Gasps: A collection of psychological thriller short stories by Miranda Rijks

Author:Miranda Rijks [Rijks, Miranda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HenLit Publishing
Published: 2024-05-26T00:00:00+00:00

The Mourner

There aren’t many people. Fifteen, perhaps, all over the age of eighty. But that’s what happens when you die aged eighty-nine having ostracised your family. There aren’t many mourners left to give you a send-off. In fact, fifteen is a healthy number. Last week, I was the sole funeral-goer at Felicity Corby’s cremation.

You see, I’m a professional mourner. I charge forty-five pounds an hour plus travel expenses, and I’m happy to attend funerals all over the country, in churches, synagogues and mosques – well, anywhere in fact. My favourites are natural burials, non-denominational services held in fields or woodland, where I don’t need to breathe stale air, and where birdsong provides the music. I charge a bit extra for those because I need smart wellies and warm, waterproof clothing. I do my research too, learning as much as I can about the deceased so I can express my deepest sympathies peppered with titbits about their lives. Assuming there are other mourners there for me to speak to, that is.

I read in an article online that wailing demonstratively during a mourning period of up to one hundred days is seen as respectful towards the deceased in Chinese culture. That’s the time needed for a person’s soul to be reborn as another human, apparently. I rather like that concept. The idea that grief should be a spectacle. Not that the people who hire me would admit it. Indeed, you might wonder who hires someone like me. You’d be surprised. Sometimes it’s close family members who are embarrassed their loved ones had so few friends. Mostly, I’m a stand-in for a not-so-grieving child who hasn’t got the time, resources or desire to attend their parent’s funeral but wants someone there to give them a bit of a send-off. The guilt trip. Occasionally, and most excitingly, I’m employed by the police to mingle with mourners, one of whom might have done in the deceased. I’m a plant, hired to ask questions, keep an eye out for any unusual behaviour or listen for the slip of a tongue. That, of course, is a rarity. Mostly it’s just the mundane and, to be frank, I’m getting bored. Forty-five pounds an hour might seem a lot, but I can’t go to multiple funerals at the same place, so it’s barely allowing me to pay the rent.

‘We didn’t know you existed,’ Mrs Staunton says, her thin upper lip ever so slightly curled. Ten minutes ago she was standing in the pulpit of this ugly church giving a eulogy about her dear friend Mary Solgar. She’d only known her for four years, but within that time they’d forged a deep friendship, bonding over the loss of their beloved husbands. What Joan Staunton forgot to mention was that Mary had dementia and most likely hadn’t got a clue who her new friend was.

‘Mary never talked about you,’ Joan Staunton says, which is possibly the only truthful statement she’s uttered in the past half an hour.

‘I’ve been living in America for the past four years, but Mum and I spoke on the phone every day.

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