Eye of the raven

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The Rev Joseph Lawson took up stance at the door of his church to watch his congregation — all eight of them — depart at the end of the Sunday evening service. He could not help but feel — with what he thought was a brave attempt at humour — that what they lacked in numbers they made up for in years. He guessed at a combined age of something over six hundred.

Willie MacPhee, a long-retired bank employee and the last of the group to complete the walk along the overgrown path through a maze of vandalised headstones and neglected shrubbery, turned to close the gate behind him. His pronounced stoop and the fact that the sleeves of his beige rain jacket were too long made it difficult and his wife’s body language exuded impatience as he continued to fumble with the mechanism. When he heard the rusty latch finally fall into place, Lawson raised his hand to wave farewell but there was no response. He reasoned that probably neither MacPhee nor his wife could see that far.

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