Brigadier Edward Junket Copthorne-Brown brushed a piece of moss from the crook of the angel's arm. It was all well and good that people erect these statues in honour of their beloved dead but it didn't excuse them from visiting. He looked down at the headstone. "Charles Henry Bainbridge 1896-1942" with a Victoria Cross carved into the granite. War hero, eh? The brigadier saluted and dusted away a few dried leaves from the grave.
"What were you like in life, old chap, eh?" The Brigadier pulled a pipe from his pocket and tamped it with fresh tobacco from a pouch that never seemed to get empty. He lit it with a match from a similarly full box. His daughter and her husband had seen fit to bury him with grave goods for which he was, quite literally, eternally grateful. He'd never met Charlie Bainbridge before or after death. Not everyone became ghosts.
Puffing on his pipe he walked to his favourite bench at the centre of the cemetery. You could see the spires of three churches from here, and hear the bells from two of them. The was only one road through the graves but it wound in what most people called a figure of eight but what he knew was really an infinity loop.
One you were planted in Laverstone cemetery there was no way out.
Image: Faith's Golden Light by redwolf518