When the pallbearers bring the coffin in, there’s a terrible wailing from Alice’s mum. It reverberates around the high, vaulted roof of the church. An alien noise that makes my insides fold over. Mum’s hands are clasped so tight on her lap the knuckles are white. She is swaying backward and forward. Dad’s left arm snakes behind our backs, enclosing us both. I rest my head on his shoulder and shut my eyes, but the tears still manage to escape from under the lids.

I can’t believe Alice is dead. I mean, I know she is. That’s why we’re here, at her funeral. That’s why they’ve just brought her coffin in. The coffin is white with gold handles and there are flowers and teddies and dolls heaped on top, as if she were a little girl, not a teenager, and I can’t help thinking that Alice would be embarrassed by the teddies.

The vicar is speaking now. I straighten up and open the Order of Service that lies on my lap, let my eyes travel down the list of readings and hymns, and see that Alice’s favorite is here. It’s my favorite, too. “Morning Has Broken.” We used to sing it in choir practice. Really belt it out.

When we get to that one, I try to sing, but my voice is all weak and trembly, so I mouth the words instead. Mum and Dad are good, strong singers and their voices ring out, like they do every Sunday at church. A couple of heads turn round and look in our direction, but somehow I don’t get the feeling they’re impressed. One of the heads belongs to Alice’s sister, Catherine, and I wish for once that Mum and Dad would pretend to sing, like I’m doing, and not draw attention to themselves.

In between the hymns and the readings are pieces of recorded music, chosen by Alice’s family. Catherine has chosen “Come Some Rainy Day” by Wynonna Judd, and when that one is played, almost everyone is weeping. It’s the sort of song that makes you cry even if you’re not sad. But when you’re sad to start with, it’s heartbreaking. Even Dad’s shoulders have begun to jerk up and down.

After the service, only Alice’s immediate family go to the graveside. I’m relieved we don’t have to. No way could I watch her coffin being lowered into the ground. I keep picturing all the smashed and broken bits of her body in that cramped, dark space. I try not to think of what I saw that day, snagged in the bush.