Warwick Rabbits liked nothing better to relax than to quietly wander a cemetery. He enjoyed reading the gravestone inscriptions. He imagined what the person was like.
Here’s the grave of Roman Mead. Died 5 July 1924. It’s not a common name, Roman. Warwick could see no other Meads buried in the vicinity. Perhaps he never married. It doesn’t say how old he was.
And here’s the grave of Roberta Cattermole, loved wife of Denny. He’s buried there with her, although he went first. Looking at the dates, she lived as a widow for nineteen years.
Oh, and here’s the grave of Carol Greenberg, died aged seven months. How sad. Warwick pondered how his parents must have grieved.
And here’s… goodness… here’s the grave of… It can’t be? Surely not? Here’s the grave of Warwick Rabbits. Born 12 August 1941. That was his birthday. The day, month and year, and his name, were the same as his. Warwick wondered if he was dead. He didn’t recall dying. He didn’t remember having been ill in recent times. He must have died suddenly, if indeed he was dead.
Nothing was different. He felt the same, except he had no lumbago and it was three in the morning. Why on earth would he be wandering a cemetery at that time of night? And then he noticed something. It would normally have shocked him deeply. He was wearing no clothes. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t have a body.