A hearse rumbled slowly past, and we joined the throng at the gates. “Let’s stop talking about it,” I said, fearing I might dissolve into tears again, “Let’s just enjoy the funeral.”

I only realised what I’d said when the woman in front turned to glare at me, and Sue smothered her laughter with a cough. I mouthed ‘Sorry’ at the stranger, and she glanced at my T-shirt and turned away again with a snort of derision. Sue and I avoided each other’s gaze and followed the hearse through the graveyard until it stopped at a row with a freshly dug grave. The undertakers sprang, slowly and respectfully, into action and carried the coffin to the mound of damp earth, balancing it on two boards.

The vicar walked to the head of the grave and waited while we all shuffled around, jockeying for position and trying not to stand on neighbouring plots. He was dressed in flowing purple robes decorated with silver swirls, with a long black cape. I whispered to Sue, “It’s the love child of Count Dracula and Prince.”

“Reverend Thorpe. I’ve heard of this guy. Wait ‘til he starts spouting; he’s very High.”

“On what – crack cocaine?”

“High Church, you heathen.”

The vicar began intoning, appropriately, in a voice borrowed from Vincent Price. “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together to mourn the passing of the dear departed soul from this realm….”

The droning continued for a while, then paused while six mourners stepped forward, each taking hold of a black silk tasselled rope. The undertakers removed the boards below the coffin, and the mourners took the strain. Colin's old boss lurched to his final resting place without issue, apart from one nervous moment when it looked like a tiny, elderly gentleman might lose his balance and join the dear departed soul.

The vicar resumed his Hammer Horror audition:

“In the midst of life, we are in – hunnhhh.” He buckled at the knees, pitched forward, and fell into the grave. Everyone jumped, gasped, and looked at the big, black, hairy dog standing where the vicar had been two seconds earlier.

“Jesus.” Sue grasped my arm, and we inched forward and peered over the grave's edge. Reverend Thorpe lay unconscious on top of the coffin, looking like a huge, flamboyant bat. Hammer Films would have a field day with that one.

All hell broke loose. Women shrieked. Men ran back and forth. Someone fetched a ladder. The chief undertaker approached the deceased’s family, had a brief word, and then made an announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, due to unforeseen circumstances, the service will end here. The family have asked me to invite you to Sunnyside Bowling Club, where you will find lukewarm sausage rolls, dry, curled sandwiches, stewed tea and weak coffee. Thank you.”

He didn’t say that last bit; he simply mentioned the word ‘buffet’, and I made my own conclusions. Sue and I edged away, crossed to the next row, and headed for the gates. The dog raced past, followed by a junior undertaker, coat tails flying. “You going to the bowling club?” I asked Sue.

“We’re going to the Dog and Duck for a pub lunch.”

“That’s more like it.”

“And we can talk about Jeff.”

“That’s…not so great.”

“You have to face facts, Marnie. He’s done a runner. With a shedload of money, half of which is rightfully yours. You don’t want him back, do you?”

“No. Definitely not.” I thought of Paul Felix. My hoped-for writing career. New possibilities. Freedom. Something shifted, deep down. “This could be a fresh start.”

“That’s more like it.”

We rounded an impressively creepy stone angel, and the big black dog peeped out from behind it. “Oh, hello, vicar mugger.”

“Here, boy.” Sue made kissy noises, and the dog trotted over and let us pet him, leaning against my leg, tail swishing back and forth. “He doesn’t have a collar. Wonder who owns him?”

“Here.” The junior undertaker who’d been chasing him puffed up and handed me a black silk rope. “You can tie him up with that.” Then he jogged away.

“Looks like we’re lumbered with the Hound of the Baskervilles.” I fastened the rope into a collar around the dog’s neck and held the tasselled ends, and we carried on towards the gates. “Nice gothic touch – although it looks like something a stripper would use.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Colin saw Jeff coming out of a strip club once.”

“What?”

“Last October when we were in London. Colin went out for a walk, and Jeff and some bloke he’d never seen before came out together and got in a taxi…with two women.”

I stopped dead, and the dog looked at me and whined. “And again, you never said a word?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to shoot the messenger. Colin had a quiet word with Jeff.”

I began walking again. “And what did Jeff say?”

“He was on some work outing with a colleague, and they dropped the girls off and went back to their hotel. He said it was a one-off, and he would avoid going out with the guy in future. Swore nothing happened and made Colin feel bad for suspecting him.”

“Yeah…he can be very…persuasive.”

And I could be…had been…a damn fool.

“That’s probably just one time in many.” Tears threatened once more, and I fumbled in my bag for a paper tissue and blew my nose, sounding like a deflating trumpet. The dog jumped in fright, we stumbled out of the cemetery, and Sue helped me hang onto the silk ropes.

“Ooh, that’s old Bert Hawkins’ dog.” Two women paused, shopping bags over their arms, cigarettes dangling from their lips. The first one spoke. “Been up to mischief, has he?”

“Don’t know what he was thinking,” the second woman said. “Getting a big, daft mutt like that at his age.”

“Where does this Bert Hawkins live?” Sue asked, and the first woman pointed along the street.

“Number eight. You won’t get him, though. Bert died last week.”

“Tragic accident.” The other woman nodded. “But his daughter’s in the house today.”

“Thanks.” We walked on.

“Tragic accident.” I squinted at the dog and then at Sue. “What d’you think: pushed down the stairs?”

“Pushed in front of a bus?”

“Off a pier?”

“Onto a railway line?”

“Into rush-hour traffic?”

Our musings took us as far as number eight, and, as we entered the garden, the dog hung back, whining softly. “He doesn’t want to go home,” I said.

“The murderer returning to the scene of the crime?” Sue rang the doorbell. “Maybe his conscience is troubling him.”

“Or maybe he was having too much fun rampaging around the graveyard assaulting random members of the clergy.” I looked down at the dog, and he gazed up at me with big brown eyes, reminding me of Paul Felix and stirring another feeling I couldn’t quite pin down. And then I came to a startling conclusion. “I don’t want to give him back - I want to keep him.”

Sue stared at me. “You want to…seriously?”

“Yes.” The dog and I exchanged another meaningful look. “This feels right.”

The door opened, and a woman stood glowering at us. She had mermaid hair and a face like a prize-fighter. “Oh, you found him. Where was he? I can’t be doing with this; I really can’t.”

“Does he run away a lot?” Sue asked.

“All the time. He gets out of the garden, and he’s off.” Bert Hawkins’ daughter sighed.

“We’re sorry about your dad,” I said, and her face crumpled. Then I added quickly, “Were you thinking of rehoming him?”

“My dad?” She squawked in disbelief. “What the fu –”

“No, the dog. Rehoming the dog.”

“You want him?” Relief flooded through her face, and then she frowned. “I can’t just give him to anyone, though; my dad loved him. I would take him myself, but we’ve got three cats, and we’re out at work all day, and he’s a bit…mental.”

“I can vouch for my friend,” Sue said. “Marnie Hope, a responsible adult, feeds pigeons. She lives in Dexter Bay, and she’ll look after him, and I’m sure your dad would approve.”

“Marnie…hang on…you’re that woman in the Clarion.” Bert’s daughter gazed at me. “My dad gets it delivered, and it came this morning.” She turned to rummage on a table, and Sue looked at me, eyebrows raised. My face flamed. The glamorous prize-fighter returned. “Here it is. You can have it.” She thrust the newspaper at me and then nodded. “You’ll do for Elvis.”

“Sorry?”

“Dad loved goat’s cheese. Hang on.”

She disappeared inside the house, and Sue dived over to my side. Together we looked at the Dexter Bay Clarion, which unfortunately covered Lufton – and I groaned out loud.

“You made the front page.” Sue laughed. “What on earth…?” She skimmed through the story beneath the massive picture of Paul and me in front of the café. “He saved your life.” She turned the page, and the article continued with a large photo of Paul behind the glass counter and a small one of Steph, the waitress, serving a customer. Sue laughed again. “I leave you for one weekend...”

“Oh, jeez.” I read some of the article and gasped. “They’ve put my age – I never told that reporter how old I am!”

“Here you are.” Bert Hawkins’ daughter reappeared with two bulging Tesco bags for life. “He doesn’t have a bed, won’t sleep in them, but these are all his toys and leads and bowls and some food and treats and stuff.” She offloaded the bags onto Sue, stepped forward and gave the dog a cuddle. “Bye, Elvis. You be a good boy for the nice lady.” She looked at me, and her eyes filled up. “Thanks again. My dad would be so happy his dog’s going to a good home.” She shot back inside the house and closed the door.

Elvis bounded down the path to the gate, and I followed – like I had a choice. Then the silk rope slipped through my fingers, and he ran off and, thankfully, stopped beside Sue’s car.

I jogged up and grabbed his makeshift leash again.

“There you go.” Sue hauled her matching luggage towards us. “He knows where he’s going.” She unlocked the car and dumped the bags in the boot, and a folder fell out. Sue picked it up, leafed through its contents and then looked at me with a grin.

“Well, Marnie, looks like you lost a husband and gained a Labradoodle.”