Northumberland of the 1970s; Spain of the 2000s. These are the settings for the story of the Bridge brothers, born into a gangland violence that they've never been able to leave behind. It's a simple tale beautifully told, alternating between the two eras combining to create a violent, tender and vivid picture of the brothers and their relationship with their father.
The kirkyard is set within a grey stone wall, a small church built out of granite and slate. Tight as a fist. Beyond, the North Sea rolls in anger. A fine spray falls on everything. His father insisted on being buried. A pain in the arse, but it makes sense to Frank. A box full of ashes seems to lack all sense of gravitas. So, here they are, dropping him in a hole on the Scottish borders with a quarter-tonne headstone to top it all off. This is where his old man was buried, in the pissing rain, the sodden turf, the scruffy-looking gorse. He studies the mourners, stood in various clusters, rubbing their hands in the bitter breeze. All the useless hangers-on, the cap-doffers, the bought-off coppers, local politicians and businessmen, pathetic. They'd all despised Laurence, and he'd despised them, most of them. Once upon a time big, important people, dwindled now to the old and ineffectual. How that must hurt.
