Where are you

He’s coming down the hill, the long hill, one arm out to the side like on a crucifix, the other in a sharp triangle jamming the mobile to his ear. Whiter-than-white sports clothes with a blue stripe down the leg. He’s tall and not unattractive with a shaved head and a thick earring. Oblivious to anyone or anything but the person on the phone he’s saying:
‘…and you fucking know that. You fucking know that…’ and
‘Where are you now? Where are you?’. He’s staring at whoever he’s talking to, in his head.
‘You fucking know that. Where are you?’

Further down the hill and the elbow is still jagged and he jumps out into the road, dances around someone, bends down or – it looks like – even hits them. It’s hard to tell because four black horses are pulling a hearse right in front of him. He carries on shouting ‘where are you?’. Traffic piles up behind the hearse and people stop to look. He walks on, turns a corner and is gone.

The shouting stops. Cars behind hold back from overtaking the procession. Approaching, they slow down reverently. Even white vans slow down as if it’s someone they know. Or could be. Or just to get a good look. A low limousine full of white flowers passes first. They’re crammed all over the back where the coffin usually is in little groups like a huge cauliflower. The horse-drawn hearse carries a pink coffin – not an adult size, yet not too small either – in a pale shade of pink with gold handles. Following it, two more black, empty limousines.

They come to a junction and the red car immediately behind pushes forward as far as possible to get around the corner a bit sooner.

Where are you

Dave Everitt

Melton Mowbray, United Kingdom

  • Artist
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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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