Crematorium

I shift uncomfortably in the fifth row, the fifth row of a crematorium. Like most who attend funerals where they honestly couldn't give a shit about the deceased, I have two thoughts on my mind. The first being, I wonder who would attend my funeral? The second being, fuck, I'm horny.

Tell you the truth, I barely knew Barry. We worked alongside each other in an office for Chrissakes, it's not like we were planning to go Yachting in Naples together. I guess he identified a fellow outcast in me, when, in actuality, it's because I don't like speaking to anyone else in the office. In Barry's case it was different, no one in the office wanted to speak to him. God, I wouldn't even be here if I hadn't phoned him. His relatives obviously found two messages on his machine, one from work and one from me.

"Hey Barry, it's Peter, from work. Just phoning to, y'know… You've never had a sick day since I've worked at this place. And Raquel said she couldn't get hold of you."

Ah, Raquel. Giving good, hard-working receptionist's a bad name since 1985.

"So…I guess I'll hope to see you at work tomorrow. Bye."

He'd probably been swinging for a few hours by then. Most would say Barry killed himself, but it was murder alright. God ensured Barry drew the short straw and I'm honestly surprised he lasted this long without the World extinguishing his meagre flame. Anyway, I'm at his funeral and thankful they haven't got a framed picture of the poor mug on the coffin. I'm uncomfortable enough as it is.

I can't help but think of the last funeral I attended before Barry's. Well, I nearly attended it. My brother worked for a contract animal-testing company. Someone took it upon themselves to retire him from said work with a letter bomb. He didn't die straight away, of course, that wouldn't be tragic enough. We had a fortnight to plan the funeral before, like Barry, he gave up. I remember stepping out of the hearse and seeing a small group of people with signs tussling with the assembled police. My family had been warned, but there's nothing quite like seeing your brother's funeral being picketed to bring out some long buried anger. I'm sure that once it got under way, the ceremony was as beautiful as mum said it was. Headbutting one of those fuckers was just so… satisfying. It was worth the hours in jail and the skull fracture.

And it's raining, but the funeral's over so who am I to complain? Though I do wonder if I'll be permanently scarred by the unrelenting hymns or the sight of Barry being taken away for torching to the tune of a Fleetwood Mac song. I unwrap the pack of cigarettes I bought specifically for today (I normally roll, but I thought it would be a bit disrespectful to do such a thing whilst the vicar was speaking), remove one and discreetly cast the plastic packaging to the wind.

As I struggle to light it due to the elements, I notice two umbrella-carrying figures breaking away from the hub of mourners. Christ. They're approaching me and I wonder whether borrowing one of their umbrellas is worth what'll no doubt be a painful conversation. I could run, pretend I haven't noticed either of them. I do need to piss and I assume crematoriums cater to the living in that aspect. It's too late now; they're basically on top of me.

"Are you Peter, Barry's friend from work? We spoke on the phone?"

No, I attended my girlfriend's funeral here two weeks ago and haven't left. No, I'm a serial killer who murders people and makes their deaths look like suicides. I then attend their funerals and chuckle as their family members ask 'why did they do it?' No… I mean, yes.

"Yes. I'm sorry for your loss." I remember the phone call as I was bloody surprised Barry had anyone who cared about him. "I'm Barry's sister", she had said. Well that was obvious, there was no chance he had a wife. Poor bastard.

"This is my daughter, Chloe." She gestures to the girl next to her, who, out of habit, I fall in love with on sight. Chloe bears no resemblance to her deceased Uncle, thank fuck.

"Barry didn't mention having a niece." Her hair's blacker than her dress. She has no colour in her face. Maybe it's the grief.

"We don—didn't speak." Well that'd make sense; Barry didn't mention having a sister either. I wonder what Chloe sounds like? "I just came over to thank you for attending, it would have meant a lot to Barry. I'm glad he had a friend."

Barry's sister forces a smile and returns to the flock. Chloe stays under her umbrella, watching me getting rained upon. My cigarette goes limp.

"If you give me one of those fags I'll cover you while you light up." Take the whole pack; I just want to be loved. I force a smile of my own as she takes a step closer to me and lifts the umbrella above us both. I remove two new cigarettes and hand one to her. As soon as both are lit, the rain stops. Chloe looks around at all the memorial plots akin to miniature graves; my eyes never leave her as she inhales. She points to a bench. "Wanna' sit?"

I sit down. People are leaving to go home or to the wake, who knows how long I've got left with her. I should ask her something. I won't look creepy staring at her if she's talking.

"So, were you close to your uncle?"

"God no, he was horrible." I can't help my eyebrows rising in shock. I always thought of Barry as harmless, or gay. Now I can picture him sneaking in to Chloe's room at night like Keith Moon in Tommy. "No, no, no. Not in that way. He was way to boring for that. He was just a horrible excuse for a man."

We share something in common, an opinion, this is a good start.

Chloe moved out of her parents' house two years ago. Her former room is now home to the occasional guest but many things remain which were obviously present when the room was hers. The wallpaper painted black is definitely a remnant of her time here. The rather extravagant-looking silver framed mirror is almost certainly another example. And then there's the bed; single despite there being ample room for double. The mattress is old and has springs that jut at odd angles. I know these things as I'm having sex with Chloe on this bed.

Her body is as pale as her face and I'm worried she'll shatter into a thousand porcelain pieces. Truly nothing makes us forget our own mortality better than sex. I should be trying to remember every Beatles number one in chronological order or what I got for Christmas in '92 or whatever people try to do in order to delay an orgasm. I don't, there's no need. I belong to Chloe. I'm hers for as long as she needs.

A chill. A bucket of ice. A cold hand that's as real as any touch I've ever felt. I'm not sure how, but I know. Chloe knows. I pull away; she doesn't try to stop me. I get dressed and she climbs under the covers. I turn to speak but think of nothing to say. I leave Chloe's parents' house smelling of sex and sweat. I light a cigarette whilst the clouds part and let sunlight fall upon the earth.

Barry doesn't like the idea of me and his niece having sex.