The burial was the worst, desperate altogether. It was I who let the volley off over the grave, using his own g*n, three shots of promise and warning. I didn’t flinch from the task, kept my eyes open as I let the fire and didn’t screw up my face to one side as I have seen others do. Oh, the sounds. The three loud cracks of the Webley. The cry Mammy let out of her as the coffin went into the ground. The thud of the first sods of clay hitting the wood. The sea-chant of the prayers, breaking in a holy wave across the headstones, down to meet the sound of the sea itself.
Diary 20th January
I can’t write.
Diary 28th January
I want to, but I still can’t write.
Diary February 4th
Dear Diary, Help me. I sit before your empty page and I feel you are censuring me. But I don’t know how else I c
