I won’t go to the wake. I’m going to stand here for a while and look at the coffin in the hole, then I’m going to watch from a safe distance as the gravediggers fill it in. I won’t be able to feel until I know for sure. They dig a bit deeper when the dear departed is over six feet tall, a small comfort. So far I’ve supervised everything, including the undertakers’ routines. I was allowed to see her in her coffin. I checked her left thigh for that mole. It was there. I was there when they screwed the lid shut. I had a fellow install a camera in the parlour - he is removing it now. I wouldn’t be surprised you see, she has vanished before, but now we have a body. I won’t be able to feel until I am one hundred per cent certain.
I am terrified of her. Was terrified. Yes, sounds better. Locked me up for days in the cellar, tried to poison me. Because I wouldn’t put her in my will. Now I’ve no need.
They are leaving now and I’m going to keep watch, then retire to my vantage point and take long-range photos of the site. A week, then I can be sure, as long as the photos match every day.
Then there will be my piece-de-resistance in seventeen days' time. I’ve had time to plan this. There was a long inquest at my behest. I’m quite proud of myself for holding the gears of probity in check for so long. In seventeen days' time, there is going to be an exhumation. And then I can start to feel once more after so many, many years.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, my lovely”.