He turns to face the small gathering and clears his throat. I look at Susan. His face is familiar somehow, but I don’t know where from.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ he says in a soft, clear Scottish accent. ‘My name is Robbie Ferguson, and I did Kenneth McKinley a great injustice.’

I glance again at Susan who draws a small rectangle in the air with her fingers, and I nod.

This is the man who interviewed Kenneth on the TV show we watched!

‘Kenneth had a successful career north of the border, working in theatres with a mystery and mind-reading act, which always concluded with his famous floating illusion. By the 1980s, he had embraced a more, ah … philosophical approach to his mysteries, and, on the television show that I presented at the time, I ridiculed him.’

The man pauses and lowers his head for a moment.

‘I’m not proud. I played it for laughs. I demonstrated an old party trick and told everyone that that must have been how Kenneth did his wonderful levitation. The truth is, that floating illusion is a secret he has taken with him. I mocked the business venture into which he had sunk a modest fortune: a harmless toy that claimed to shape your dreams. Hardly anyone bought one. His career declined and never really recovered. And then there was his son, Uri – named, of course, after Kenneth’s friend, the world-famous psychic entertainer, Uri Geller …’

Susan has reached over and is gripping my hand hard. We both know something is happening before our eyes, but we don’t know what.

‘As some of you may know, little Uri died in 1988. One night, he fell asleep and remained asleep for days. It was as though he were in a coma. Doctors could not revive him and, after several days, poor wee Uri passed away. No one ever knew why, although it was said that Kenneth’s wife, Jeannette, held him somehow responsible. They parted shortly afterwards.’

Susan’s grip on my hand tightens.

The old man straightens his back and turns to address the coffin directly, as if Kenneth can hear him. I don’t think I breathe. ‘I’m sorry, Kenneth. If your life was made harder by what I did, I hope I have tried to make amends.’

Robbie Ferguson nods, clears his throat again, then walks back down the aisle, out of the church, and out of our lives.

The vicar is on her feet again, smiling weakly. I don’t think she was expecting that. She seems relieved to have something to do when she says, ‘Malcolm?’ Susan gives my hand a final squeeze and then lets it go.