Xion Island Carrier: Chapter 13

I am filled with hatred. And the thrill of impeccable timing. I couldn’t have planned Aunty Laura’s reckoning better, though the moment she stole the limelight is down to luck rather than scientific deviance.

I’m parked outside the crematorium in the hired Volvo and have the tinted window rolled down to revel in the sound of sobbing and the click of camera shutters. The building is visible. Hazy water vapour drifts from the stack, giving the illusion of silver smoke. There’s going to be a fire today. I long to be inside, but I make do with the stone façade, neat lawns, and the black-dressed procession dripping inside like an upturned ink bottle. I can’t see the coffins, but they are so close that I feel them.

It’s been a week since they died. Fast for a possible murder investigation. But they’re keen to do what’s needed for the investigation. They’re cleaning up the mess by fast-tracking the bodies for cremation, and Environmental Health is involved, according to the Mail. It's the knee-jerk reaction. I’ve seen the public outcry and hysteria, but thank you to God and COVID for working in my favour.

Aaron, Millie, and my sweet auntie Alison are all in there. Three bodies identifying as grief and dripping ritual. James McAlister walks as though he’s sleepwalking, flanked by his sisters, who do all the talking, thanking, shaking hands, and the necessary theatre that comes with public death.

They’ve made it a private ceremony. I’m fuming, but I’ll overlook it for now.

The turnout was supposed to be massive—hundreds, they reckoned. School friends, neighbours, a glut of busybodies, and the hearse chasers. I want to slip in unnoticed among the misery and humbugs. It isn’t an option. This is a town in mourning, but the family insist on intimacy. A small service. Private.

So they’re streaming it. Can you believe it? They are recording it live.

I’ve been listening around corners. Don’t you love that ten minutes before they troop in? So much is said that shouldn’t be. James’ mother is kicking off about it. ‘This is a mockery of sacred moments. Where’s the dignity when three lives are gauged by the vulgarity of ‘likes’ and comment boxes under the Facebook picture of a child’s coffin?’

His sisters overrule her. ‘People care, Mum,’ Sharon says. ‘We can grieve in peace while the world pays its respects over digestives in their living rooms. Everybody’s doing it. Inclusion.’

‘Nuts is what it is,’ Gladys says, tutting at her poor son. ‘My poor boy.’ She dabs her eye with a tissue.

I’m orchestrating a public spectacle without even trying. Cameras, footage, real-time chaos. I wait. And soon I’ll smell them burning.

The phone streams the dignified service. The camera angle is fixed—I’m front and just to the left of the podium—and far enough away to be undetected. It’s better this way. A pastor in a suit talks about tragedy and says, ‘Taken too soon,’ a lot.

James is in the front row, hunched in a new suit, and the coffins are draped in flowers.

There’s a commotion. A woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a dark dress and a ridiculous hat, jerks sideways as though she’s been slapped. Her arms stiffen, and her head falls to the side. As people stand and rush to her, she’s obscured from view.

The camera shakes. Somebody else’s voice cuts in. They sound sharp, frightened. ‘Call an ambulance. She’s—oh my God, she’s being sick. She’s choking.’

The feed goes black.

The screen shows an error message: Live video has ended.

I smile.

I know it’s Aunt Lorna. She’s married into the Whitlock name, but was born with the Taylor blood, the same flawed mutation as the rest of my bastard family. She does well holding it together, wiping her eyes as they cloud and gulping back the sudden sensation of nausea. But it breaks during the second verse of Wind Beneath My Wings, and my insect’s secretion hits her like a freight train.

I’m gutted when the funeral livestream cuts out mid-tragedy. The world’s watching, and it’ll make National News. I’m not in this for fame, but I’ll take it. And I’m not sticking around afterwards, anyway. I’m holding back my lucky number six. I’m delighted. Bravo, Lorna, well played. I kill the video, pocket my phone, and leave the car.

The crowd inside the wrought iron gates shifts. A rustle of news comes down the line, and people shuffle in a sombre Mexican wave. Something’s going on. They pass phones around like a sharing platter, replaying the feed. Some mourners film the doors, waiting for the next act. Others peer through the side windows of the chapel.

I blend in. I have my black coat. It’s tailored, but not too ostentatious, with a plain tie. Only a Barrovian would wear a pattern to a funeral, and while I want to blend in, I will never lower my standards. Some of them have even turned out in Bluebirds football scarves. The unfocused grief-face is like a uniform. It’s laughable. I mimic the sallow look, one of dozens of players touched by loss.

 I scan the crowd and clock them. Two plainclothes officers loiter near the door. Their earpieces are concealed, but the morons press on them when somebody speaks. They shift their weight like people trained to look casual. Another one is near the gate, holding a takeaway coffee that she never drinks. Her eyes scan licence plates, and her lips move as she relays them to base. Across the road, a woman with a DSLR camera pretends to photograph flowers. She isn’t the press. Police, the place is crawling with them.

It's not the big team. Some top cat with a younger man’s goatee is in charge of running this shit-show, and I’ve been digging. This pack is the ordinary beat-goons, so it’s as I expected. They’re a presence, but don’t expect a showdown today. It’s not the specials, they’re too sloppy. This guy’s main rollers aren’t to be underestimated. They’re smart, but they don’t bother me. Today shows me they’re predictable.

I slide three people back. My eyes water, but it’s only from the wind. I can squeeze a genuine tear if need be, but let’s play it on the downlow.

The officer collecting licence plates walks along the curb, angling her camera at every parked vehicle. They’ll run them through PNC and flag anything unfamiliar.

I’m good. The Volvo is on a burner registration and hired with a cut-out identity I built years ago. It still rattles me, though. I feel a flicker of panic, sharp and stupid. They’re compiling lists. They’ll check the plates later, trawl through footage frame-by-frame, and catch my face.

Breathe.

I loosen my jaw before I crack my teeth and inhale. My pulse steadies, letting go of the rage, and I  lean hard into what separates me from the bleating herd; I get a grip. Don’t panic. This is me. I’m a scientist. I calculate.

I’m one mourner in a sea of drama seekers. As if there isn’t enough reality TV in the world for them. The camera will pass over me, and my plate won’t raise any flags.

The chapel doors open, and somebody comes out, followed by two men supporting the woman who collapsed. They lower her onto the grass, and one of them asks when the ambulance is coming. I hear it, but can’t believe they’ve brought her into the open to be gawped at. She pukes, and I look at the sun. It’s stifling in there. The smell. It makes sense, but whether it was to help her or those left inside is anybody’s guess. Somebody films it, and a woman screams at them to stop.

It’s chaos. Another death right here would be perfect, live and public. People leave, cleared by the police who have come out of hiding. Some of the crowd are in tears, but most love the morbid excitement.

I walk past the statue of an angel near the side path where the cemetery dips to older graves and watch from a distance. The first reporter climbs the fence to get a better angle and snaps a photo before being moved by a uniformed officer.

The live stream is trending. It’ll be viral, a funeral interrupted by a medical emergency. Another casualty of the Barrow Outbreak! The headlines write themselves.

Soon, they’ll say the virus is mutating, and it’s not safe to go out. Good. Let them. My babies will find their way.

I pull up my collar, get in the car, and drive away at a normal, forgettable speed. The trick is: never look back.
 

I write under the pen name Katherine Black and I have 17 books published. All on Kindle Unlimited. I’d love it if you’d try one.

Here is my Amazon page with links to all of my books.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/Katherine-Black/author/B071JW51FW?