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Rory turned his face away from the window, where a crack in the heavy curtains allowed a hint of the late afternoon sun to creep in. He had been staring at the closed curtains for a good five minutes, but had been paying such little attention to them that he couldn't remember what colour they were. He stubbed his cigarette out in the half-full ashtray and glanced around the blacked-out bar.

From his booth in the corner he could see everything without being watched in return. Half a dozen old men sat solitary throughout the small space, moving only to raise their drinks or their cigarettes to their mouths. The only noise was the constant commentary from the old television that was raised high in the corner, with the bartender regularly flicking between football and horse racing.

They had all stared at him when he came in. Not only was he a stranger in this small town, but he looked out of place in his sharp black suit and shiny shoes that contrasted with his three-day stubble. He had kept his head down as he made his way to the bar, ordering two pints at once so that he wouldn't have to speak to the barman any more than was necessary.

No one had looked at him since he took his place in the corner, and he was more than grateful for the solitude and the alcohol. Rory downed the last of his first pint and pulled his tie loose. Getting dressed that morning seemed like a lifetime ago and home was miles away. He lit another cigarette and leaned back against the stone wall; eyes closed, and replayed the day in his mind.

Jamie Fitzpatrick had been buried an hour ago in a small graveyard less than a mile from where Rory now sat. The funeral had taken place in a tiny church, led by a minister too young and too new to remember the deceased. The congregation had sung along tunelessly to old hymns, and the minister read stories he had pulled from family members at the wake the previous evening.

The only people Rory could recognise were those who had made their way from the city, as he had done. The rest of the mourners consisted of ageing relatives and people Jamie hadn't spoken to in twenty years. After three days of numbness, of operating without thought or feeling, Rory had felt anger creep in as his best friend was lowered into the ground. He had struggled to find the slightest hint of Jamie's presence throughout the entire service. Hymns and misery and the family plot were not what he would have wanted to mark the end of his life, but Jamie's closest friends had been at the mercy of a mother's grief, and Mrs Fitzpatrick had made the arrangements before her son's body was cold.
Jamie hadn't been home in ten years, and she had brought him back without hesitation, now that he was unable to fight back. 

The thought of his dear friend spending eternity in the place he had tried so desperately to get away from, lying next to a father he despised, seemed like the ultimate betrayal. But it was the inscription on the tombstone that had finally pushed Rory over the edge. It read: 'Our Loving Son, Called Home, March 18th'. More lies, Rory had thought, a romantic version of events designed to make us all feel less guilty.

Feeling that he was either going to scream or hurt someone, he had turned and walked away from the grave and the mourners, rather than make a scene. There had been an invitation for tea and sandwiches at the church hall after the funeral, but the thought of it made him feel nauseated. He needed to be alone, to remember Jamie as he really was, before today could warp his memory of him.

Rory was forced back into the present as the door of the bar swung open, having been pushed with a little too much force. He squinted in the sudden sunlight, but the figure was easily recognisable. Frankie, looking far too scruffy in his best suit, was the final part of the terrible trio that had now reluctantly become a duo. The mock-scared look on Frankie's face as the old men started at him was almost enough to make Rory laugh for the first time in three days. He lifted his half-empty second pint to catch Frankie's attention, and the second man stopped at the bar before joining him. The old men returned to their stillness.

'Bloody hell, it's like the Land That Time Forgot in here!' Frankie whispered a little too loudly as he set down their drinks. He sat heavily on the opposite side of the booth, causing the table to wobble. Frankie couldn't seem to do anything without causing a fuss.

'What did you expect? The whole town's like something out of The Wicker Man,' Rory said, a little more quietly than Frankie had managed. If the patrons of the bar had heard them, they weren't offended enough to react. Frankie chuckled. Rory couldn't remember the last time his friend had looked so tired. Rory looked at one of the old men, who was gazing into his pipe. He imagined that this man would die here, unnoticed on that stool; that he would simply turn to dust which would settle on the curtains. He and Frankie lit cigarettes and sipped their pints, and Rory hoped the long silence would last, but silence was Frankie's enemy.

'Take it you just couldn't wait for a drink, then?' he asked. 'It's really bad funeral etiquette to go to the pub before the service is over.'

Rory felt sheepish and awkward. He didn't want to talk about today; he didn't want to talk at all. 'You didn't waste any time either. Shouldn't you be having tea and sandwiches right now?'

Frankie shrugged. 'That church hall smelt of last night's under-age disco. I lasted about five minutes.'

Rory faked a laugh, and things were quiet again. He stared at the television for ten minutes, his eyes burning, until he felt he was being watched by Frankie, who said simply: 'I know, mate.' Rory felt his chest tighten and pretended he hadn't heard his friend speak, but Frankie wasn't going to let male pride stand in the way. 'I know today was horrible, and there isn't a single thing about it that Jamie would have wanted. It pissed me off, as well. The only thing he would have got a kick out of was the giant disco ball in the church hall.' Rory laughed quietly, and meant it. 'We had sixteen years worth of good times. Why let one day ruin that?'

'He swore he would never come back here - not of his own free will, anyway,' Rory said quietly. 'It's like nothing he wanted even matters. His mum and all his weird old aunts all looked at us like we were from another planet. They all think he was just an evil kid who ran away from home and broke his mother's heart.'

Frankie nodded. 'Look, maybe his mum is the evil control freak he always said she was, and this was her way of having the last word.' He toyed with his lighter. 'Or maybe she's a woman who chose the wrong side between her son and her violent husband, and she just wanted her child to be close by again.' He pulled out his last cigarette and scrunched up the packet. 'We'll never know if she's sorry or not, and it's not our place to find out.' Rory looked away, watching the dust dance in the lone streak of sunlight from the window beside them. 'At least,' Frankie continued carefully, blowing smoke towards the ceiling, 'at least we can say that we knew him, and that we can remember him as he really was.'

Rory looked at him, as Frankie tilted his head up to watch the smoke swirl in the sunlight. 'Did we? Did we really know him?' 

Frankie met Rory's gaze, but Rory couldn't hold it. 'If we really knew him, we wouldn't be sitting here right now.'

Frankie rubbed his forehead in frustration. 'We couldn't have changed anything.'

'We could have changed everything, Frankie, if we had talked to him about it,' Rory said angrily. 'We could have stopped him from killing himself.'
Frankie slapped his lighter onto the table. 'We could spend the rest of our lives wondering about what would have been. He told 

us all about his father, what it was like growing up here... we knew more than anyone, how he felt about this place. And every time we asked how he was doing, we got the same answer.'

'He lied to us then.'

Frankie shook his head and pushed his empty glass away from him. 'He lied to himself. He never really left this place, Rory. I could see it in him, through all the jokes and all his talk about how much he loved his life, us, and you saw it too. Remember that night when he took all those pills? How he couldn't hold on to a job, or a girlfriend? How he acted as if he was permanently happy twenty-four hours a day?'

Frankie rose and leaned over the table. 'Don't forget the truth just to feed your own guilt.' He headed to the bathroom.

Rory slumped back in his seat, drained and fuming. He was angry at himself, more than anything. He had spent the past three days dreaming of what he could have done differently on Thursday night. He imagined himself phoning Jamie and asking how he was, or calling at his house even five minutes earlier than he had done. Maybe it would have made a difference, or maybe it would have only delayed the inevitable. Jamie wasn't always happy, he knew. He wasn't the life of the party or the happiest person on Earth, as Rory had come to think of him since that night. Jamie was only human, but he had hidden it so well. 

Maybe, Rory thought, Jamie is better off. Maybe he doesn't have to pretend any more.

Frankie was buying cigarettes and another round, making small talk with the barman to give Rory just a few more minutes to cool down. He was grateful for it, and took deep breaths to ease the tightness in his chest. Frankie could be a complete idiot at times but he had proven on this occasion to be the voice of reason.

Rory pulled back the curtain beside him carefully. The sun was setting in the distance, and he felt relieved that this day was almost over. It hadn't been what he had wanted, or what Jamie had deserved. He had spent the day wallowing in guilt, not really mourning. It was getting him nowhere, and Jamie would have hated it. He should have been celebrating, sharing stories of the friend he knew.

In the low light of the setting sun he looked again at the men in the bar; at the heavy creases in their faces and the burden of a million things unsaid in their eyes. He didn't want to be swallowed up by guilt or regret. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve, as rational and honest as Frankie was hyper and Jamie had been manic. The people in this town, the Fitzpatricks and their neighbours, would remember Jamie in their own way, and that couldn't change the truth. Rory looked out the window again and was reminded of a sunset many years ago, when the trio had taken a debaucherous trip abroad. Lying on a beach in some foreign place they had sobered up as the sun rose, talking about life after death. They joked about ghosts and discussed religion, but it was Jamie who had voiced what they all felt.

'I just want to be remembered,' he had said.

They drove all night, still in their funeral clothes. Frankie had gathered all the people who had driven from the city, catching them just before they left. They piled into their shared cars and picked up supplies when they reached civilisation. They had extended an invitation to Mrs Fitzpatrick, wanting to tell her stories about her son, but she had declined. Rory thought she looked pale, and tired, and for the first time that day, like a grieving mother. She gave them one of Jamie's childhood photos, without explanation, though the meaning was clear. They arrived at the beach just before sunrise, and turned up their car stereos and played Jamie's favourite songs, talked and laughed. Rory joined in, wholeheartedly, and Frankie just listened. They remembered all the bad things, but focused on the good. They couldn't change the past, but they could honour their friend.