A STORY FROM HINTS OF DARKNESS

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BENEFICENT ME

I can’t help smiling. Not that I can actually smile, now. They don’t know I can see them. They just think of me as tub of ashes. Plastic. More like an old kitchen jar. Not even a decent urn. They wouldn’t put a penny towards that. And when they go to spread them, will it be on top of a windy hill, with a sunshine view across Happy Valley or from steep cliffs overlooking a wide sandy beach and white horse waves? I doubt it. More likely on the compost heap at the bottom of my garden. Not that that worries me. I lived here so many years I might as well be laid to rest here.

This afterlife is becoming fun, though. Oh, it’s not your storybook heaven, all cherubim and seraphim. It’s a conglomeration of amorphous blobs, a bit like frogspawn, and your neighbours have no relation to your previous life. Complete strangers. No reuniting with your old, loved ones. Not that I had many. Two wives, definitely no longer loved, and three kids, who rarely gave me the time of day. Then I was a bit wayward. Especially with women. Five members of my family, all estranged. Yet the two ex-wives get on admirably. I sometimes wonder about that. They seem very close.

There they all are, all dressed up in their finery, in the front room. The dining room, with the old oak table I inherited from my parents. But no dinner on it, this evening. Just piles of paper, as they scrabble to find where my money is and argue who gets what of the goods and chattels. My will is quite clear. Equal shares for everyone. But they’ve just discovered that means equal shares of virtually nothing. They thought I was loaded. Big house, flash car. I was. It’s just that I wasn’t letting them have any of it.

One of the tricks of this afterlife scenario is being able to spy. As amorphous beings we have no real means of communication, except by pulsing ourselves and giving of a low glow. I’m still learning the language, so I haven’t made many new friends yet, but I do have an instinctive ability to shape-shift. That’s where the fun comes in. My first wife had a dozen red roses from a new admirer. She didn’t notice there were thirteen in the vase the next morning. And the man who came downstairs wasn’t the one who sent the flowers. I read the card. Apparently, that’s how, in similar manner, the first baker’s dozen occurred.

My vexed beneficiaries haven’t realised that the spent bulb in the wall light is now glowing again. That’s me. Observing their every word and gesticulation, as they compete for priority over my remaining estate. After they’ve settled my outstanding tax bill.

Incriminations and a few choice words are crossing the table. It won’t help them. What they have in front of them is all that they get, to share. The house, equity released with accumulated interest wiping out any residual value. Car leased. No value there. The furniture all on credit – most still on its first year free of repayments and a four-year contract. Money? A few quid in the bank. The rest, long ago fed into a trust fund for a local hospice and unclaimable by anyone else. At least, I felt appreciated there. What did I live on? A healthy pension that stopped the day I died. They all abandoned me. Now they know what that feels like.

Totting it all up, I love the look of dismay on their faces. It’s certainly grief, but not over my passing. There’s barely enough to cover the cheapskate funeral they gave me. And as for the celebratory meal they intended, they’re sending out for a party bucket from KFC. What I’d give for a mini-fillet and a hot wing. But then, there’s no need for food where I’ve gone.