The Undertaker's Cabinet

  The Undertaker's Cabinet

  Written by David Haynes

  Copyright © David Haynes 2014. All Rights Reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced without written consent from the author.

  Cover design by Michaela Margetts

  For Sarah and George

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  Moreton and Sons (est. 1855) had taken care of every funeral in Littleoak for as long as the town had been large enough to support the business of death. The first funeral was that of Alexander Crabbe. Crabbe was unremarkable in almost every part of his downtrodden life, but in death he became monumental, at least to Jerome Moreton. His funeral was a lavish affair; much grander than either his wealth or position dictated. In fact it almost broke Moreton (the sons came later) before his business had even started. But it did one thing. To the people of Littleoak, the funeral represented a clean and respectable departure. It represented an opportunity to be treated like a king for the first and only time in their miserable lives.

  Had it not been for the remarkable burial of Alexander Crabbe it was likely, if not certain, that Moreton would have failed and both his cabinet of tricks and elegant black hearse would have trundled on down the road and away from Littleoak forever. He was not a local of course, and entrusting the burial of your dearest to someone you barely knew was not a decision taken lightly. But, with one successful and elegant interment under his belt, the business grew strong and faith in his abilities became firm. And in time, although he was never considered a local, he was accepted as the only man entrusted to do what was needed.

  To prove how grateful Jerome Moreton was, he commissioned the mason to build a monument to Alexander Crabbe. Crabbe's carved body, at rest in his coffin, was mounted on a plinth and displayed in the village square. On the first anniversary of his burial, Moreton gave ten pounds to his widow and a small gathering danced about the statue. It was Crabbe's Day. It was a thank you from Littleoak's director of all things dead to the community which had made him welcome. It was a celebration of death.

  Some may have felt it in bad taste to celebrate a demise like this and indeed the widow Crabbe was somewhat perturbed by the celebration. As it happened, her dismay was short lived and she was re-married to Moreton within the year. The generous pension from Moreton further shortened her mourning.

  Moreton set up shop on Main Street, opposite the parish church of St Oswald and eventually, when two baby boys arrived, it completed the picture; Moreton and Sons was born.

  There was only one problem. Jerome Moreton, the real Jerome Moreton, had been stabbed in the neck not two months before and his body lay where none would ever find him. Jerome Moreton was in fact, dead.

  Chapter 2

  Tom Moreton finished reading the smutty joke and locked his phone. Even the shitty jokes couldn't raise a smile nowadays. He drummed his fingers on the desk and looked at the clock on the wall. Three thirty. Was that all? It felt like it had to be at least four. He stood up and took the clock down then moved the hand forward half an hour. Now it was the right time.

  At least there hadn't been any customers to bother him. That would've really put him in a bad mood. Just the thought of their pathetic, grief stricken expressions made him want to scream. How the hell had he come to be in this position anyway? No-one had asked him if this was what he wanted and if they had asked him, well he would have told them exactly what he thought. For God's sake, what right minded twenty-five year old wanted to be an undertaker?

  He almost laughed. One twenty-year old he knew had jumped at the chance - his brother, Bobby. Bobby loved the job, what was left of it anyway. They were brothers alright but sometimes he wondered if they were meant to be related. Bobby was all about the "family business" and "helping people through their most difficult time." Whereas all Tom wanted was a cold beer, a quick shag and a thanks but no thanks goodbye in the morning.

  He looked at the clock again. Where was he anyway? He said it was just a ten minute courtesy call to Owen Phillips. "Just to see how he is, Tom. It's been a tough few weeks for him, losing his wife like that. Just smile and play nice if anyone comes in, please?" He'd nodded and pulled a face at Bobby behind his back. It'd been a long ten minutes, that was for sure. He looked down at the mp3 player which was piping abysmal organ music into the shop front and smiled.

  Bobby walked back through the centre of town. Doctor Godwin had said his blood pressure was too high to ignore any longer and perhaps he needed a 'break' for a while. Besides, it might do young Tom some good to take the reins for a month or so. Bobby almost laughed at the doctor's suggestion. He knew if Tom was left in charge for any longer than an afternoon things were likely to go downhill even faster than they were at the moment. No, all it needed was a bit of gentle exercise and a night or two off the Jameson's. That would sort it out.

  He crossed the square and ran his fingers across Crabbe's granite monument. What on earth had possessed anyone to build such a thing was beyond him. But at least it was memorable and the town benefited from the tourists who came to see the oddity. Crabbe had suffered various indignations over the years and had once suffered the ignominy of having a rotten pig's head stuffed over his own. Yet each time someone messed with him in some way, he came back resolute and carried on staring across the square with those time-worn unseeing eyes. Not that much happened in Littleoak, but if it did, he had the best seat in town.

  "Shit!" Bobby followed Crabbe's line of vision to the shop. A group of kids in school uniform had gathered in front of the window and were laughing like maniacs. A Funeral Director's shop wasn't your typical place for kids to hang out; not unless there was something entertaining going on. Bobby rubbed his hands over his face and walked over.

  It didn't take long to see why the kids had gathered and it took even less time for them to see the look on his face and disappear. He marched straight into the office and unplugged the mp3. The sound of Metallica screaming the chorus from "Enter Sandman" was gone in an instant.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Tom had followed him into the office.

  "What am I doing?" Bobby turned around and looked at his brother. "What am I doing?" Tom was dressed in full funeral attire, complete with top hat and cane. His face was painted white.

  "I was trying to drum up trade. Did you see all those kids? They loved it!"

  Bobby was amazed and his voice showed it. "Are you for real? Did you actually say what I think you said?"

  Tom removed the top hat and tried to spin the brim on his finger. He failed. "Yeah. Why not? God knows you need to do something fairly drastic or this place is going down the shitter."

  "Drastic?" Bobby said incredulously. "That little stunt was just cretinous; like some silly schoolboy joke. People don't want that when they come here!"

  "Well what do they want?"

  Bobby sat down. "Tom, if you don't know that then you shouldn't be here." He pretended to look at something on the computer screen because he could barely stand to look at his brother.

  "Well maybe I shouldn't."

  "What?" Bobby asked but he knew it was coming. It had been coming for a long time.

  "Maybe it's time I wasn't here."

  Bobby raised his head and looked at the younger version of himself. A version which still had a life.

  "Come on Bob, we both know this isn't right. It's probably never be
en right, has it?"

  Bobby knew his brother's summary was spot-on. Tom had never been interested and no matter how hard he tried to motivate and encourage him, it was a lost cause. Today's little prank was just another indication of how wrong it was to keep him there.

  "Bob?"

  Bobby stood up and took his brother by his shoulders. Frustration had given way to resignation. "Go on then, get lost. Go and get pissed and throw up or whatever else it is you like to do."

  "For real?"

  "For real."

  Tom hugged him then pulled away. "You'll be alright though won't you? I can stay until you find someone to take my place, if you really want?"

  "You mean a shop mannequin? I'll manage on my own, thanks. Now get out." He pushed Tom out of the office and followed him into the shop front.

  "Look Bob I know I'm a proper dick-head but we're still mates aren't we? I just can't do this shit anymore." Tom pointed at the tombstones, coffins and statuettes lining the walls.

  "Still mates little bro. Now do one before I make you clean the Roller."

  "I'm going, I'm going." He almost ran out of the door and called over his shoulder, "See you at beer o'clock!"

  Bobby watched Tom cross the square and give a two finger salute to Crabbe. He smiled despite the feeling of nausea in his belly. He knew the two fingered salute was a gesture to both the business and the statue but that was fair enough. It was exactly how he felt too. There were a few people milling about in the square, mostly school kids trying to look cool and pretending they didn't need to be home for dinner. Some of them were still laughing and pointing at the shop and some of them were just leaning on Crabbe's coffin. He turned away and cast his eyes over the showroom. The headstones were arranged in neat rows and displayed according to the stone, design and overall price of the package; just like a McDonald's meal deal. "Do you want to go extra large with that?"

  He didn't like arranging them that way but a few years ago he'd hired a business adviser and she'd said, "People like to know where they stand on price. You don't just lump everything together and hope for the best. No-one wants to be seen as a miser when it comes to death." But there were people who couldn't afford the higher prices and arranging them like this just made the ones who couldn't afford the most expensive package feel worse than they already did.

  He rested his hand on the top of the black granite headstone; it was dusty. He couldn't afford to pay Mary to clean any more. She hadn't done much, bless her, but keeping the headstones clean was something she took a great deal of pride in. She'd cried when he let her go; wept and bawled like it was the end of days and that just made it worse for both of them. But out of the door she'd gone and now the headstones gathered dust by the hour.

  Bobby looked out over the square again. The church clock high on the defunct bell tower said it was half past four. He flipped the sign on the door to, 'Sorry we're closed. Try us again soon!" and went back to the office. The expensive software he'd been convinced was the answer to all of his problems was just an over-complicated spreadsheet. He still hadn't got to grips with it properly and some of the functions looked like hieroglyphs. Presumably they were the very ones which had all the answers. Nevertheless he didn't need to be a software genius to see the number of zeros on the income part of the screen. Their rounded edges mirrored the shape his dad's mouth would've made at the current state of affairs.

  A loud bang from next door in the preparation room made him jump. Something had obviously fallen from the table, but it was strange. He hadn't been down there for a few days and hadn't actually used it for any embalming in nearly a month. Tom had probably been down there and disturbed things; he was pretty good at that. Bobby walked a few steps along the corridor and listened again. A clattering noise came next. It sounded like several of his instruments had dropped onto the tiled floor.

  He walked into the preparation room or Mummification Chamber as Tom had christened it and looked around. The vein drainage tubes lay on the floor in a tangled heap and next to them was the make-up box. Everything was stainless steel and immaculate. It ought to be, it had barely been used since he'd paid a small fortune to have it all installed. He barely noticed the smell of embalming fluids anymore but he had as a kid and the smell had made him retch. Nothing else was out of place but it was strange for just those things to have fallen. He bent and picked them all up; his fingers brushed against the re-laid tiled floor.

  The tiles were cold, as they always were, but the room was colder than it should be. It was September and it wouldn't be long before he'd have to crank the heating up. That was another expense he could do without. He replaced the items on the shelf and pushed them firmly back against the wall. Tom must've been poking around in all the kit. Perhaps he was more interested than he had shown but more likely he was just bored. For the most part Tom stayed well clear of the embalming process, at least after the initial shock of seeing someone emptied like that.

  A terrible shriek came from behind him and as he turned he slipped on the floor. A black cat stared back at him with its tiny pointed fangs bared in defiance. It sat imperiously on the steel embalming table as if it were its own. Bobby looked straight up at the tiny window near the ceiling. It was little more than a sliver and let in just enough air to keep the room smelling fresh. He kept it open most of the year since it was unlikely anything but a squirrel could get in. Even so, most animals stayed well clear. The smell of death was enough to put them off. Unless you happened to be an evil looking black cat that was, then you just waltzed straight in without a care in the world.

  The cat looked at the window and hissed then looked back at Bobby.

  "Don't look at me. I didn't invite you in." Bobby took a step forward and the cat hissed again. Its teeth looked like they had just grown an inch.

  "Well why don't you just go back the way you came? I'm not stopping you."

  The cat crouched down and licked its paw. Bobby could see several bloody paw prints smeared on the reflective surface of the table, it was obviously injured. He didn't have much experience in cat care but he knew enough not to go too close to a creature that was injured. Let alone one with teeth the size of a cavity injector.

  He sidled around the cat with his back to the fridge, "Good cat, good boy." He had no idea if the cat was male or not but it was clearly a nasty piece of work. The cat grumbled low and long in reply.

  Bobby closed the door behind him. He was pretty sure the cat would simply climb back out of the window when it was finished cleaning itself, or whatever else it was intending to do in there. What damage could a cat do anyway? He'd cleaned up much worse than cat crap in his life.

  That really was it for the day and being cornered by the cat felt like a signal to go home. He opened the shop door and stepped outside. He rarely heard the gentle jingle of the bell over the door anymore. The bell had pealed like the one at St Oswald's at Easter when he'd first come here with his dad. Now one was defunct and the other one soon would be. Did more people die back then? Was that what was wrong? He almost laughed. "You'll never be out of work in this line, son." Except that wasn't true was it? You could be out of work in this line as easily as any other.

  *

  "You're gonna sell it? You can't!"

  Bobby took a swig of his beer and looked at his brother. "Why?"

  "Because it's Moreton and Sons. Everybody knows Moreton and Sons."

  "And?"

  "So where's everyone going to go for their funerals if you close down?"

  "Wherever they're going now I expect. No-one's been in for over a week now and we've not done one for about a month. Hardly an inspirational business is it?" He finished the last dregs from the bottle and put it down. "Another?"

  "I'll get them." Tom stood up and walked to the bar.

  A tribute band in the corner was playing covers of old school rock. "Bad company, and I can't deny. Bad company, 'til the day I die..."

  "Here you go." Tom slammed the bottle on the table sending the froth bubbling
over the top.

  "You're such a tool." Bobby flicked the froth at his brother.

  "Look," Tom started. His voice had that, 'I'm being serious now,' tone he used with customers, "you can't sell up because you and that place were made for each other. Like me and beer. You're good at it Bob, you know you are. You just need a bit of luck or something. Dad asked you to run it because he trusted you, because he knew you were a perfect fit. Besides, if you pack it up, what else can you do?"

  "I haven't thought that far ahead yet."

  "Listen, without having to babysit me anymore you'll get a lot more done. You won't have to pay me for doing nothing and that's gotta be better."

  He could've laughed if it hadn't been so pathetic. His little brother was trying to give him advice. "What're you going to do for money, Tom? I can keep paying you until you find something. Not a problem."

  "Bobby, I've seen the books. You're not the only one who can half-work that spreadsheet. You can't pay me anymore. Besides I've got a new job."