She looks a lot like her mother, Tom thinks, comparing Iona and Faith Casadoro. She’s shorter, though. Must be the Italian genes. The short grey-haired man beside her must be her father. At least they had arrived together. He forces himself to look elsewhere. It does not seem appropriate to stare at the bereaved across the open grave of Wallace Burns.

  The weather suits the occasion just fine. It is cold and damp, a rainy November afternoon, and the congregation is shivering under their umbrellas. BBC Scotland had packed up long ago, nobody is heeding what the pastor has to say. The only truly solemn moment had been during the church service, when an alto had sung “Have Mercy, Lord, on Me”. Now, everybody wishes for it to be over.

  Faith’s mother had started crying during the service and not stopped since then. Faith does not cry. She just looks pale and exhausted. Her father had tried to take her arm on the way to the graveyard, but she had shaken him off. Tom knows that she had spent the last couple of months looking after Burns. His death had not been a surprise. Her apathy now is.

  When he had last seen Burns, in early June, Faith had disappeared immediately, as she had always done since that day at the hospital. Burns had told him that she was destined for great things, in his usual ironic manner. “She does not yet know where to begin, but she is going to take on the world. And she is going to do so much damage, my boy. So much damage.” He had chuckled. “You know, Tom, she is going to break hearts all around, and the circus will turn around her eventually. I’m sorry that I’ll not be able to see it.” Tom had laughed, dutifully, but he had not felt good about it.

  The pastor is done at last. Bagpipes are wailing “Auld Lang Syne”. What an absolute horror show. Tom does not particularly want to shake hands with the family, and he makes his way across the ankle high wet grass of the graveyard to the pub. There he meets some other men who had managed to make it to Craigan during the crucial weeks of the racing calendar.

  In the bar it is warm, thank God, and there are drinks and some sandwiches waiting for them. The men, for it was men only, slowly come to life again. Tom evades the questions after his plans successfully and settles down at a table with Burns’ chief engineer George Strathairn. He cannot stop glancing at the door. The Casadoro family does not appear. After an hour he has to remark about it.

  “They are off to the lawyers’”, Strathairn says. “The will. The American woman and the Italian want to go back to Los Angeles tonight. It was the chick who arranged for this.” He gestures around the room, where the gathering has become rather lively. The singing is going to start soon. The drinks are flowing freely.

  “Oh”, Tom says.

  Strathairn feels encouraged. “She really made a show of her grief, didn’t she, the American. But never gave a damn about him all those years.”

  “I really don’t know anything about them. The family, I mean”, Tom admits.

  Strathairn is a couple of shots ahead – had been before the service, probably. He snorts disgustedly. “Family! They are here to cash in the money.” He leans towards Tom, lowering his voice. “We are about to see the end of Claymore Racing, my boy. The American will let the team die, for sure. A pity, really.”

  “That would be a pity indeed, but…”

  “But what can you do? The women never liked it when Wallace spent his money. Not the American, and certainly not her mother, either.”

  So there had been a Mrs Burns. “That’s what I heard”, Tom agrees. He fills Strathairn’s glass with another shot of single malt.

  “Well, I didn’t know the old man back then, but I know that he was entirely selfmade, and once he thought that he had enough money, he invested very wisely and spent what he wanted on cars and his racing team.”

  “And vintage cars.”

  “Those, too. And his wife would have preferred him to go on making money. And then she went to America, with their young daughter, never to come back. He never even spoke about them. Sad, really.”

  “Yeah. But then the girl came along.”

  “Ah, the chick. Strange story. I’ve never heard her say three words strung together. But she was there when he needed her, that much is certain.” Strathairn sighs. “Well, if she was a boy, the team might have a chance yet. As it is, we’re lucky if they sell it whole. But I suppose it’s all going down the drain. Let’s drink to that.” He raises his glass.

  “Cheers”, Tom says.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “What are you drinking to?” Lionel Wilkinson, one of Burns’ oldest friends, the director of a couple of distilleries and one of Claymore’s sponsors, sits beside them.

  To Faith not being a boy, Tom thinks. He says, “George is predicting the end of Claymore.”

  Lionel nods. “Sad days. He did not deserve this kind of ending. Cheers.”

  Tom leans back and decides to skip the next couple of rounds.

  Shortly after closing time Tom has put Lionel and George into the only two cabs in Craigan. He will have to wait for the cars to return. They had been the last people to leave. He had not wanted to stay this long.

  Luckily, the rain has ceased. It is still cold and damp, though. He takes a few steps up and down the road to pass the time and keep warm. All that talk about the end of Claymore! The team had never played an important role in the circus, except for the people who actually were the team. And for people like him, of course. It had been a fixture, however, and if the team was to die, it would really be the end of an era. The last months, when Burns had not been able to be present at all, had already shown that it had been him holding it together. Nothing had worked any more. He had followed the decline of his former team into dilettantism with horror. The gap Burns is leaving is too big, and the gap Claymore would leave would also be big.

  He has reached the pub again. He is aware that he is being watched from behind closed curtains. Who is walking around so suspiciously at this time of night? Who, indeed. He turns his steps up the road once more, towards the graveyard. The moon is breaking through the clouds. He might as well make use of the time he has and say a last farewell to his mentor, boss, and friend. He is not going to come back here any time soon.

  He is out of breath. The last part of the road is steep. He ought to try to get into shape again. He waits until he can breathe normally again before entering the graveyard, suddenly cautious.

  Somebody else is less cautious, and less quiet.

  There is a woman kneeling by the fresh grave, crying loudly and without inhibition. Tom would have known her even without the moonlight. He walks up to the grave, stopping a few metres away, waiting. Nothing happens. She is kneeling on the wet ground, her hands in her lap, crying violently and rocking back and forth. This seems more natural than the apathy she had displayed during the afternoon. He feels her grief, he understands her reaction. He waits until the wind has driven the clouds away and the stars are bright in the sky before he approaches her, squats down next to her and puts his hand on her arm.

  “Faith, come on. It is enough. I’m so sorry. You should come away now. You have cried enough.” She turns her face towards him, but he is not sure whether she actually sees him. “Come on, Faith. It’s enough.”

  One moment later he is holding her in his arms. She is still crying, but the sounds are muffled against his shoulder now. He holds her, swaying gently from side to side and stroking her hair, and it works. The crying stops, and when she is fumbling for a handkerchief, he has already found his. He wipes her face and lets her blow her nose. She must be so tired, letting him treat her like a child.

  “Come on. I’ll find us a cab and get you home.” He pulls her up, puts his arm around her and leads her away from the grave.

  They do not speak on the way down the hill. She has a hiccup, no wonder. The cab is waiting at the pub.

  He tells the driver to go to Wake Hall first. Then they get inside. She has taken his hand and does not let go. She lets herself sink against him, and after a few turns her forehead is resting against his throat. Her hiccup is gone, and when the grip of her hand ceases, he reaches up and strokes a strand of hair from her face, where he lets his fingers rest. Her lashes brush his skin now and then. She is not asleep, although her breathing has turned calm. He becomes aware that her hand is resting on his thigh. His heart is beating faster.

  When the cab stops in front of the entrance to Wake Hall, she makes no move to get out. The driver switches on the interior lights and announces, “Wake Hall.” Then he looks into the rearview mirror and turns off the light again.

  Tom waits, not daring to move, holding his breath. She lifts her face towards his. There is no doubt what she is trying to tell him. Her lips are parted, her hand is still on his thigh. He feels dizzy. In this moment, she is his.

  Then he puts his hands on her shoulders, pushing her away as gently as he can. “Good night, Miss Casadoro”, he says hoarsely. “I’m truly sorry. I hope you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  There is silence. Then he feels her body go tense, as if she had awoken from a dream. She shakes off his hands. When she speaks, her voice sounds firm, if a bit metallic. “Thank you very much, Mr Healey. Good night.”

  She gets out, walks around the car and speaks to the driver, handing him some money. Tom cannot hear what is spoken because his blood is rushing in his ears. Without looking back she walks up the steps and disappears.

  The driver turns the car around. Tom’s head is still spinning, but worse than that is the feeling that he has made a terrible mistake. His thigh is burning where her hand had been, and he can still see her inviting lips – but he also sees the exhaustion and the traces of her tears, and not for the world would he have taken advantage of this moment of weakness. He knows such moments, and the misjudged decisions they could lead to. He wants to spare her that. He does not want her to feel, a few hours from now, that she has done something she regrets. It has been right, but it feels wrong.

  When he wants to pay for the ride, the driver says, “The lady has paid already, mate.”

  Tom watches the cab drive off, wondering whether the man had sounded sympathetic or scornful.