He was early. Paul didn’t usually do early. However, Trevor had to get there at least half an hour before the kick-off, or whatever you called the start of a funeral. So Paul sat there, three pews from the front, twiddling his thumbs.
At least he and Trevor were talking again. He thought for a while there he’d f****d things up totally. Though, Trevor was still quiet around him, more distant than usual. Paul didn’t like it, but it was better than them not talking at all. And they’d gone through a couple of hours of that the previous day. Paul had offered to give Trevor a lift to the church. “After all, I’m going there anyway.”
“I usually ride my bike,” Trevor said.
Paul had a sudden mental image inspired by something George Orwell had written about old maids cycling to Holy Communion. He
