There was an almighty metallic crash and Dorothy spun round to see the iron cemetery gates buckle and spring from their hinges, clatter into the stone pillars either side and collapse as an old white Nissan careened into the graveyard and pummelled along the gravel path on the south side, rising into the air over bumps and swerving between graves. It was moving at maybe fifty miles per hour, engine a high whine, as the siren got louder and a police car thundered through the cemetery gates in pursuit.

The Nissan braked and swerved at the bend in the path, fishtailed into a headstone, which fell like a domino. The car straightened and sped up, the police car copying its trajectory round the bend, running onto the grass. The Nissan glanced off two more gravestones and ricocheted across the path, the gravestones tearing chunks from the front bumper, denting the driver’s door.

It was a hundred yards away from the hearse, the family car and Susan’s coffin. The Blackie party stood with eyes wide, Dorothy the same, the minister with his mouth open.

The hearse was blocking the path but the Nissan kept racing towards them, bouncing along, clattering against headstones and thumping over grassy mounds. The police car was behind, lights flashing, siren screaming.

The Nissan was almost at the hearse now as Dorothy felt someone pulling her, Archie was yanking her arm. She stumbled towards a large memorial stone just as the Nissan rushed past her, swerved away from the rear of the hearse, scattering mourners, the Blackie men jumping out of the way. The car clattered into the gravestone next to Susan’s coffin, bounced into the air, then its front end dipped and it landed with a sickening thud halfway in the empty grave, its rear end hanging in the air, wheels spinning.

The police car skidded to a halt a foot from the hearse and its siren stopped. The sudden quiet was disorienting, as Dorothy straightened and ran to the Nissan. She went past Susan’s coffin, which seemed unscathed, to the driver’s side of the car. She hauled at the crumpled door three, four times. Eventually it opened and she leaned in.

Behind the wheel was a dishevelled young man in dirty clothes, with longish hair and an untidy beard. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and there was no airbag. He had a long gash across his forehead, which was leaning against a crack in the windscreen. Blood poured from his ear. He was dead, Dorothy knew that look better than anyone.

She held the door open, staring at him, as a young police officer arrived behind her. He looked at the Nissan’s driver, eyes wide. He’d obviously not seen as many dead bodies as Dorothy. His face went pale.