New Flash Fiction (or Short Story...)

From an impulse I had, here is a new short piece I wrote this morning. I am unsure now it is Flash Fiction, as the word count is quite high, but it is a short piece anyway. Enjoy!

Chief Mourner

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life..." trilled the indiscriminate vibration of the Priest’s selected rites. The acrimonious air of a cold November’s morning expelled its harshest winds on Beatrice Stone’s apparently unmoved and demure face, as the blank and emblem free pinewood coffin descended into the ground. The shrunken palms of the priest passed onto her the plate of ashes, to cast them into the ground before they made their separate ways. Poof - and the day was done.

Making her way to the cursory glances of the caretaker of the yard, Beatrice stopped in her dreary suit of black over garments and boot cut trousers, with dreary plimsolls on her meagre feet.

“No famlee for thi’ one then, me dearie. Woul’ ya jus’ look at tha’ over there.” He indicated to the open plot of land of the recently deceased. “No’ even a cross for the fella.”

Beatrice added in sharply “Those who serve the life sentence don’t get these concessions. As far as the Divine is concerned up there, he shan’t need any judgement to see what sins he’s been a party of.”

The caretaker tutted for an instant “Well, at leas’ he won’t end up like poor sonny over there. Dear me, if it ain’ that lot causing trouble on our streets it’s gotta be the mobs who lik’ digging the buggers out of there grave.”

“You mean Walker, I suppose.” Beatrice still looked impervious to the terrible hostility of the danger around her.

“Easy there, lass. The man’s under now. No nee’ to act like ya on duty when your ‘ere.” He began walking alongside her now to the parking area. Would it ever end?

“The man was a fowl…” Her shrivelled fists shook in the unremitting showers, the ends of her trousers blemished with the white gravel underneath.

“Yes, yes. We know tha’. By Lord, don’ we all.” He looked to comfort her, be she stared straight ahead. “He couldn’ get to the poor kiddies where he was going now, cou’d he?” Let it not be him.

“No. The Family in there hated his guts.”

Beatrice had nearly reached her destination. It would soon all be over.

“It mus’ be an ‘ard job where you work now. Working wi’ all those wrong’uns and such like.”

Beep. Beatrice opened the door to her black saloon. “It is…But, yes, when you have Christ here…” She proffered the crucifix around her neck.

“Still though. Men lik’ that,” Tut, tut, tut. “Bet some of them are right villains in there, goo’ an’ proper.”  He wasn’t a villain though. He couldn’t be.

Beatrice bounded into the seat of the car and tried to tear the open door from the bloody commoner who didn’t stick to his bloody miserable job. Why wouldn’t he let her just go? The tears were already fermenting…

“I need to go. Just let me go!” Beatrice slapped in vain the beaten and bruised hands of the old man. He was never like this before.

“Argh! Ye haven’answer’d me question you…”

She jerked the door with gritted teeth and bloodied saliva oozing from the outer crevices. She gave one final screech and thrust the door shut. The man momentarily caught his index and middle finger, now gushing with crimson plasma; shrieking with bloodthirsty anguish in his eyes. Oh Lord, it was just like before…

The car sped off into the distance, as the unconstrained curses of the caretaker emitted from his once innocent way of speaking, each one detonating a series of fear and unknown effects, with each capacity in Beatrice’s mind closing down into complete panic. The car made its way to the main carriageway – home; where she could reflect in peace the trauma of today’s events. The volume dial of the stereo was turned up, the time being now 5.00 and time for the evening headlines.

“Good evening. The former Sergeant of the 2^nd Yorkshire Regiment who was imprisoned for life six months ago for the murder of his squadron guard and four other solders was today buried in unmarked grave just outside of Staplesfield Prison. Robert James, 27 years old, was the son of Staplesfield officer, Beatrice Stone…”

Wait! No! It can’t be right…She mourned for her son after his first birthday. They didn’t understand. Unless…

“…Ms. Stone declined to comment…Mr. James had not seen Ms. Stone for some time since…”

STOP! She turned the damned thing off. They wouldn’t betray her like this. She got what she needed and they took…him. It was no more than an exchange, after all. And naturally, she’s paid to attend these services. Hasn’t said no to one of them yet.

“We’ll take excellent care of him, we promise, Miss. Travers. He’ll get the best of everything…”

That’s what they said to her! 26 years ago; but she never mourned for that. Never! The man wouldn’t be a Sergeant, would he now? He’d be in the capital. A proud CEO of some big conglomerate. Could she be so sure now, though?

Quite suddenly, Beatrice lifted her hand from the gearstick she had just navigated. A red pattern, coursing down her palm had just projected itself onto the steering wheel. The passenger seat next to her was stained in bloodied scarlet, flowing down every imaginable area of the interior. She gave a light scream, realising what had just now occurred. What did all mean? What did it all mean…?