"They're all sitting in the Gods," said Eddie, "but your friends, Mr Lichfield, do an old ham good. Come to gloat I daresay, Hammersmith thought, come to tell me how wrong I was. He glanced up for a moment and registered that the visitor was that upstart Calloway. He was in the act of pouring his eighth drink when the door opened. Half a minute passed a minute a minute and a half. The bobbing head bobbed on, eyes closed, lips clamped around his member, utterly engrossed. He held his breath a moment, while an idea was born in his belly. Her skin, which he had thought so flatteringly pale was, on second view, a waxen white. "Oh darling," she said, letting all pretence to life disappear, "I'm not so good at playing the part, am I?" Her voice was a ghost's voice: thin, forlorn.
How could he ever have mistaken that dead stare for life? Gently, she withdrew his shrunken manhood from between her lips. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "In fact, I think I can see him from here." "He'll be upstairs, in the Gods," said Lichfield. The generations had dwindled, and the small number of people who might still have had a loved one buried there were too infirm to risk the throttled walkways, or too tender to bear looking at such vandalism.
Very few mourners now came to tend the graves. The tombs had been raided for lead coffin-linings, the stones overturned and smashed it was fouled by dogs and graffiti. Since the building of the new Crematorium in 1934, one humiliation had come after another for the cemetery.
It was this act she valued, this act alone. She was eager to finish what she'd started, no longer caring about the play, or her usurper. That's why she'd come back, got up off her mortuary slab and come back. She has me in her mouth, in her cold mouth, and she's dead.
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