A Friend's Best Man

"Go Si, just go." she spat.
Jo's hair hung from her head like wet ropes. She had been in the shower
when she'd heard Si enter the flat and had jumped from behind the
plastic curtain and ran into the living room, dripping and naked.
"C'mon Jo, don't be like that." he offered, with palms upturned.
"GO!"
Her anger was made all the more impressive by her blatant nakedness.
The lack of clothes gave an animalistic quality to her outburst.
Jo pointed to the door and glared.
Si always found it difficult to argue with women, naked ones posing an
even greater threat. He turned.
He'd had a great apologetic speech worked out; full of self-effacement
and deference, and all he'd managed was "C'mon Jo, don't be like
that."
He opened the door to leave and could hear Jo breathing heavily in the
room behind him.

*

Water always made Si feel better.
He decided to walk along the canal for as far as his feet (or mood)
would carry him.
He assumed he'd been walking for about half an hour. Si's watch, he'd
noticed, had been around Jo's wrist when she threw him out. A big
day-glo waterproof type, it hung quite loose and shook as she pointed
to the door.
The surrounding scenery offered no indication of the distance he'd
travelled. An endless line of shadowy bushes, punctuated only by
litter, lined either side of the canal.
After a while Si noticed something poking from beneath the hedgerow
ahead so he stopped walking to investigate. On the ground, surrounded
by discarded aluminium cans and faded crisp packets, lay a small brown
dog. It's long fur was tangled and dirty from a life spent outside, his
tongue lazily protruded from the side of it's mouth. It's milky eyes
stared at nothing.
Si looked around to check for anyone that may have quietly approached
whilst he was examining his find. No-one had.
He gingerly poked at the dog with an outstretched boot, just to confirm
what he already suspected. The dog was dead.
A small wave of sadness lapped at Mark's mind. He thought of the
cheerless life this dog must have endured. Eating other people's
rubbish and never feeling the warmth of a gas fire or the stroke of a
loving hand. He sat on the floor, just in front of the dog, and
sighed.
"Don't worry mate, you're probably better off now," he said to
long-deaf ears.
"C'mon," he admonished himself, "it's a dead dog in a bush, for
Christ's sake, just get up and go home."
His conscious tugged like small hands on the hem of his coat.
"Tell you what," he said to the corpse, "why don't I find a nice spot
and give you a proper burial?"
Plan: he would find a peaceful patch of ground nearby and make some
semblance of a grave for the dog. That would make him feel better about
it, and also stop any unkind passers-by from kicking, poking, burning
or generally messing about with it.
Si stood and began to walk again.
About fifty yards further along the track the bushes thinned out
slightly and Si noticed bare patches of ground here and there. He
selected a suitable area and returned to the dog.
Si removed his jacket and lay it on the ground. He reached into the
bushes and took hold of the dog. It felt peculiar and Si realised it
was because he'd never handled a cold dog before; they had always been
soft and warm and alive.
He lay the animal on his coat, and gently wrapped it.
It was at this point that Si realised he had nothing with which to dig
even the smallest of holes, let alone one large enough to hold a
dog.
He picked up his sad burden and tucked it under his arm, then walked
back towards the spot he'd just found.
When he reached the small patch of bare earth that he'd chosen he
placed the dog on the ground and searched for a suitable digging
tool.
However, nothing was immediately apparent. Only a selection of round
pebbles, a used condom, an old bus timetable and a ten pence
piece.
Just at the point when Si was about to abandon the whole task as a
failure his eyes lit upon an old roof tile, half-protruding from the
dry soil.
"Perfect!" he exclaimed, a little too loudly. He pulled the slate from
the ground.
Although the dig would still be laborious, it would definitely be a lot
easier than using his bare hands..
Si began to dig.
At first he scraped more than dug, but when the hard, dry top layer had
been removed, Si found the soil beneath soft and easier to shift.
After 20 minutes of earthmoving, Si was the proud owner of a
sweat-soaked shirt and a dog-sized hole.
He carefully unwrapped the dog.
Si then realised that he wouldn't really want to wear a coat whose
previous owner had been a dead dog, so he pulled it back around the
animal. He lifted the jacket and it's contents into the hole and, using
the slate, covered it completely with earth.
He patted the dirt flat with the palm of his hand and stood back to
think of some appropriate words.
"Well, here lies..erm&;#8230;" he started.
Si thought for a few moments and then a smile began to form on his
lips.
He picked up the slate that had served as his spade and took his keys
from his pocket.
Si scratched three words onto the surface of the tile and jabbed it
back into the ground, a crude tombstone.
He stood back and read the inscription.

"Here Lies Jo"

? Graham Woods 2001