The Order of Things by Graham Hurley

of performances.’
    Lizzie sat in silence, listening to the first movement while Ralph described the way it had been back in September. The best view of the garden was from their bedroom upstairs. With the help of Harriet, he’d already positioned Julia’s favourite couch in the window with a thick nest of pillows to support her back. The weather, he said, had been perfect since dawn. They’d been up at four, waiting for sunrise, and hadn’t been disappointed. Not a cloud in the sky. Not a breath of wind. Harriet had arrived mid-morning. Julia wanted to die once the sun had come round the side of the house and hit the gazebo. That’s where she planned to rest. That’s where she’d spend the rest of her days.
    ‘So what time was that?’
    ‘Any time after twelve. Harriet set up a cannula. I’ve no idea what she was using and she never told me, but she assured us that it would be painless and pretty much instantaneous. That was important because Julia wanted to judge the moment perfectly.’
    ‘The moment of her death?’
    ‘Of course.’
    The first movement of the concerto, much of it scored for piano and trumpet, was coming to an end. The adagio was next. This, said Ralph, was the music that Julia wanted to take with her.
    Lizzie settled back and closed her eyes. She’d seen the frail courage in the last photograph, the smile for the camera, the tissue balled in one thin hand. It wasn’t hard to imagine this woman on her couch, waiting for the sunshine to kiss the gazebo, waiting for the music to happen, waiting to give Harriet Reilly that final nod of her head, the signal that it was nearly over.
    Ralph was right. The music was truly divine, the theme picked out on the piano, then gathered up by the soaring strings and warmed by an oboe and a flute. It surged on, music to fly by, music for seagulls, music with no respect for either gravity or pain. Then came a particularly poignant passage and Lizzie opened her eyes to find Ralph’s gaze locked on hers.
    ‘Here?’ she whispered.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘She didn’t want to listen to the rest of the movement?’
    ‘No. She said she wanted something to listen to on the other side.’
    ‘And the gazebo?’
    ‘Full sunshine. Absolutely perfect.’
    He raised his glass and closed his eyes until his head went down and he started to sob. Anton was first to his side. He wanted to know about the music. Should they turn it off? Might that help?
    ‘God, no.’ His head came up again, tears streaming down his face. ‘Leave it on. That’s the whole point.’

Ten
    T UESDAY, 10 J UNE 2014, 20.37
    The flat was empty when Jimmy Suttle finally made it home. Among the messages on his answerphone was one from Oona. ‘The Fureys are playing at the Corn Exchange on Friday.’ She was laughing. ‘Lucky old you.’ He stood in the big window while he listened to the rest of his messages. The view across the water, especially at this time in the evening, never failed to speak to him. The rain had cleared, and seagulls hung in the remains of the sunset. Below them a lone sculler was pushing hard against the rising tide, and further away lights pricked the dark mass of Torbay.
    He stood for a moment, savouring the peace. It had taken him a while to get used to living up here on his own, but now he knew that nothing would shift him. Not the temptations of moving somewhere bigger and more practical. Not the nightmare parking. Not even Oona. Lately she’d started dropping hints about getting a place together or maybe moving in, but he’d kissed her, and held her, and told her that now wasn’t the time. Life would never be perfect, he’d said, but this was bloody close.
    He left the room. A couple of Stellas from the fridge and the remains of last night’s chilli con carne was more than he needed. He readied the chilli for the microwave and then returned to the front room. Harriet Reilly’s travel notes were in his briefcase.
    The notes related to two trips. She was scrupulous