by David Haynes
The wall paper was a terrible optical illusion. Even in the gloom he could see that. It was enough to give you a headache...
"Fuck!" he fell back against a bramble bush. A face had appeared at the window. All smiles and gleaming teeth looking right back at him. Tom brushed himself down and went back to the door. It opened a crack. "Hello Mr...?" He realised he didn't know the name of the person he was meeting.
The door creaked slowly and opened a little wider. "Good evening, Mr Moreton. Won't you step inside."
Tom peered in but whoever had opened the door remained in the shadows. "Sorry about that. I knocked but nobody answered." He stepped inside. The house was freezing and smelled damp. It would need gutting to make it livable and lovable there was no doubt about it.
"Ah, Moreton the younger. I was expecting your brother but no matter. You will do just as well."
"I can assure you my brother and I are both equally able. Mr...?" The door closed behind him revealing the man behind the voice.
Tom had to stop himself cringing. The man was emaciated and his height only made his appearance look worse. He was like something out of a Scooby Doo cartoon. And what was the deal with the top hat? But that wasn't the worst thing about him. No chance. His smile was terrible. The stuff of nightmares.
"Yes one body is as good as another. Or so they say."
*
What constituted a bar meal in Crabbe's was a packet of pork scratchings, served with a side order of peanuts and a bar of chocolate for desert. Still, at least it was food and it hadn't tasted as good for a very long time. All thoughts of financial ruin and Richard Jacobs had vanished under the steady flow of Guinness, rock music and the idle chatter of two people getting to know one another.
"So, Mr Moreton? Are we having one for the road?"
Bobby felt at that comfortable stage between, just the right amount and just the wrong amount to drink. He knew one more would probably lead to some bad decisions. Not where Esther was concerned but back home later with a half finished bottle of Jameson's and he'd promised Tom. He checked his watch.
"Shit." It was nearly ten. Tom had been gone for over two hours. He looked up at Esther. "I'm late."
"Is it that time already?" Esther grabbed his wrist and twisted it slightly so she could see his watch.
"Afraid so. Time flies and all that." He took both of their coats off Tom's stool and handed Esther's over. A faint waft of perfume tickled his nose.
She took the coat from him and put it on. "Up for it again?"
"I'd like that. Very much." He put his coat on and they walked toward the door. "Night, Ruby." She looked up and smiled. It was just about the only time he could remember her doing that. They reached the door and Bobby stopped. "Shall I call a taxi for you?"
"No, but you can walk me home." Esther pushed the door and they stepped into the night.
After a few seconds they were back onto Main Street. The spectacle of Jacob's business glittered across the square and washed Crabbe's head in the bloody glow of its signage.
Bobby stopped in his tracks and looked at it. "All that's missing is a coffin swinging off the tower." He looked away. "Which way now?"
Esther pointed up the street toward Moreton and Sons. "Just around the corner."
They started walking again. It was a cool night but Bobby didn't notice the weather as Esther slipped her arm through his. They reached the shop and he took a moment to try and look in. There was a dim light on in the back which meant Tom was probably still in the embalming room. He'd be back in a few minutes so he could check on him then.
"Down here." Esther tugged his arm and they turned left toward the estate agent. "One of the perks of the job is my little flat above the shop. It's poky but at least I can have an extra hour in bed in the morning without worrying about traffic." She paused at the alleyway beside the shop.
"Want to come in for a coffee?" she asked.
"I'm already late for Tom. Maybe next time?"
"I knew you'd say that." She stood on tip toes and kissed his cheek. "Maybe next time." She turned and walked down the alleyway. A motion sensitive light flicked on and lit her path.
"Maybe next time," Bobby whispered.
He turned away and waked back toward the shop. Within the space of two heartbeats he felt elated and then despondent. He'd slept with Julie McVeigh not long after Lucy had died and the guilt he felt gnawed at his bones when he thought about it. This felt different though - worse. Much worse.
He'd never love another woman, he was pretty sure about that. Not like he loved Lucy anyway. There was a chance he might have sex with another woman but he was sure it wouldn't be someone he actually liked that much. There was simply too much risk involved. He shook his head and rounded the corner onto Main Street. "Maybe not next time."
He unlocked the shop and stepped inside. The light was still on in the back room but it was quiet. "Tom? You there?" Nothing. "I'm sorry, mate, Esther wouldn't shut up. I couldn't get away." He expected some derisory comment in return, something about Esther but it didn't come.
He removed his coat and threw it into the office as he passed. Maybe Tom had finished and gone home. It was way past the hour and a half estimate, and even on his own it wouldn't take that long to get back and leave things ready for the morning. "Nice one, Tommy." He whispered and took two steps into the embalming room before the world started spinning the wrong way round and threatened to hurl him head first into the sun. The room shrank down into a three metre square and all sound except his own short, hollow breaths was gone.
Inside that three metre square was the embalming table and the cabinet. And on the table, that immaculate and shiny steel table where so many bodies had been made to look the best they ever had, was the grey and naked form of his brother.
He took a step and felt the tiled floor crack and shatter beneath his leaden feet. It was only three steps to the table but he didn't think he was going to make it. "Tom," he whispered as if asking for encouragement. "Tom."
He took hold of the bottom of the table and almost dragged himself the last step. He stood beside the table and looked down at the grey body. How many bodies had he seen on this very table? How many had he touched and moved as if they were nothing more than rag dolls. Yet now he could barely stand to look, let alone touch. What had happened to him? Who had done this?
He looked away. The tears burned his eyes as his blurred vision settled on the cabinet. It was open, but it hadn't been left that way he was sure. They'd locked it when they'd left it for the night and Tom had put the key in his pocket. Yet there it was with its gaping jaws showing the grisly contents of its belly. The tubes, the pipes and the drawers full of evil looking instruments. And then there was a gap.
The pump? The pump wasn't in its usual place but even before he looked any further he knew where it was. Tom's body had been breached in two places - both armpits and at each of those two points was a length of copper pipe snaking out of him, feeding off him and replacing his blood with something else. He followed the pipes to the back of the table and peered at the pump. He was right, the pump was attached to both lengths of pipe. Tom was being embalmed.
"Help."
It was nothing more than a whisper yet it was there.
"Help. Please."
Bobby turned and saw one of Tom's eyes twitching. He jumped around the table and took Tom's hand. "I'm here, Tom, I'm here. I need to get help."
He was alive which meant someone knew exactly what they were doing. Jesus Christ, who the hell would do that? Tom's breathing was coming in quick short rasps and it didn't need a doctor to know that wasn't a good sign.
"Hold on Tommy, just hold on." He let go of Tom's hand and fished his phone from his pocket. It was out of charge. "I'll be right back, I need to go to the office."
He turned and ran for the door; his feet slid across the tiles and he jarred his shoulder on the door frame. Someone who had knowledge. Someone just like Jacobs. He grabbed the phone and dialled 999. He didn't even w
ait for the call handler to ask him which service he required, he just screamed, "Ambulance! Send an ambulance now. Moreton and Sons. Littleoak, Main Street. Send it now!"
He threw the phone down without waiting for a reply or ending the call and turned to run back to Tom. The strength in his legs had gone when he first saw his brother but now they literally gave way and as he came out of the office he stumbled then lurched into the wall. He tried to raise his hands to stop the crunching impact but the gap was too small and the wound on his already swollen forehead opened up in a crimson burst all over the magnolia wall.
"Help me Bobby." A faint call came from the embalming room but his legs didn't quite know how to work anymore. Nor, for that matter, did his eyes or his brain.
*
A terrible scream and then a horrible crashing sound flung him lurching back into consciousness. "Tom!" he called out. He had no idea how long he'd been out cold but he knew he had to move fast. He had to get back in there and take Tom's head in his arms and hold him close until the ambulance arrived. He had to tell him that everything was alright and that help was coming. That's what big brothers did. That's how it worked.
He opened his eyes at the same time as stumbling to his feet. His head felt like someone had driven a nail into it and his mouth tasted of blood. He wiped a hand over his face and staggered toward the embalming room. Tom had to be alright, he just had to.
"Tom," he gasped as he turned into the room. "Tom?" The table was empty. Tom had gone. For a moment he thought he might still be unconscious; stuck in some twisted part of his mind that liked sick jokes. The surge of pain in his skull drove that thought away in an instant. He walked slowly to the table and put his hands on it; icy cold like it always was, like it was supposed to be.
He looked around the room for some sign of what he'd seen; of what he was sure he'd seen. But there was nothing. It was the same orderly, sterile space it had always been; albeit minus one dead brother and an antique undertaker's cabinet.
Chapter 11
"You've got to hold still, Mr Moreton. I can't help you if you don't let me see to it properly."
Bobby sat fidgeting in the office chair as the paramedic dressed his wound. After Tom's disappearance he'd phoned him repeatedly and left countless messages when there was no answer. It wasn't until the crashing sound started up again that he realised it was someone banging on the door. He'd tried to tell the two paramedics about Tom but they'd glanced at each other with a look which said, "Head trauma." He didn't blame them either. How on earth could he explain it without sounding delusional?
"Now, Mr Moreton have you got anyone who can look after you? To make sure you get home okay?"
Bobby was about to blurt out a negative response but a patient with a head trauma and delusional tendencies was apt to end up in the hospital and he didn't want that. He needed to be here, right here at Moreton and Sons so he could try and piece things back together.
"Yeah, of course. I'll go to my girlfriend's for the night." He looked up at them in turn for a sign that they didn't believe him. "She won't mind." He added.
The two paramedics looked at each other and then back at him. "The first sign of dizziness or nausea and you phone us. Okay?"
Bobby nodded. "Too right I will." He stood and tried not to look like he was standing on two sticks of jelly. "Thanks for coming."
He showed them out and almost as soon as they left the terrible wail of their sirens kicked in as they raced to another emergency. Bobby sat by the door with his back against a cold slab of granite. His skull hurt more than he thought possible. He wasn't surprised - being knocked out twice in as many days was a recipe for a king sized headache.
He closed his eyes and raised the memory of Tom's grey and lifeless body lying on the embalming table. Was it real, or was it another trick played by the cabinet? A wave of nausea swept over him and forced his eyes open again. Yet how could it not be real? How could something like that possibly be an illusion? His head knew the answer even if his heart couldn't bear to hear it. It couldn't be an illusion because if it was then where was the cabinet?
He lowered his head and wept.
*
For the second time that night Bobby dialled 999 but this time it was the police he wanted. His head banged and his chest ached from the deep and unending sobs his body had trembled through.
"Police please. Send the police. I think my brother's been murdered."
Within the time it took for the darkness of night to become the grey light of dawn, a marked police car pulled up outside the shop and two weary looking coppers got out. Bobby was waiting for them at the door and opened it immediately.
"Mr Moreton?" the larger of the two asked.
"Yes. Come in." He ushered them both into the shop. "That was quick. I didn't expect anyone to come quite so..."
"When someone mentions murder, we tend to drop everything. What's happened?"
Bobby had swallowed about ten painkillers immediately after making the call but the headache wouldn't budge. It had given him a spike of energy though. "Right." He steadied himself to choose his words carefully but gave up on the idea. It was better to just blurt it out quickly.
"This is our business; my brother Tom and me that is. Last night we were in Crabbe's having a beer and I got a call-out. Tom wanted to go alone because... well because he wanted to show me how capable he was. I was having a drink with a friend. A female friend. Not that that has anything to do with it. So he went to the address alone." He'd written the address on a scrap of paper earlier while he could still remember it and he handed it to one of the officers. His brain had decided to start firing missiles all over the place and it was making him talk too quickly.
"We arranged to meet back here but I was late. I had to walk her home you see. When I got here the lights were on and I found him here." He turned and walked away. "Follow me, I'll show you." Even though he was talking far too quickly and he was struggling to keep up he knew he sounded like a man who'd had a bad knock on head; like someone troubled.
He heard the officers’ steps behind him. "There, that’s where he was." He pointed at the embalming table. At the place where Tom had been attached to the hideous pump just hours before. He didn't want to look at it again and stayed focused on the two officers.
"Is this a joke, sir?"
"What?"
"I said, is that a sick joke?" The officer pointed at the table and the other one grabbed his shoulders and turned him round.
Stretched neatly across the table was the black cat. But it had been neatly unzipped down its length. Its guts had been removed and lay in a bloody heap beside the furry corpse.
Bobby closed his eyes counted to five then opened them again. The cat was still there.
It took a while and all his powers of persuasion to convince the officers that he wasn't trying to be a clever-dick or having fun at their expense. It took even longer to convince them he didn't need sectioning but eventually he managed it and they left clutching the shred of paper with the call-out address on. He hoped they'd be as good as their word and check the house for themselves.
*
The bell tower wasn't the largest space in St Oswald's, nor was it particularly well suited to having a bed wedged into it, but that was exactly what Richard Jacobs had done. And in doing so he had created a bedroom with a wonderful view of Littleoak. But more importantly it afforded the best spot to watch the drama unfold at Moreton and Sons. Oh yes, there had been quite the little spell of theatre during the night and into the early hours. It was quite the hive of activity.
He watched the constables leave and turned away from the view. He'd got what he came for, but there was nothing quite like driving the point home. Kicking a man when he was down so to speak. That was real power. Besides he wanted to renew the collection and that might take a little longer to achieve.
He took the top hat from off the bed and carefully arranged it on his head. He knew exactly how it should feel to cast a little shadow over his ey
es; just enough to make people curious. He hadn't been to sleep, or indeed to bed but he felt nothing except excitement for what lay ahead. If things went to plan it would be a most enjoyable day. Most enjoyable indeed.
He dropped down the spiral stairs into the church before walking slowly down the aisle to the chancel. The altar was now hidden behind a crude stud wall behind which was his office and his other showroom. It wasn't ideal of course, and it didn't house anywhere near all of the collection, but it was large enough to accommodate the most recent elements to it and the altar provided just the right amount of blasphemy to satisfy him.