Psychro Killer: Chapter 4 - The Wake

The room was filled with muted murmurs, the clinking of glasses, and the heavy scent of lilies surrounding a studio photograph of Zoe from a year or so ago that she got done for one of those makeover deals where they supposedly treat you like a model for the day. She'd done it for a laugh. And now here it was representing her. Niko thought it looked awful and nothing like her. The wake had drawn a crowd, but none of it felt real to Niko.

Amongst the offerings, Niko couldn’t help but notice the sad, lifeless spread laid out on the dining table. Grey tuna-mayonnaise sandwich triangles sat limply next to cornichons, which looked like sad little pickled penises, shrivelled and awkwardly scattered. Tart, unripe cherry tomatoes were at least a splash of colour, though their flavour made the corners of his mouth pinch in distaste. Cheddar on crackers, their edges soft from sitting too long, were flanked by other supermarket aperitifs—tiny cocktail sausages, marinated olives that tasted like brine and nothing more—all clearly unloaded onto the nice plates straight from plastic containers.

It all felt so last-minute, so half-hearted, and Niko couldn’t quite believe it. Zoe deserved more than this, didn’t she? At least there was some decent red wine, the one saving grace on the table. But then again, his mother had done her best, as she always did. Her contributions stood out amongst the blandness: homemade pastries and dips, each bite a reminder of her thoughtful love and preparation. She had been hurting too, he realised, and he had been so hard on her. She loved Zoe, maybe not in the way that he did, but enough to create something real, something meaningful.

As Niko scanned the room, guests gingerly picked at the food, their fingers hesitant, as if afraid to commit to what was on offer. They weren't really eating, just poking at the uninspired selection when their stomachs growled louder than their half-hearted, remorseful chatter. And then there was Mike, standing near the table, generally palatable when the conversation was interesting, but now so focused on his own grief that he seemed unreachable, hollowed out, much like the sad display in front of them. 

Niko stood near the back, his body tensed as he watched Mike, Zoe’s father, take his place in front of the mourners, a glass of wine in hand.

His voice, though thick with emotion, grated against Niko’s ears. He spoke of Zoe with affection, but everything seemed to loop back to him—his loss, his sorrow, his aching heart.

“Zoe was my joy, my pride, my light,” Mike said, his voice cracking. “I still can’t believe she’s gone. It’s like a part of me has been torn away, and now I don’t know how to go on.”

Niko’s jaw tightened, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Was this supposed to be a tribute? He couldn’t help but feel that every sentence was laced with selfishness, Mike’s grief overshadowing Zoe’s life, her essence.

The room was silent, respectful, but Niko’s blood boiled beneath the surface. He glanced around—people nodded, some dabbing their eyes with tissues, and he couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way they were all quietly indulging Mike as he turned Zoe’s death into his own personal tragedy.

Zoe was more than this man’s grief.

Mike continued, oblivious to the tension mounting in Niko’s chest. “I’ll never forget the way she used to call me ‘Dad.’ That word, that one word—”

“Enough.” The word slipped out of Niko’s mouth before he could stop himself.

The room froze, heads turning toward him, eyes wide with shock. Niko could feel Helena’s gaze burning into him from across the room, but he didn’t care. He was done pretending.

Mike paused, blinking in confusion. “Niko?” he said, hesitant.

“This isn’t about you, Mike,” Niko said, his voice rising, cutting through the awkward silence. “Zoe’s gone. But all you can talk about is yourself, your pain, your loss. What about her? Where the fuck is Zoe in all this?”

Helena stood up abruptly, her face pale. “Niko, don’t,” she whispered, pleading, but Niko couldn’t stop. The dam had broken.

“I loved her too, Mike, we all loved her.” Niko continued, his voice thick with emotion. “But this isn’t about us. It’s about her. She was a person, not just your daughter, not just some extension of your ego. She was so much more, and you’re standing there, turning it into some self-indulgent therapy session. What are you trying to do? Get sympathy? Make this all about you? Because that’s how it sounds.”

The room was deathly quiet, every face now turned toward Niko in disbelief. Zoe’s mother, Sarah, had her hands pressed against her mouth, her eyes filling with tears, and she looked ready to flee the room.

Niko’s chest heaved with the force of his words, and for a brief moment, he felt a glimmer of satisfaction. It was the truth. Finally, someone had spoken the truth.

Helena moved toward him, her face stricken. “Niko, please. Stop.”

But Niko shook his head. “No, Mama. I’m done listening to this. I’m done with lies, with people twisting everything to fit their own narrative. Zoe deserves more than this. She deserves to be remembered for who she was, not as some accessory to your pain, Mike.”

He could see it—the room was shocked, horrified even—but beneath that, a few people looked relieved. Like they had been suffocating under the weight of Mike’s self-centred speech, and now someone had finally ripped the mask off.

Mike stood there, mouth open, speechless, his face drained of colour. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Niko snapped. “That’s the problem. You don’t even realise you’re doing it.”

For a long moment, no one moved. The tension in the air was suffocating, and Niko felt the heat of everyone’s eyes on him, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Then, slowly, the fire in him began to fizzle out. His shoulders sagged, and he glanced around the room—at Sarah, sobbing quietly, at Helena, her hand trembling as she tried to reach for him, at Mike, broken and humiliated.

Niko closed his eyes, the weight of what he had just done crashing down on him all at once. He took a breath, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice raw. “I shouldn’t have—”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the stunned silence.

Outside, the cool air hit him, and he stood there for a moment, letting it wash over him. The grief, the anger, the confusion—it all swirled together, too much to bear. Zoe’s face flashed before his eyes, and for a split second, he felt her loss more sharply than ever.

This was it. He couldn’t do this anymore—this grieving, this endless loop of sadness and anger. Something had to change.

The truth. He needed the truth. About his family. About his father. If there was anything left for him to hold onto, it was that.

And with that, Niko walked away from the wake, leaving behind the weight of the past, the lies, and the people who couldn’t understand. It was time to find out who he really was—and what he was running from.

Niko stood outside the house, the quiet Suffolk air too still after the wake’s suffocating atmosphere. He hadn’t even said goodbye to anyone. His body felt like it was moving on autopilot as he walked to the end of the drive and dialled for a taxi. His thoughts raced, but there was one clear objective amidst the chaos—find the truth.

The car pulled up, and as it moved toward the station, Niko took out his phone and called his mother. She answered after a few rings, her voice tense and tired. He could almost see her there, doing her usual post-social cleanup, smoothing things over with apologies and gentle reassurances to the other mourners. She had always been so good at making things seem alright on the surface.

“Where are you, Niko?” Helena asked, her voice low but worried. “You just left without saying—”

“I need to know our real surname,” he cut her off, his voice sharper than he intended.

There was a pause. He heard her sigh, and for a moment, he thought she might hang up.

“Niko, please... Don’t start this now.”

“I’m not starting anything, Mama. I’m trying to find out the truth. Why won’t you just tell me? What was your family name? What are you so afraid of?”

Another silence. He could hear her breathing, could imagine her pacing, her mind racing to think of what to say.

“Niko, I don’t want you to go down this road. It’s dangerous. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I don’t care. Without the truth, we’re all fucked, don’t you see that? You’ve been hiding behind lies for so long you can’t even see it anymore.” His voice was rising, anger bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. “Tell me.”

“Please, Niko...” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Kastrinakis.”

He gripped his phone tighter. The answer hung in the air between them like something fragile and precious, but also deeply dangerous. His breath steadied. “Well done,” he said bitterly. “Seems you’re finally getting it. Doesn’t it feel better to live in the light?”

“Niko, don’t. Please. You don’t understand what you’re doing,” she pleaded.

But he wasn’t listening anymore. He hung up before she could say anything else, his mind already racing with what to do next. He immediately searched for "Yannis Kastrinakis Psychro" on his phone, fingers trembling slightly. Within seconds, a page popped up—dedicated to the Panagia tis Anoixis festival, with Yannis’s name prominently featured as its founder and organiser. He clicked through, scrolling rapidly until he found what he was looking for. There, under the festival details, was a personal email address.

Without hesitation, he tapped out a message:

Dear Yannis,
My name is Niko—I’m Helena’s son. I know you never expected to hear from me, I don’t think you even knew I existed, but I feel I need to connect with you. There’s so much I don’t know about our family, and I believe it’s time I learned. If you’re willing, I would love to meet you. I hope this message finds you well.
Niko

The email was sent before the train even arrived at Gatwick Station.

 

To his surprise, the response came almost immediately. Niko’s phone buzzed with a notification, and he opened the email to find Yannis’ name glowing at the top.

Yannis’s reply had been suspiciously brief and immediate, almost too inviting for a relative he'd never met. “Niko. You must stay with me.”

 

Niko considered checking into a hotel, taking time to plan his next move, but then a surge of resolve took over. If he was going to do this—really uncover the truth—it couldn’t be from the safety of a hotel room. He needed to face his family head-on, step into the labyrinth without hesitation. The festival, the village, his uncle... all of it felt like a vortex pulling him in. Besides, he thought, the sooner he arrived, the sooner he could confront the past.

He was already at Gatwick, having secured a last-minute flight to Heraklion. A fleeting thought passed through his mind—why hadn't he done this sooner?

 

He fired off a quick response to Yannis, telling him he would be delighted to help and would arrive this afternoon. “If it’s too soon, I can find other accommodation,” he added, but by the time the email was sent, Niko was already boarding the plane.

 

As the engines roared to life, a sense of inevitability settled over him. His mother had taught him enough of her native tongue to more than manage. At least, there was that. It felt like a small victory—a thread of connection to the place he was heading, the secrets that awaited him.

 

As Niko settled into his seat on the plane, his mind raced, flickering between images of Zoe, his mother, and the uncle he'd never met. This wasn’t just a trip—it was a reckoning. All the lies and secrets, the years of not knowing who his father really was.

 

"What the fuck am I doing?" he thought, gripping the armrests as the plane taxied down the runway. “I’m going to find the truth,” he reminded himself. His father—the man who had loomed large over his childhood, only to croak before Niko was old enough to think of asking any useful questions, taking his darkness with him—was now all he could think about.

 

He felt a strange mix of dread and exhilaration. For the first time in weeks, the numbness of Zoe's death was lifting, replaced by something sharper. There was no telling what he’d find when he got to Crete, but he’d be damned if he left without tearing the truth out of the island, one way or another.