The second chapter of Unicorns & Demons. To read previous chapters, visit Jacqueline Townsend’s author page.

 

Unicorns and Demons

Chapter 2: The Bank. St. John

It’s Monday, 18^th March. 2024, shortly after 10 a.m. I’m watching my mum. She’s hunched in a chair in a place of business, a bank. Yes, obviously a bank. Her hands are shaking as she fumbles with her phone. She’s confused and deeply troubled. This is, of course, to do with me. I have caused this.

She cries every day, not for so long anymore, and rarely audibly. It’s her body language which conveys the depth of her pain, the strained contortion of her face and her arms clutched around her stiffened body.

This time, it’s different. She’s put her phone aside, and her head is buried in her hands. The sound of mournful sobbing conveys her desolation and desperation. It is surreal to observe such a harrowing display of human anguish amidst the oblivion of routine. It is devastating to see how an apparently minor problem can be magnified so immensely when a person is living with trauma. Mum tried to book an appointment online, but there is no record of it. A dismissive and rude clerk has informed her that there are no available appointments for setting up new accounts for two weeks. She is determined to find evidence of the appointment.

I see in the distance, beyond this realm, a dark creature building and stoking a hellish firepit. It weaves its way towards earth and meddles and menaces. My mother’s grief and pain have been growing with the fire. She has been prodded and tormented for nineteen earthly months since I died. Now the fire leaps, and my mother cannot fight it anymore. Her grief has erupted, and she has lost control.

Mum’s reason for being in the bank is another consequence of the tragic circumstances surrounding my death. It was so abhorrent that my ‘body’ was delivered to the Princess Alexandra Hospital in Harlow in pieces. They stayed in the post-mortem examination room for nearly two and a half months before the pathologist allowed transference to the funeral parlour. For obvious reasons, there was no possibility of formal identification immediately after my death. Therefore, it took weeks before the results of DNA tests allowed the coroner to issue a death certificate.

Let me explain more about the history of events leading up to this current catastrophe. As if my death wasn’t horrific enough in itself, my family were being denied the essential comfort of closure; it is a basic human need to be able to gather with friends and family to say goodbye to a loved one.

My first funeral took place on Monday, 21^st November 2022 at West Suffolk Crematorium. I was watching, of course, and it was sad, poignant and beautiful. As Mum, Dad and my brother walked towards Abbey Chapel, they appeared disoriented; somehow their movements were in unison, even when they had the occasional stagger or stumble, their sombre faces conveyed utter disbelief. Dad and Xav took shelter from the pouring rain whilst Mum liaised with the Funeral Assistant. Having learned of my fascination with unicorns whilst making funeral arrangements, the young woman made the kind gesture of handing Mum a little unicorn brooch. Other assistants were carrying wreaths and bouquets and placing them in a room next to the abbey. Suddenly, a glorious array of colours dispelled the dinginess. Next to this was a waiting room. When Mum, Dan and Xavier entered it, they were clearly surprised to see about fifteen people huddled inside, all waiting for my funeral, and yet, there was only one face they recognised. It was Ben, my closest friend. He walked straight over to Mum with outstretched arms. He hugged her and then turned to Xavier and Dad. No words were needed; it was so touching to see how they all embraced for longer than is usual for people who barely knew each other. Charlotte, Ben’s girlfriend and one of my best friends, stepped over and elegantly slipped into the group. She delicately placed a hand on Mum’s shoulder and introduced herself.

Ben smiled and handed Dan a book, telling him warmly, ‘I’m glad to be parting with the responsibility of looking after this. It’s been nearly halfway round the world and back.’

Dan accepted it graciously and opened it. There inside were photographs, drawings and glowing tributes from approximately thirty friends and colleagues. ‘Did you initiate this idea, Ben?’ Dan asked, managing to raise a smile.

‘Well, me and a few others had the idea, but I oversaw it all,’ he replied.

Mum’s voice wobbled as she said, ‘Thank you so, so much, Ben. We will treasure this forever.’

All in a moment, as if there was a kind of group consciousness, others in the room began to shuffle and move towards the door. It was 1.45 p.m. Fifteen minutes before the ceremony. There were no written rules for the obvious etiquette here, nevertheless, they all stepped aside to allow Mum, Dad, Xavier and his girlfriend, Tiana, to exit through the front door first. As if everybody innately knew the drill, the close relatives stood in the porch, sheltering from the hammering rain, and the rest gathered obediently in the car park. Others were arriving, now bringing the crowd to twenty-four.

Mum was motionless, staring in disbelief as the hearse entered the car park. For a moment, I was able to watch through her eyes too and rekindle memories of what it was like to experience despair. Compassion oozed from my soul as I cuddled her. When she unconsciously raised her arms and folded them around her shoulders, I knew that she could feel me. I, too, was soothed and heartened as she consoled me.

The music Mum had chosen for the entry of my coffin is bewitching. It is the theme tune to ‘Game of Thrones’, my favourite TV show of all time. This, however, was not the original version, and there was a reason for this. Shortly before I died, Mum and Dan had booked a holiday to Nerja in Spain. They were due to go on 14^th September; my death was six days before this. Obviously one of the many items on Mum’s ‘to do’ list was to cancel the holiday.

Some judgmental people may consider it shocking and disrespectful that Dan and Mum did board that flight in September after all. Sometimes Mum hears my voice, and she hopes that it is truly me; sometimes, however, she hears it, and she knows it is me as she did one morning shortly after I died, when I mustered enough energy to tell her, ‘Mum, you will go to Nerja.’ I watched with satisfaction as she stopped in her tracks whilst making a cup of tea. She muttered my name and I knew that she had heard me.

Fortunately, Xavier was by no means one of the sanctimonious pontificators. ‘St. John would want you and Dan to go on this holiday,’ he stated plainly. There was nothing constructive to do at home that couldn’t be done in Spain, my brother argued. They would still have access to emails, the internet and WhatsApp. Mum had so many administrative tasks to complete, including contacting my landlord in Berlin and closing my bank account. Furthermore, the Coroner had made it clear that there would be no formal proof of my identity until mid-October at the earliest. Surely sea, sunshine and the lifestyle of Nerja would offer some healing.

During that holiday, something magical happened.

It would have been my thirtieth birthday on the 21^{st of} September 2022. On the 22^nd, Mum and Dad were strolling around the town centre. Having reached Balcon De Europa, the mesmerising sound of an electric violin drew them further in. And there she was, a stunning young woman wearing a long white gown, as if dressed for a magnificent venue such as The Royal Albert Hall. Her name is Klara Gomboc.

Despite some exasperation from Dan, Mum approached her and thanked her for the beauty of her music. They had a very short chat. Mum told Klara that her son had died a matter of days ago. ‘I will send him a song as a gift,’ she said. ‘What would you like me to play?’

Entranced, Mum simply stated, ‘Game of Thrones.’

Instantaneously, Klara pressed a button on her amp, there was the immediate haunting sound of the introductory rhythm. Klara began to play. It was uncanny that she already had the song ready and waiting. This was more than a coincidence, and it was perfect. Mum and I had crossed boundaries and proved that powerful communication between Earthly and Spirit Realms is a reality.

And so that esoteric music transported itself to my funeral. As it played, the love emanating from every soul in the room was overwhelming. I was remorseful that I had brought so many people to this place, but I was also filled with gratitude.

At the end of the service, most of the mourners exited the chapel to the captivating sound of ‘Distant Skies’ by Nick Cave. This was Dan’s choice; he and Mum had been fans of Nick Cave for as long as I can remember. When, in 2015, they heard of the tragic death of Nick Cave and Susie Bick’s son, Arthur, they wept for him. ‘How can anybody ever get over something like this?’ Dan asked. ‘You would just be traumatised forever.’ I was young, but my eyes welled up too, and I agreed. ‘Distant Skies’ was written in tribute to Arthur; it is, perhaps, ironic that the circumstances surrounding his death were not entirely dissimilar to mine. I watched Mum, Dad and Xavier as they stayed after the other mourners, standing by my coffin and saying their final goodbyes. Despite their excruciating grief, they retained their dignity. Their worst fears had become reality. We in Spirit do not experience negative emotions in the way that humans do, but we do recall the pain of experiencing them. What we do know is the compelling desire to touch the hearts of our loved ones with our undying compassion. My family members knew that I was not in that coffin; I was around them, holding them up and helping them to remain composed.

Anne, the Celebrant, and one of Mum’s best friends, had conveyed a message that all attendees were welcome to join the family at their home. Mum, Dan and Xavier were ready for guests, having prepared food and laid the table. There were soft drinks and, of course, beer and wine. However, they didn’t really expect that many people would come since most had made long journeys. They were wrong. Over twenty people found their places in the lounge. There was no awkwardness, though there was an immediate sense of relaxation and familiarity. After a while the numbers had dwindled to fourteen, including Mum, Dad and Xav. A conversation began between Mum, Dad, Ben and Charlotte about what had happened to me towards the end of my life. It was open, honest and refreshing, refreshing because there was no elephant in the room. Mum was sitting on a high kitchen stool, having allowed guests to have comfortable seats. There was an extraordinary and beautiful moment when other conversations in the room stopped, and everybody directed their eyes towards her. Suddenly, Mum had a captivated audience. Others asked questions and chipped in. Once there was a sense of closure about the tragedy, the conversation turned to heart-warming memories about me.

Mum took so much solace from this gathering. To know that I was so loved and respected eased her pain. It was strange to watch her interacting so eloquently with friends and colleagues whom I thought she would never meet. I, too, was healed and comforted. This group of people had just demonstrated that the nature of my death was not the important issue. They, and so many others who couldn’t attend in person, will always maintain my legacy; they are celebrating the life of Dr Townsend (PhD), rather than Dr Unicorn (my deejaying name).

By the end of the weekend following my funeral, Dan, Xavier and others commented upon how much happier Mum seemed. She had ‘turned a corner’. However, on Tuesday, 29^th November, little over a week after my funeral, something shocking happened; an employee at the funeral parlour noticed an unpleasant odour in the building. One of the bags of my remains had not been placed in the coffin and had only just been found festering in the corner of a room. To those of us in Spirit, this is not as gruesome as it may seem. We are joyful to be free souls. We do not need our bodies. However, this does not offer any solace to my family, who are victims of the most appalling display of human error.

I cast my memory back to that Tuesday. It’s daytime, and I’m doing my best to watch the goings on in the funeral parlour. My view is hazy, and the sounds are distorted. What I do know, though, is that there is chaos and panic. There is a hubbub of whispering, shouting and phone calls.

It’s moving towards evening, and I’m forcing myself to gain clarity. There is about to be conflict between joy and horror, and I fear for my family. From my place, in a separate dimension, I have a panoramic view of Earth. I am gathering enough energy to home into more than one place at a time.

I am in my family home. Dan, my brother and Mum are in good spirits. They have just watched England win 3-2 against Wales in the FIFA World Cup. Having rekindled an occasional period of passion for football, Mum is drinking wine and, for the first time in months, her much-loved dry humour has surfaced. Clearly, after a few beers, Dad and Xav have become a little raucous. They are goading Mum with their schoolboy jokes. I love the familiar expression of disdain on Mum’s face, behind which is an inaudible chuckle. Dan is about to raise a toast in tribute to me, knowing that, wherever I am, I, too, have been celebrating England’s victories in the FIFA World Cup.

The urgency of the situation has fuelled me. I spy another earthly venue close by. I refocus my vision as if adjusting a pair of binoculars and zoom in. And there she is, a chief executive from the funeral company, standing in a plush kitchen. All that I can note is that it is white, clean and clinical. The executive is slim with shoulder-length, blond hair. She has not yet changed out of work clothes. She is trembling and clearly agitated. She is clasping her phone and rehearsing her words. She is holding back tears, not so much out of compassion or remorse, it’s more because she’s worried about covering her arse. Eventually, her fingers capture the keys and she dials.

I turn my attention back to my family home. Mum’s first true glimpse of joy since my death is about to be obliterated. Her phone rings. Still giggling, she dashes to her office.

‘Hello, is that Mrs Townsend-Smith?’ the caller enquires in a quivering voice.

Mum’s mood changes as she senses the sinister nature of this call.

The caller proceeds to relay the details relating to the discovery of remains which had not been placed in my coffin.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Mum replies. ‘This is absurd. And why have you left it until 8.30 in the evening to call me?’

‘I’ve been thinking all day about how I’m going to tell you. You’re going to need to sign some paperwork tomorrow and we will arrange for the remains to be cremated immediately. Do you want to come into the office, or shall I send somebody to your home?’ the caller asks

By this time, Dan and Xavier are listening in disbelief. ‘Surely that’s illegal,’ Xavier mutters.

‘No!’ Mum exclaims. ‘It seems that you are trying to brush this under the carpet. Tomorrow I will be phoning the coroner.’ She ends the call abruptly.

Mum phones the coroner the next day and is advised to ring DCI Sitch at the Essex Police Department. He confirms that it would be illegal to cremate the remains without further investigation since they need to be formally identified. Again, this takes several weeks, so I have a second funeral in March 2023. This is a small and sombre affair attended only by Mum, Dan and Xavier.

Mum didn’t tell my friends and colleagues about this terrible mistake since she did not want to taint the beauty of my funeral and wake in November.

Once again, my death was causing my family to deal with a minefield of complications in addition to grief. Having sought legal advice, they were informed that they could potentially receive thousands of pounds in compensation if they sued the funeral company. However, this would be costly and time-consuming. My family rejected this idea immediately. More than anything, they felt that it would be distasteful to allow greed to become more important than their memories of me.

Nevertheless, my family felt that the funeral company should be made to compensate in some way and what else could they offer other than money?

Mum’s main motive for this was that she wanted to see Xavier set up in life. He is approaching thirty, notably an age which Mum earmarked for me as the time in life when I needed to make some changes. In my case, I was desperate to find true love and a meaningful relationship. I had a fantastic job in a research laboratory in The Charite Hospital in Berlin. I was also a part-time university lecturer. However, I was partying too much and mixing with the wrong people. I was smoking too much weed and using speed to help me function, something I didn’t admit to my family until it was too late. In a two-hour conversation with Mum two days before I died, she was emphatic that I should regard reaching the age of thirty as a turning point. ‘How can you find a loving partner if you’re like a whirlwind, flitting from one place to another?’ She was right. People loved me, but I didn’t give them enough of my time. She told me to choose my true friends and ditch the users. She also pointed out that I would not find true love in a rave. I acknowledged her advice and promised to honour it. My thirtieth birthday was two weeks away. I never reached it.

Xavier’s case is, of course, totally different. He has a good job as a manager at Center Parcs but cannot afford to move out. He desperately wants to have his own home but sees renting like throwing your future away. He told me when I came back to the U.K. in May 2022 that he would feel a failure if he couldn’t get a mortgage by the age of thirty.

Mum and Dan reached out to local solicitors, explaining the extremity of the injustice against them. They received a few replies, expressing shock and offering condolences. However, the final answer was typically that English law does not have any category for this misdemeanour. Eventually, a solicitor in Newmarket offered his services for free. Even though his firm usually deals with divorces, he and the senior partner helped us to obtain compensation from the funeral company.

Although nothing can compensate for my death, Mum is now able to place Xavier’s money into a savings account, and this is exactly why she is in the bank on Monday, 18^th March, 2024. This is also exactly why something as simple as an error with an appointment has been magnified out of all proportion. And this is also why she barely recognises at this moment in time where she is and how she has become so distraught.

I see a kindly looking young man in a grey suit approach my mum. ‘Can I help you?’ he asks softly.

Mum raises her head and looks at him. She is still in shock, so her reply may be the oddest one that the man has ever heard. ‘I made an appointment for 10 a.m., but it’s not on the computer. I must open new accounts. The funeral company are giving me compensation for losing some of my son.’

The gentleman is not fazed by this. He politely and efficiently proceeds to make an appointment for two days later. Mum’s demeanour changes, her body straightens and her eyes sparkle. Some good has been done.

In the distant realm, I see the dark creature recoil. The hellish fire pit diminishes, and the fire fizzles away. As if I were a small child, I take hold of my mum’s hand and prepare to leave the bank.