13 Mink Street

Karon’s heart skipped a beat. The hush that followed was uneasy and prolonged, yet the person on the other end did not hang up.

“You’re interrupting my artistic creation.” The words echoed, circling Karon’s mind, repeating themselves in the same tone and the same rhythm.

He was certain he’d dialed the correct number. This was no prank, nor did he believe that there was some artist, deep in the crematorium, quietly working on a piece of traditional art.

Intuition could matter. It was able to spare needless buildup and send you straight to the core. Although rationality told Karon that this was too strange and frankly absurd, he still pressed his right fingers to his throat and spoke, “Then perhaps you need some valuable advice on your art?”

A confused sound came through the line; a brief, unguarded “Huh?” as though his answer was completely unexpected. Then, there was laughter. It was a man’s laughter, thin and edged. Karon listened to it before continuing, “Or perhaps you don’t have much faith in your art after all.”

“You’re interesting,” the voice replied. “Pity; if you’d called a little earlier, I might have welcomed your opinions, but this time, you’re too late.”

“Why?” Karon closed his eyes. The question was unnecessary. The answer was already plain to him, cold and obvious.

The man stated, just as Karon knew he would, “My creation is finished. Only a few final touches remain, and yet they trouble me. Do you understand this vexation?”

“When I was young, and just learning to paint, my teacher would always tell me that certain corners of my work were too empty. He told me to add something, anything, even if it had nothing at all to do with the rest of the painting, just to fill in that space. Oddly, that struggle has always remained with me.”

“Yes!” the voice replied. “Yes, that’s exactly it. That’s how I feel right now.”

“In truth, it’s a sign of lacking skill,” Karon explained. “It’s why I gave up on becoming an artist. Someone who can’t compose a piece before even picking up a brush, who needs to patch things up at the end, isn’t an artist or a painter. The title itself becomes an insult.”

Breathing sharpened on the other end, quick and unsteady. A psychiatrist understood how to soothe their patient’s nerves, how to avoid provoking them, yet a psychiatrist could also precisely press directly on a wound, and Karon did not let up at all. “You call yourself an artist? You aren’t. You’re only a foolish, arrogant creature, trapped by your own fascination with yourself. Don’t insult the word ‘art.’”

He could hear teeth grinding through the line. His words had struck home.

Karon clutched the receiver tightly. There was nothing he could do, not even call for help. Doing so meant first hanging up so that he could dial again. He also couldn’t go down to the basement for Aunt Mary or upstairs for Tiz; he was bound in place by the phone cord.

Even if he called out for someone, the man on the other end would hear every word.

Through the phone, the man muttered, “You disappoint me. When you first started, I almost thought you might be the one god sent for me; a kindred spirit, someone who shares my tastes. But you’re not. You’re too young, and your understanding of art is narrow. Art doesn’t have levels.”

Karon retorted in a quiet and steady voice, “But art does have skill.”

There was a sharp snap as the receiver slammed down. Karon slowly returned his own handset to its cradle, frowning and confused.

“He said...” He released his grip on his throat. It ached from the pressure of his own hand. He kneaded gently, coughing a few times.

“I’m young?” Finally, words came out in his own voice. The grim imitation from before was gone.

...

Knock, knock.

“Come in.” The study door swung open. Tiz, seated at his desk, looked up at Karon in the doorway.

“Grandpa.”

“Yes?”

“Something may have happened at Hughes Crematorium.”

“How do you know?”

“I called just now. The person who answered sounded like the killer from the Crown Ballroom; the psychopath.”

Tiz set his pen down. “Did you call the police?”

Karon shook his head.

“Then call them.”

Karon had not intended to report the matter. The man on the phone had said that his work was already done. If there was a victim, they were dead. What would be the point of calling the police? So that they could collect a corpse? Unless the killer tripped and broke his leg while fleeing, and a patrol car just happened to pass at that exact moment, it all seemed pointless to Karon.

“Are you worried it might be a prank?” Tiz asked. “Don’t worry; even if you file a false report, at worst you’ll be fined.”

Karon shook his head again.

“Then what do you want to do?”

“I want to go to Hughes Crematorium and see for myself.” To see the new artwork with his own eyes.

Tiz raised his teacup, took a slow sip, and then nodded. “You may go. I support it.”

Karon continued to stand in the doorway, unmoving. Tiz lowered his cup. “Hmm? What is it?”

Karon licked his lips and said quietly, “I don’t dare go alone.”

Tiz let out a small laugh. “When you were little and too scared to use the washroom at night, you said the same thing to me.”

He stopped, suddenly quiet, something regretful shadowing his features.

...

“What is it, my little Karon?”

“Grandpa, it’s dark and I need the toilet. I’m scared to go by myself.”

“Then Grandfather will wait right out here in the hallway while you go. How about that?”

“Come with me, Grandpa. Please, come with me.”

***

The taxi wound its way from Mink Street out to Hughes Crematorium at the edge of the city. It was farther than the journey home from the Crown Ballroom, and actually took twice as long.

At the crematorium’s gate, the driver turned and smiled at Tiz in the back seat. “That’ll be forty-five rupi.”

Tiz handed over a fifty. The driver counted out five rupi in change, which the old man quietly pocketed. Grandfather and grandson stepped out from the car, luggageless and small before the looming building. Karon watched the taxi drive away, silently mouthing a curse.

The crematorium gate was locked. Outside, battered by cold, stood a man and a woman with a motorbike. A quilt bundled around something on the seat suggested a body swaddled for cremation. Both people looked rather anxious. A sign on the gate read: Closed for business.

“Excuse me, do you work here?” the woman asked, stepping forward.

Karon shook his head. “No.”

Hearing that, the man kicked a stone in frustration, muttering, “I booked it yesterday, and now they’re closed? That’s outrageous! Absolutely outrageous.”

“We could try somewhere else,” the woman said.

“It’s too late. It’s almost dark. Everywhere else will already be closed.”

“It wasn’t open today?” Karon asked, glancing at the gates.

“We’ve been waiting since one this afternoon,” the man said, his voice thick with bitterness.

Karon caught a glimpse of white hair poking out from the quilt. Likely an older relative.

Those who could afford funeral services at the Immers’ house were at least middle class, never ordinary folk. Even Mr. Mossan’s children, despite Aunt Mary’s constant complaints and their own attempts to cut corners, still paid thousands in the end. For those like these two, that kind of money was impossible. Social benefits only covered those with no family at all. If there was so much as one living relative, a person didn’t qualify. In the system’s eyes, they simply weren’t miserable enough. That was why, in Roja City, when the poor died, their own kin brought the body directly to the crematorium.

Uncle Mason used to say that clients the Immers family considered “poor” were considered premium customers for the crematorium.

A battered red Caymon sedan pulled up at that moment, stopping at the gate. The door opened, and to Karon’s surprise, Mrs. Hughes stepped out in a blue dress and a coffee colored jacket. She looked alive and quite well. She smiled at Karon, though stiffened slightly at the sight of Tiz beside him.

“Why is the gate shut?” she asked, frowning as she approached. She fished a spare key out from her purse and unlocked the gate.

“Why are you only arriving now?” the man demanded, unable to contain his frustration.

Mrs. Hughes glanced at him and his quilted bundle, answering, “I don’t know myself. There were just two bookings today—one this morning and one later on—so I gave myself and the other staff the afternoon off, leaving only my old hand on duty. If the cement factory owner hadn’t driven by, seen people waiting, and called me, I wouldn’t have come. This is odd. Where is Old Darcy today?”

“I don’t care why you’re here now! My mother and I have been waiting—”

“You’re free to complain at city hall, or even call the police if you like. I’ve already explained myself. You certainly have the right to complain, but for now, stay away from me. This place is for burning corpses; if you keep pushing, believe me, you’ll burn with them.”

Her sudden force broke the man’s bravado, and he fell silent. Any woman who had run a crematorium alone for years would have to be strong. Otherwise, she could never have endured.

“Oh, Mr. Tiz. What brings you here today?”

“My grandson wanted to visit,” Tiz replied.

Mrs. Hughes fluttered her lashes. She wanted to tease the handsome Immers boy, but Tiz’s presence was too much, completely filling the space. No wonder Mary always seems so small in his shadow at their family gatherings.

Mrs. Hughes opened the gate and went inside. The man stooped to lift the quilted bundle. His wife helped, and together they followed Mrs. Hughes in.

Tiz turned to Karon. “Do you need to go in?”

“I do,” said Karon. “If Mrs. Hughes isn’t the artwork, then someone else must be involved.”

He trusted his instincts. Even the locked gate seemed to argue that something was deeply wrong.

Three groups moved through the crematorium: Mrs. Hughes led, calling out for Old Darcy. The couple carrying the quilted shroud followed. Behind them came Karon and Tiz.

At last, they gathered before the glass partition in the incineration room. A furnace door hung open, its inner chamber empty.

“Please, cremate my mother first,” the man pleaded.

“I need to find my worker!” Mrs. Hughes snapped, her voice tight at the realization that the furnace was still hot. Heat was escaping, and she could not stand to see such waste. “Old Darcy! Old Darcy!”

Karon’s gaze drifted to the counter ahead, and the urns there. During his last visit, they had been arranged neatly, each with its own price tag. Now, they were stacked like bricks, forming a tall, rectangular wall, rather than a pyramid. The urns had also been laid on their sides so that their lids faced out, rather than up.

Karon stepped closer, focusing on the bottom urn on the far left. He reached out, undid the latch, and opened it.

The woman screamed.

The man recoiled, dropping the quilt. His mother’s body spilled onto the floor.

Mrs. Hughes clamped a trembling hand to her mouth. “My God!”

Tiz stepped closer, silent.

Inside the first urn was a foot, freshly severed, and still bleeding. A price tag was wedged between the toes: 1,500 rupi.

Karon opened the next urn, the one stacked above. Inside rested a knee.

Each felt like opening a mystery box, except there was little mystery remaining. At the top, Karon removed the lid of the highest urn. Inside was a head; Old Darcy’s head.

A price tag protruded from his mouth: 10,000 rupi.

Old Darcy had been dismembered, each part sealed within a separate urn, and the urns themselves arranged to reshape his body, built brick by brick.

It was then that Karon noticed the desk near the doorway, a phone resting on it. He stepped over, lifting the receiver. As he turned back to the urns, he found himself lined up with the reconstructed Old Darcy. It was a perfect view.

For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he saw a black silhouette, hands folded in satisfaction, admiring his own gruesome handiwork.

The phone beside him rang. Karon frowned, hesitating, then left the receiver in its place.

It rang again. This time, he picked up. “You’re interrupting my artistic creation.”