The ushers stare at the mangled gold crown in Femi’s hand. It seemed so out of place where they found it – sitting on the black earth, in the midst of the storm – that it takes all of them a few moments to work out where they have seen it before.
‘It’s Jules’s crown,’ Angus says. ‘Shit,’ Femi says. ‘Of course it is.’
Each wonders silently, what violence it might have taken to so brutally deform the metal.
‘Did you see her face?’ Angus asks. ‘Jules? Before she cut the cake? She looked— really angry, I thought. Or … or maybe really frightened.’
‘Did anyone see her in the marquee?’ Femi asks. ‘After the lights came on?’
Angus quails. ‘But surely you can’t think … you don’t mean you think something really bad could have happened to her?’
‘Fuck.’ Duncan lets out a hiss of breath.
‘I’m not saying that exactly,’ Femi answers. ‘I’m only saying – does anyone remember seeing her?’
There’s a long silence. ‘I can’t—’
‘No, Dunc. Neither can I.’
They look about them in the darkness, eyes straining for any movement, ears pricked for any sound, breath catching in their throats.
‘Oh God. Look, there’s something else over there.’ Angus bends to retrieve the object. They all see how his hand trembles as he lifts it to the light, but none of them mock him for his fear this time. They are all afraid now.
It’s a shoe. A single court in a pale grey silk, a jewelled buckle on the toe.
