Something Special, Something Rare Read Online Free Page B

the road, clutching caps in their fists, wearing overalls and work boots covered in dried concrete. The local shopkeeper, who was always dressed in black, sat alone in the corner – an Italian woman who sometimes had to have her teenage son translate for customers. There were a few pale-faced women in a middle row cradling gurgling babies and softly berating their restless toddlers. Then the Lord Mayor swept through the door with a photographer and two suited men – Ginger had seen her picture in the paper many times. She was wearing a grey pinstripe suit and her neck was ringed with her usual leather choker dotted with silver studs. By now, it was standing-room only and some fold-out chairs had to be wedged against the wall.
    Standing an arm’s length away from Ginger was a tall man in a blue suit, studying the crowd. It was only when she caught a whiff of mint aftershave, and glimpsed the hook nose, that she recognised him. She could just make out the impression that his gun made through his jacket.
    She frowned and glanced about, wondering why he was attending the service. After a minute or so, she recognised another man, similarly suited and groomed, standing closer to the front, his eyes roving like spotlights across the crowd of teary mourners. Ginger glanced back at the hooked-nosed one, at the slight lump protruding from the left side of his jacket, and wondered if he planned to shoot one of the mourners. It seemed strange to have detectives attend such a ceremony, as if her father were about to commit an act of terrorism rather than conduct a short funeral.
    She handed out the last of the Order of Service cards and tiptoed up the middle aisle, between rows of bowed heads, through whispered prayers in what sounded like several different languages. She sat in the front row between an Aboriginal woman and a young man taking notes. The organist was now playing ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee’. On the front dais sat the usual wooden rectangular stand, but instead of supporting a two-metre casket, half-open for viewing, it presented a tiny white coffin, no longer than her own arm, surrounded by fragrant lilies.
    It was only when her father appeared from behind the curtains, when he assumed his place behind the lectern and began his eulogy, that she began to understand why this funeral seemed so different from the others.
    â€˜No doubt you’ve all read about this tragedy in the press,’ her father announced in an unusually quiet voice. ‘And I thank you sincerely for gathering here today, to mourn this anonymous soul, this tiny angel, whose presence on earth was such a brief flicker.’
    Even though she had her eyes on her father, standing tall behind the lectern, she could hear people softly weeping, the rustle of tissues, a deep cough. The detective at the front of the room uncrossed his arms and raised one hand to his face.
    Her father turned a page on the lectern and seemed to be reading from his notes.
    â€˜The poor child,’ he continued, ‘did not even have a name by which we can farewell her.’ He also added she had no accurate date of birth, no known address.
    Ginger slid to the edge of her chair and crossed her ankles, confused. In her experience, just about every corpse had been accompanied by a name and date of birth. It was customary, at the very least, for some tattered pension card, dole form or ATM receipt to identify a body. She had seen her own birth certificate, though it was incomplete.
    Her father shifted and cleared his throat. ‘This nameless newborn,’ he continued, ‘deserves our prayers and greatest sympathy, for her few days of life here on earth were no doubt filled with suffering and pain.’
    The parlour door slammed open and she looked around to see a few more women, barely out of their teens, filing into the room. The hook-nosed detective scrutinised them each briefly before turning his attention back to the service.
    â€˜This