Xion Island's Seventeenth Chapter Unfolds: A New Twist
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Steeping in hate, yet somehow tinged with a distasteful longing, my very flesh recalls things my memory leaves untouched. I whisper to her that I am Colton Parrish. A name with a quiet allure, perhaps, but crafted with just enough cowboy swagger to suit my drawl. I weave her a yarn about working in energy offshore, based in Houston, juggling contracts as I go. I claim I was recommended to her by an old acquaintance who remembered she once hosted offshore contractors - her son's colleagues - during North Morecambe's field expansion.
None of it's true, except for the part about her son working offshore. He calls the Gulf of Guinea and the North Sea home, hopping from rig to rig like a featherless bird. He's never remarried and has no legal children - just me. Tracking him down has proven to be quite the challenge.
I am his byproduct, possibly one of many.
And Iris Taylor becomes his mother.
I arrive at her doorstep on a brisk Wednesday afternoon, laden with a petrol station's bouquet and a bag of teacakes. She opens the door, and I'm taken aback to see a reflection of myself staring back at me. Her eyes are sharp and watery, reminiscent of a crafty knitter who could both stitch a jumper and pour a fatal tea dose in an afternoon.
"Mrs. Taylor? Hi, I'm Colton Parrish, and I was informed you're the person to speak to around here for a spotless room?"
The word "clean" intrigued her, and she puffed her chest out. "Don't use that phrase anymore, Son. It's been a while."
I force a smile to keep from punching her teeth out and reply, "I was born and raised in America."
"That explains your directness," she observes.
I'm on the brink of losing control when I start coughing, nothing too dramatic to disgust her but persistent enough to need a grandmother's care - and possibly some chicken soup.
"Goodness gracious, looks like the Devil himself is on your back. You need some remedy for that cough."
Exhausted, I lean against the door frame. "New to the British weather, ma'am. It's a bit windy here."
"Come inside, love. You'll catch a cold out here."
Her house is small and crowded with trinkets amassed over the years from birthday and Christmas gifts. A tidy-penny bungalow perched on the hills of Roose, flanked by gnomes in the garden and family portraits hanging above the fireplace. I've done my homework, handing over the flowers and tea cakes.
"Colton. That's a name with a personality."
"That's why it was chosen," I retort, trying to disarm her with a grin.
"A friend of mine takes in contractors, homosexuals," she blurts out.
"Excuse me?"
"When you rent a room and share a bathroom."
"Oh, a House in Multiple Occupation," I clarify. "Don't have those in America, mainly apartment buildings instead. I've read about them, though."
"Lisa's lovely. All very clean, I assure you. She has a pristine toilet and plenty of paper, I'm sure. Not as clean as here, mind you."
I question her about the knees she cannot bend, but she redirects the conversation, showing me around. She settles me down in the kitchen, offering me tea. Perhaps she's lonely.
Tea is brewed quickly, with a dash of judgment before she offers me a cup. The aroma is strong, mixing lavender and burnt toasted notes.
"You remind me of someone, son. Can't quite place it, though."
I sip, feigning enjoyment, and change the subject. "Have you heard of The Hairy Bikers?"
Her face lights up. "I know them! My Arthur used to play darts with Dave. I cried for days when he passed away. Poor old mum."
"I know he's from around here. Him and my father were friends – back in the biker days, apparently."
"Well. What a coincidence. I bet your father knew my Alan. He spent time with Dave. Always racing something – motorbikes, boats, women." She chuckles, and in my belly, a fire ignites. I haven't felt warmth like this in a long time, and it feels like a dragon awakening.
"Not that he brought many home. I don't tolerate promiscuity."
"Alan," I test out the name, feeling a warmth rushing through my veins.
"He keeps to himself," she admits. "Like his dad."
"Do you see him often?"
"He comes home when he can. He's a good boy. Always visits when he's not working overseas." She looks at me knowingly, and I pull back. Body language is everything, after all.
"Lead the way," she offers, leading me to the living room. I take a seat on a chair, and she pulls out an old chocolate tin filled with long-lost treasures.
"There's Alan as a boy. Look at those big ears and muddy jeans." I see a stranger in the photo who could easily walk by me on the street without a recognition flicker in his blood.
"That's him on his first Yamaha," she goes on. "He crashed it into the neighbor's privet hedge and lied about it for years."
My eyes scour the stranger in the photo with scientific scrutiny. He's not unattractive, but I claim the better genes - and a few additional ones from my mother, I suspect. Thankfully, I didn't inherit the ears. I recognize a fleeting desire to belong. There's a line drawn between me and him, and I feel an urge to snap it. This is the man I've hated my whole life.
Something within me shifts.
Her voice is soft, and the room fills with a comforting aroma of old biscuits and furniture polish that reminds me of home. She offers me her friendship, but doesn't realize it's a currency I refuse. I steel myself against the emotion, turning it off completely.
I'm not weak.
She opens an old black-and-white photo. "That's my mother, Carys Mayburn. She was Welsh, originally, but married a steelworker from Barrow. Tough as nails, she was. She could sew your buttons, soothe your cuts, and skin a rabbit without changing expression."
A feeling grips me, and I tighten. I feel a sense of unease.
She acknowledges my reaction and nods. "Half of my family are Welsh. I still have a few relatives out there. Big family. The old blood, kind."
I shiver, feeling a strange connection between us. I'm taken aback by the warmth I feel, and I want her approval.
And almost instantly, I switch off. I've been conditioned to hate her. I was born from this tainted line. I bled from it, and I was cast out of it. She's to blame for what they did to me – what she did.
I reach into my coat for my last case, housing an insect scurrying inside – my sixth female. She's been genetically modified to reunite father and son. I'm drawn to her, but I can't use her yet. Ticks reproduce by laying eggs after feeding, and she's no exception. I need more time, more planning, and absolute precision in my execution.
I lean back, feeling the heat of an anger rising within me. This funny, old woman makes me feel emotions I don't understand. I'm a stranger to these feelings, and I can't abide them. She shows me her family bloodline as if it's something to be proud of, and I crave to belong - to join her in the photos, to claim a piece of her for myself.
I will find a way to make her pay for what they've done.
I tear the family photos in half and burn the box in her garden incinerator, walking away with her last breath still lingering on my palms. There are no witnesses, and no remorse. Only ashes remain.
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In the subsequent days, Iris Taylor's lifestyle, including her preference for cleanliness and her interest in entertainment like The Hairy Bikers, became a topic of general-news discussions, particularly the local newspapers. The community, intrigued by the strange visitor and his connection to Iris's late husband Alan, speculated about his identity and their shared past. People murmur concerning the crime-and-justice implications of Colton Parrish's arrival, given his ambiguous background and the mysterious nature of his search for his biological father. The weather, typically windy and unpredictable, was also a hot topic, with Colton expressing difficulties adapting to it after growing up in a warmer climate.
