Jack
W. T. F. with a double exclamation point. It feels as if we’re sailing off the edge of the world on the bumpy crossing to the island. I can’t get a mobile signal. And then ‘John the man’ as he calls himself, ‘nitwit step-dad’ as I call him, elbows me with this year’s winner of the ugly sweater competition and my phone goes for a swim.
‘Oops, sorry about that, pal. You don’t need that thing anyway,’ he says with a smug grin. ‘You can enjoy the view.’
I glare at him and wish I could throw his Doc Martins (with him in them, obviously) overboard. The view is nothing but waves, rock and sky — easily captured by shades from Davy’s to Payne’s grey.
The birds screech almost as loud as my internal screams of W. T. F. as we near the island. Their squawks sound like phone notifications — taking the piss.
‘That’s where we’re staying?’ I survey the rocky island with no building in sight. Just rocks and birds, not even the seals Dad promised — he could have plugged for us, just once, to holiday in Jamacia instead of Scotland.
Without my mobile, my fingers itch for my brushes. The scenery easily captures my mood as I imagine sketching the barely existing palette around me.
Uncle Archie nods. ‘Got a great deal, great deal.’
Let me tell you what is worse than a one-hour ferry ride with the McCallister family. A whole weekend without Wi-Fi, or my brushes — thanks a lot Mum! –, dodging attempts to be social.
I’m a teenager and it’s perfectly natural to be anti-social. As I shuffle away from all human contact, Gran spews down my jumper.
‘Nausea band works a treat,’ she says, before hurling her partially digested lunch over me.
I gag at the stench. Thanks to this lot, I smell like tuna.
Get E.L. Parfitt’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
‘Are you alright, Jack?’ Mum asks, reaching out with a wet wipe. She turns to Gran without waiting for my answer, ‘Mam, want some water?’
I wish she’d stop trying so darn hard to fix everything.
This sort of treatment should be illegal. I hate them all.
All the cliché clan come along for a family holiday every year: Mum with us and Step-dad John, Gran, Isla (my sister), Mum’s sister Aunty Maisie joined at the hip with Uncle Archie, and Dad with his new husband, Eleanor (she, her). It’s tradition to take a trip to the middle of nowhere for ‘quality time’, which apparently means it can’t be changed.
‘Can I borrow your phone?’ I ask Isla.
‘No chance!’ She spins away from my attempt to steal her device.
I sigh. ‘Thanks a lot, titch. Holiday Hell here we come!’
She probably won’t be able to get a signal here anyway.
This mobile setback means that I’ll lose time training my AI replacement. I tell it all my thoughts so that when I die they can stick it in a robot hoover and freak everyone out. That or transfer my consciousness to an electric toothbrush, or something. A paintbrush, yeah, a paintbrush. Not a vibrator, that would be more traumatic than the time I accidentally found Dad’s.
Course, if they figure out a way to make me walk out of this wheelchair then I may rethink reincarnation as a paintbrush. I’m still undecided about whether to stick around and see, or take matters into my own hands.
I’ve not even got to the worst part of our trip yet. There’s only so much shite you can sweep under our family rug. (The size of the hidden lump under our carpet matches the proportions and smells of a dead cat.) All the falsehoods, secrets, and fish bones will surely rise to the surface now.
First priority, I have to convince the police I’m not the murderer.
That’s not the worst part, because it’s the most interesting thing about this trip. But I’m jumping ahead of myself there. I haven’t got to the embarrassment of being carried off the ferry, or the bit where Eleanor tripped on her heels and almost fell off the gangplank, or our arrival at the rented cottage (without Wi-Fi), or the disastrous first meal on the island where everyone fell out. And I definitely haven’t got to the murder part. But before we get to that you should probably hear from the rest of the family.
Author’s note: This is the first chapter of a group written murder mystery that we didn’t complete.
