The Dead Man Rolls On

We begin sitting on a coffin. In the coffin is a man: slim, grey hair, expensive suit. In a few moments a series of small motors will push the wooden box forwards, into a fierce fire, which will devour the man in seconds. He doesn't care: he's really quite dead.

A cough from the back of the room. Our attention diverts and we propel ourselves forward to the source. The cougher sits in the farthest row from the front. He is greasy, homeless, decaying. If today were a burial and not a cremation, it would take six months of rotting before the dead man would look like this. The cougher is homeless. He doesn't know the dead man. He is only here because it is so hot outside, and the stone crematorium is the coolest place for him to be. His goal is survival, but his motivation is lacking.

It is necessary for us to travel forward a full five rows before we reach anybody else. The first people to cross our path constitute three-quarters of a family. The mother sits between her two children. She worked with the dead man. She never liked him.

The elder son needs to use the toilet. He wonders if his mother would chastise him if he told her so. He's trying to listen to the man who is speaking at the front, but he can't concentrate. He needs to use the toilet and that is that.

We spin round to the front of the mother and look closely at her face. It is worn, tired, restrained. Glancing down, and through her clothes, we see that she still has a youthful body. She wishes her face could be more beautiful, that she could be younger, that her sons didn't exist. The cougher coughs; she glances at him. She wishes he didn't exist, either.

The younger son sits quietly. He is remembering how he caught his mother naked yesterday. She was touching herself. She didn't see him so he watched for a while. He tries to hold his mother's hand, she pushes him away with a casual smile. He sees the smile and feels special.

We cross the aisle to the seats opposite. An old man tries to stay awake. He's been finding the heat insufferable these past few days. He thinks back to his wife's funeral. It was better than this one, there were more people. That was because she was a better person, he thinks. He wonders how many will attend his funeral.

The old man's nephew sits on the front row. We rise up, to the roof of the hall, and swoop down upon him. We perch on his bald patch. He smells of sweat, cigarettes, coffee. He is crying. The cougher coughs but he doesn't notice. He is too busy remembering that his wife had sex with the dead man, before the dead man died. She is sitting on the front row, staring intently at the coffin. The nephew is looking at her. He fantasises about bending her over the coffin and taking her from behind. In his fantasy, when he is finished, he simply pulls his trousers up and walks out of the crematorium. He thinks if he did that, it would mean he won; only he doesn't know what the competition is. It seems to him that in life there are no consistent rules, yet people still win and lose. That is why he is crying.

In a flash, we are back with the mother and two sons. The elder son asks to use the toilet, she tells him to be quiet, rudely. She is not worried that her attitude might cause him to become like the cougher on the back row, who looks dead but is alive.

Like the nephew of the man who sits to her left, she is watching the woman in the front row. She can only see the back of her head, but she can sense how attractive the woman is. The woman is another person the mother wishes didn't exist.

The old man joins in looking at the woman. He never liked his nephew's ex-wife. He likes the fact he was proven right not to. If questioned, he would say: With age comes wisdom. The dead man is his son. He never liked his son. He likes the fact he was proven right about that, too. He liked his wife and is glad more people attended her funeral than this one.

The nephew looks at the man at the front who is speaking. The words sound like the droning of bees. For a moment, he wishes he was in the coffin.

We move to the woman at the front, we must be quick, the series of small motors are about to fire up, the man at the front who is speaking will soon stop. She is thinking about a childhood experience. Her father gave her some money and told her to put it in a fruit machine. She lost. She gave up the nephew for the dead man and lost there, too. It seems to her that in life there are no consistent rules, yet people still win and lose.

The man at the front who was speaking is now quiet. The doors at the end of the conveyor belt open, and the flames rage inside. The motors start up and the coffin moves forward. Some music plays. No-one pays any attention apart from the cougher, who taps his foot merrily. Everyone else has stopped thinking; they watch in silence.

The dead man rolls on.