Page 83 of 12 Ways to Kill Your Family at Christmas

Mrs Harlow was rigid, standing next to a large pot over the stove.

‘Quentin? Where was he found?’ she asked horrified.

Jeannie stormed into the kitchen, clutching something in her hand. She dropped what looked like a bag of sand into the middle of the island. I swear a plume of it escaped into the air. She glared at us, her eyeballs protruding.

‘Here he is!’ She gesticulated at the bag.

We all stared at her.

‘Mother—’ Miles began.

‘Just delivered from DHL!’

‘Mother!’ he repeated forcefully, but she held her hand up to stop him.

‘It’s George!’ She poked the bag like she was going to pop it.

Horrified faces turned to the bag of ashes.

‘Artie gave the funeral home permission to send his body for cremation! Can you believe he would do such a thing?’

Mrs Harlow’s mouth dropped open slightly. Callum shook his head, which was sunk in his hands.

‘A bag and burn! How dare Artie go against my wishes! Well, it’s bloody done now, isn’t it. We can’t put him back in the oven and glue him back together, can we? Just look at this bag!’ she wailed. ‘I’m going to have to put him in something else… something until I can order a nice silver urn to go into the crypt…’

‘Mother, Quentin has just been found!’ Miles bellowed.

‘Oh yes? And where’s he been hiding?’

‘In a snowman,’ said Martha deadpan.

‘Quentin’s dead!’ I blurted. Apparently, full sentences were failing me. The irony was not lost on me.

Jeannie looked at me, uncomprehending. ‘It can’t be. He can’t be!’ she said in disbelief. ‘W-where?’

Miles rested his hands on the kitchen island to steady himself. I hooked an arm around his waist in case he really was about to keel over.

‘A cadaver dog discovered him buried… in a snowman,’ Miles said grimly.

Jeannie shook, tremors taking over her hands as she got more and more worked up. ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘No, no, no, no,noooooo!’ She grabbed a rolling pin and began hitting the plastic bag containing George’s ashes, causing more plumes of dust to escape into the atmosphere. ‘It’syourfault!’ she cried as she pounded the bag.

Miles strode over to her and whipped the rolling pin from her raised hand. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Your father was a weak link. This is all his fault. It’s always been up to me to steer this ship, and he should have been there right beside me. Instead, I’ve been doing everything all these years on my own, and now all my hard work is going to hell in a handbasket! He couldn’t even do a simple task like put the lights up without dying on me!’ Jeannie breathed erratically. Mrs Harlow approached her tentatively and guided her to a barstool to take a seat.

‘What can we do for you, Jeannie?’ Mrs Harlow asked softly.

Jeannie was staring at the bag of ashes, panting like a rabid dog.

‘I’m going to put the useless bastard’s ashes in the crypt,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Quentin can go in there, too, while we’re at it! You can all go in there. We’ll pile the bodies up high if we have to!’

‘Have you finally gone round the sodding bend?’ Miles barked. ‘You want someone to help steer this ship? Then I will gladly take the wheel. This bullshit cycle ends here and now, Mother.’

She looked at him, brow furrowed in confusion. After what seemed like an eternity she sagged. ‘You’re right. Let’s do it now,’ she said wildly.

‘Let’s do what now?’ Callum asked warily.

‘Before we are all snowed in again, let’s fulfil your grandfather’s wishes and scatter his ashes.’