on the button. There was something about the way he did it that reminded me of the National Lottery, and I suppose in a way it was.
    As the service drew to a close I whispered to Mouse that I’d see him later, then edged along the row to accompanying tuts and hurried up the aisle. I went through the door, then looked about me for a few moments before I picked my place. There was a mock marble column just to the left of the exit which was ideal. I leant up against it, as lazy-lookingas I could, then removed the lighter of the two books I’d bought in the second-hand shop and opened it at Chapter One. I started reading.
    I probably wasn’t doing my chances of employment much good, judging by the glares and stares of the mourners as they filed out, but I persevered. Mouse came past with an exaggerated tut; he knew I was up to something.
    ‘We’re having a few drinks, down in the King’s Head,’ he said.
    ‘We?’
    ‘The cream of Belfast journalism. But you can come as well. There’ll be crisps.’
    ‘Well if there’s crisps . . .’
    ‘Can I give you a lift?’
    ‘I’m not finished here yet.’
    He nodded. I winked back. He walked on. I smiled after him. Six months, and no hint of the fissure that had opened up in our friendship.
    ‘ The Horse Whisperer . Is that good?’ I looked round. There was a silver-haired woman, red-eyed, black-dressed, medium heels, looking at the front of my book. Mid forties, possibly older, but knew how to look after herself. Her voice was South Belfast, cultivated without being plummy.
    I shrugged. ‘Only started.’
    She nodded thoughtfully for several moments. She was looking me over. I wasn’t sure I liked it much. She pursed her lips. ‘You’re either here to rub salt in,