What’s the time, Mr. Wolf?

 by E F Hay

ruby port

Mark my words, apart from being a seminal thinker & slimy foreign art monger, Vas Pretorius DeFerens was something of an enigma to friends, enemies, & medical science alike. Allegedly he was a proud possessor of either three or four perfectly formed testicles, which tourist coach parties of the incurably bi-curious & naive were regularly welcomed to examine (upon a reasonable payment of corkage), just so long as they proceeded slowly through Vas’s open fly- at which point invariably he brutally resynthesised those tiny teeth into a sudden playful biting unity, normally after drawing a groper’s attention to some trivial detail of architraving, weather, etc. (as advertised, I‘ve completed my memoirs as a short story; a quite draining & frankly illegal process which necessitated breaking all 37 of the past Labour government’s Police & Criminal Justice Acts. But in the name of Mammon, what can one do?) So, it’s all quite fascinating, & whilst I have no obvious quarrel to pick with any man’s physique (with the sole exception of Eric Pickles), I mention these positively material facts to warn that you’ve unadvisedly strayed from the path, & night must fall. Keep up. You youngsters could learn a lot, if only you paid heed.

Let me confess without duress: I really can’t legitimately claim to understand Vas’ nature, despite the fact (& source of endless gossip) that we spent multiple lunar months engaged in a perfervid co-habitation in a Hoxton studio; such was his delightful mastery of disinformation, dark propaganda & intoxication that, I never managed to arrive at a final figure for his testes (fleeting glances, all from dangerous angles, tentatively recall they were jet black & vulcanized like his durable character). Whatever ginger evidence I have I lay freely before you; they’re only crumbs I spare, each liable to be snaffled up by a myriad of nocturnal beasts coming to life in bracken & furze, but follow them as best you can- it’s too late to turn back now. Alas, there are no garnished spicy vol-au-vents to sustain you. You’re in way over your head, I fear.

 

Vas’ legendary libido was immune to entropy or ennui. His grinding demands were a continual worry, unconcerned with tradition, expense, or, to be frank, practicality- I’d often discover Dutch gentlemen’s magazines (of a kind featuring photography of undraped women) squirreled away in the oddest of places. I knew they were his as Superintendent McGregor, my old Vice Squad pal (since gone freelance), verified his inimitable paw prints. These were good old days of covert cash transactions my boy. Investigation also found disturbing designs & working prototypes for- shall we say gadgets, in many more than one of the two-hundred & thirty-six secret compartments of his secretary. Now, I don’t think for a moment Vas’ ‘preferences’ particularly interest you- you’ve got enough on your plate as it is, looking at those dreadful holes in your old worn boots (are they hand-me-downs?) & the sheer depth of snow round here. But they do cast a slanted light on a brilliant criminal mind, & whilst it may be the case that you maintain law is crime- I make no excuses, offer no apologies. Vas will always be a veritable villain. Not in business practice, where all’s fair & little love guaranteed, but in his damnable lack of honour regarding aesthetic criticism. Vas’ self-promotion, remarkable before he met me, became nothing less than lupine afterwards- for goodness sake no, I wouldn’t climb that tree if I were you; it’s the first place they’ll sniff out silly. Do get a grip & take some responsibility for your plight! I digress: so, I woke up one morning, a little after noon, to find an estate agents clerk staring at me with undissembled fear. Back in the glory days of the Great Boom, you understand, when any property vacated before teatime would be occupied & fully furnished by vespers, at a sixty percent mark-up. On reflection, that stunt had many of Vassily Perestroika Deferenovitch’s hallmarks- handcuffs, treacle, an anaconda, a mousetrap in the first aid box; but how long had he been planning it? Before he met me? After I said what I did on demand about his precious book lionising Andy Warhol? Maybe it was thin skin, or sheer caprice- it scarcely matters does it? Pardon me? Oh, howling? I don’t think so. No, my mistake, yes there it is, right behind you.

 

I reliably heard a week later, through McGregor, that he’d shackled up with Sir Hugh Corduroy in Belgravia. Nice but dim, a remarkable chap, Sir Hugh, could stammer incoherently in no fewer than eight Arabian dialects. Gosh! Hottentot, Farsi, Yiddish, take your pick: he was incomprehensible in it. Anyway, as you may know, previously he was a respected as a patron of the arts, pillock of the church, & former director of the V&A etc. Tolerated by peers, trusted by subordinates, feared by staff, a great Englishman- before you could say ‘Duchess of Gloucester’ he’d pen a more brainless Times diary than Sir Roy Strong. No, trust me, I have clippings. In retrospect it seems accumulatively predictable that a lifetime of total emotional deprivation should have led him into Vas’ gingerbread parlour. OK, pipe down, I’m telling my stories, have patience, but yes, now you mention it, they’re all around you. Man up. Where was I? Of course, what followed was contemporary folklore- how Sir Hugh, through Vas’ ‘Caliban Arts’, traded the Elgin marbles for Andean wood carvings of doubtful provenance, his Rembrandt sketches for an acrylic tennis racquet pixillage- cats & umbrellas also featured, if memory serves, that’s right- created by a second year arts student, some sordid strumpet of no good breeding- his Vermeer for a breeze block & tarpaulin ‘installation’, his entire portfolio of primary shares for a chance to wrap the outside of Acton in back issues of The World of Interiors: such insatiable insanity. Destruction ensued, as night follows day. I fondly recollect running into him behind King’s Cross one wintry evening, in the company of a pretty young Wandervögel; that such a renowned member of Blighty’s Establishment should fall into rank disrepair, honestly one shouldn’t laugh. I can still picture his ragged silhouette hunched against a brooding February sky, insipid light shining through his fallen arches, rain that spluttered from his choked guttering, & a colony of zoonotic bats hanging around uncomfortably in his cracked façade. He was totally spent, utterly ruined. Died later next spring, ulcerative colitis returned the post-mortem, although the cruel whisper in Whites opined, he was burgled to death. No! Don’t start running, that’s what they want, they’re simply waiting for it. Have you learned nothing? That’s better. Anyhow, after inheriting Corduroy’s estate, Vincent Pietro DiFerrari consolidated his much-heralded renaissance by leading a popular national crusade to recapture & repatriate all those treasures he himself had shop soiled to sell abroad. Amazingly, or rather inevitably, he once again came up trumps (turned out clauses written in invisible ink were legally binding after all, on the principle of caveat emptor & tuff-titty). There never was any lawful chance to stop the bounder (he was consistently one step ahead), but after that carnival of criminality nobody else even tried. He branched out; diversified, pretty soon there wasn’t a pie in the proverbial pantry innocent of his thumbprint. His Tavistock Square pied à terre became Bloomsbury’s swinging hot spot, precisely the place to discuss perspectives in post-structuralist criticism, have one’s nipples pierced, take a heroin overdose, & play the cocoa-futures market; swaggeroos & mountebanks from five continents perched there. Arbitrageurs, faith healers, nihilistic young rock stars, depraved heiresses with thousand-pound orchids in their hair & many faces of Satan tattooed across the length & breadth of their inner thighs. All these were nothing more than local colour, background noise to VPD’s glaring blaring bray. Well whistle if you must, by all means, & respect for trying, but do you really, even in your wildest dreams, think they appreciate Mozart?

 

Oh, Vas, I’ve met a few genuinely great men, but only one colossus: he became a cultural reference point, the zeitgeist incarnate. He was the opinion formers opinion former, intellectual fashion leader, international trendsetter, pathfinder & trailblazer. The New Man- one of his wheezes, the New Woman too, for that matter, the New World Order for all I know (he hasn’t written me recently). Rottweilers, eco-friendly washing powder, Porsches & red braces! You’ve never thought about it, have you? But red braces! Like unavoidable diamond bullets of truth! The genius of the man, the anti-mensch, the monster! At his peak, countless leading institutions from the Royal College of Vetinary Surgeons to the Bilderberg Group accredited him. He’d grab a canapé & a glass of Moët at the Soviet ambassador’s daughter’s sixteenth birthday party (Order of Lenin First Class on his ample bosom), before dashing off to a debriefing with some CIA Head of Station behind Victoria Coach Station. Crikey! A wanky conceited cunt he may’ve been, but Vas was paid a sum not unadjacent to thirty thousand pounds sterling by a British Broadcasting Corpse to propagate his philosophy for one hour every Monday morning on Radio 4’s Today Programme: the horror. I recall the last time I saw Vlad Perrier Difference: live on ITV evening news, barrelling through Heathrow, reporters armed with the sacred light of truth cowering before bodyguards licensed to kill & armed with electric cattle goads. It was only a week after the Crash I believe- he wasn’t the sort of Johnny to hang around waiting for women or children, no sir. ‘Everything created has a sell-by date’, he remarked, almost to himself, before turning triumphantly to face down his inquisitors. ‘I’ll be back’, he announced.

Meaningful pointed questions were being asked by then, OPERATION SCAT came to light, & fifty fat middle-aged merchant bankers awoke with headaches to discover their virginities defiled. We, willy-nilly his fey disciples, awoke with hang-over’s to discover our palettes no longer smeared with the actual colours our eyes beheld; in order to have fun one must retain at least a memory of youth. The rest you should know, & here we are. Well, anyway, those were the end of days my friend- when the scary sable forest was just a distant inky line on the horizon, & many & sweet were the birds that sang. Well, I haven’t time to stand out here with you chattering all night. Excuse me, but I’m a busy man. Yes, I’m sure I’d feel the same if I were as poor as you. I still maintain it’s a lifestyle choice, so own it. Oh, come now, don’t take on so- here, you can have my handkerchief, you can’t see in this light but it’s a red spotted jobbie. Is there a safe route out of here for you? Not really, I made an effort to assist with directions but they’re just breadcrumbs. I wouldn’t pin too much hope on crumbs. Listen, if you’d stop crying for a moment. And let go of my hand. What’s that? Yes indeed, they’ve got big eyes, haven’t they? Don’t let them see that you’re afraid, it excites them! Look here, I don’t mean to be unkind, but sadly it’s your own fault, really. In any case, I’m truly sorry, but it’s sauve qui peut nowadays. Well, goodbye sonny. And yes, bonne chance to you too. Bye. I beg your pardon?

Oh, suppertime, I guess.

About the author 

E F Hay exists in Britain & rather than follow spurious leaders- over the years has intermittently found it therapeutic to write out various thoughts, feelings & ideas as short stories, to be examined, considered, & interpreted by clinical practitioners, who may offer professional psychological assistance.

Plavine Part 15

by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

ruby port  

I followed Marius back down the narrow streets until we came to another house on the other side of The Artists’ District. He lived on an equally tiny and ancient street called Voie de Fil which had all the doors of the houses splattered in paint – by design or accident I wasn’t sure. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up a very narrow flight of stairs to a much-splattered door, which he quickly unlocked. “Come on,” he whispered. I followed him into a wooded hallway and in through a little door which led to a tiny room with a desk and two chairs and an inkpot and a quill and lots of parchment. I sat down hurriedly – hardly thinking – and there I began my letter. A letter from Sylvester.

My Dear Camille

I do not wish to run away with you

I am not in love with you. I never have been. I never will be. Please do not see me again.

Yours Sincerely

S.S.P.

Marius informed me that I should strike through the first line. So I did. I handed it to him and wiped my eyes. With a swift kiss, I left the little flat for what would be the last time.

I spent a long time that evening imagining Camille’s reaction to the news the letter brought: that Sylvester – My Love – was never in love with her. Was she heartbroken? Though I had never met the girl I so so hoped she was heartbroken. I wanted to punish her for trying to take him away from me. Who was she to hope to steal him away from me? I had waited for him for a deafeningly long nine months and I had loved him every moment we had been apart and still even now, when I still somehow truly believe he loves me, even though he seemingly planned to disappear from my life once more and run away with her in his arms.

I still loved Sylvester and it was at that moment in my life that I realised I would always love Sylvester.

As I pondered over what I had done I began that it did not really matter to me how Camille felt and yet – and this dazzled me – I had still sort to hurt her and I was not about to attempt to make a mends for one good reason; it felt good. I was reveling in the very thought of her in misery, the same misery and melancholia I had felt for the brutally long nine months that I had been forced to spend away from my lover.

I looked over from the table where I had been writing to the piano where Sylvester was gently playing The Great Gate of Kiev by Mussorgsky. He looked somewhat sad. He stared at his sheets of music with a stare that seemed to lack its usual passionate flare. I wondered why. I had not confronted him about Camille, nor did I intend to for I could not face the prospect of all of this becoming real. I could not face the fact that Sylvester Spence Palvine may have loved - love – someone else. He would always be mine and mine alone in my eyes.

Darkness Descended

by Phyllis Souza

ruby port

 

1921—Southern California, ten miles east of the Pacific Ocean

Ten-year-old Laura posed for a photograph. To her mother, she looked stoic. Her mouth stretched wide turned down at the corners. Dark curls were hanging below her shoulders. A big bow pinned in her hair.  Snap! In a millisecond, the camera captured her sadness.
"Mama, I have a headache," Laura complained.
Emily placed her hand on her daughter's forehead. "You're burning up. Crawl into bed. I'll get you some water and a couple of aspirin."
A few minutes later, Emily handed Laura the pills.
"My throat hurts.”
"Don't whine. Take the pills."
Laura placed the tablets in her mouth and with a few sips of water managed to swallow.
Falling back, she dropped her head onto the pillow and fell into a restless sleep.
A couple of hours later, around three, Laura woke up with a stiff neck. Doctor Diaz, the family doctor, had been called to the house.
"It looks like polio. The beaches and theaters are closed. Worst summer epidemic I've seen in years." He put the stethoscope back in his black medical bag. Shaking his head, he said, "Terrible disease. Just terrible.”
"What can we do?" Emily asked.
"As far as I know—hot compresses may help prevent paralysis. Work Laura's limbs, bending her knees and elbows." 
Laura's father Manuel and her mother cut wool blankets into strips, dipped them in hot water, wrung them out, and then wrapped them around Laura's arms and legs.
After about a week, the illness passed. However, one of Laura's legs never developed as it should, and she walked with a limp.

1925— Manuel died from tuberculosis

The parish priest, still a little hung-over from drinking too much wine the night before, gave a brief eulogy. "Dust to dust."  He cleared his throat. Then said, "Manuel was thirty-nine. A husband. A father. Although he wasn't a churchgoer, he was a Christian.” The priest gazed at the few mourners gathered at the side of the grave. “And if you were to ask him if he’d come back, no doubt in my mind, that Manuel would say, no."

Clasping his prayer book to his chest, "Now let us bow our heads and pray, Our Father— May he rest in peace."
Emily, dry-eyed, stood next to her daughter. Laura sobbed while staring at the plain brown casket.
"Laura, stop crying. He's gone. Let's go." Emily said. "At least we still have a home. No money, but a home."
"Mama, please. I don't want to leave Papa alone." 
"Don't be such a baby. Everyone's leaving. And so are we." Emily grabbed Laura's arm. "Come on."
Laura, dressed in a black coat, wept as she hobbled behind Emily to the curb of All Souls Cemetery.

Fishing boats unloaded

Dressed in a white uniform, and wearing a hairnet, Emily left the house early every morning to go to work at a seafood cannery.
A bugle like sound blasted throughout the Pacific Tuna Cannery Company. It was time to go to work. Emily used a timesheet to check-in. "I hate this place," she said to herself. The pungent smell of fish filled the air.
Along with a hundred other women,  on each side on a long table, a large pan at each station, Emily, stood all day with a knife in her hands cleaning fish.
The first thing she did when she got home was to pour a hefty helping of "Lux Flakes" under hot running water into the bathtub. With a bar of Ivory ififty one hand and a washrag in the other, Emily immersed herself in mounds of bubbles. "Ah, this feels so good."
As relaxed as she was, she still fervently lathered up the cloth with soap, and scrubbed her face, neck, arms, and legs, trying to remove the stench of fish.

1933—The neighborhood grocery store

A bell tied to a screen door jingled. Laura slowly limped into the grocery store. Joe Pimentel, the proprietor, stopped stacking canned goods on shelves, and pleasantly said, "Good morning, what can I get for you?"
"One can of tomato sauce and an onion. I'm making chicken soup for dinner. My mother's favorite."
"How's your mother?"
"Complains a lot. But she's okay."
"Still working at the cannery?"
"Yeah, still working. If it weren't for my leg, I'd probably be there too.”
Leaning in close, "Sunshine, you're much too pretty to pack tuna into a can."
Laura blushed, "Thank you. But I think not."
"Excuse me for a minute; I'll get an onion. And the tomato sauce." Joe walked away.  A minute later, he came back with Laura's order.
A few days later, Laura paid another visit to the store.
She waited at the counter for Joe to come out from a back room, where she presumed was where he slept. I wonder if he has a girlfriend hiding in there?
 "Sorry to keep you waiting. I needed to get a saucer of milk for Tigger." Joe set down the dish on the floor near the empty wine barrel that he used as a table.
"That's okay.” Feeling embarrassed about her thought, Laura looked away, in fact, she looked all around the store, “Where's your cat? He usually runs over to greet me."
"He's around here someplace." Joe called, "Tigger."
An orange striped cat darted out from under the counter on the other side of the store and came running.
"Don't tell me. Let me guess. You need an onion and can of tomato sauce?" Joe laughed.
"Oh no, just a couple of slices of baloney and a loaf of bread." Laura brushed away a strand hair away from her face, "I bet you think I use an awful lot of onions and tomato sauce."  
Just then the cat jumped on top of the counter.  "Well Tigger, you tell him I need 'em to make stews, meatloaves, and soups." Laura chuckled, flashing a beautiful smile.
"It seems like everybody wants a baloney sandwich these days.” Joe sliced two pieces off a big roll of Bologna.
As she handed a dollar to Joe to pay for her purchase, he grasped her hand. "I'd like to call on you. Maybe stop by your home sometime?"
"Oh, I don't know." Feeling the warmth of his fingers, she paused. Gazing into his soft brown eyes, and and as he gazed into in hers, she said,  "That would be nice."
"Perhaps tomorrow, around seven."
"Tomorrow around seven is fine."

Joe paid Laura a visit

Although Joe was at least ten years older than Laura, he came calling. Three months later, he asked her to marry him.
When Laura told her mother about the proposal, Emily laughed, "Joe asked you? What did you say?"
"I said, yes."
"That's ridiculous. Why would Joe do something like that?" Emily pursed her lips and lowered her voice, "I'm prettier."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing." Emily raised her hand in dismissal.
Laura knew her mother was comparing herself to her daughter and had been surprised that someone, like Joe, could have proposed marriage. Emily was jealous.

First Anniversary

With his heart filled with love, Joe handed Laura one dozen, long-stemmed, red roses, and said, "Happy Anniversary." He kissed her on the cheek.
"Oh, Joe, they're beautiful," Laura buried her nose in the flowers. She inhaled.  "They smell lovely, I can't believe it's been a year."
"The happiest year of my life."
"Mine too." Laura smiled. "I'll get a vase.” She hobbled over to a counter, put down the flowers, leaned over and took an Art Deco container out from the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
After a pot roast dinner, Joe poured Marcella wine into two glasses. He raised his drink, "May we have many more years."
"Yes, many more."

 Fall turns to winter

I'm so tired. I'll lie down a few minutes before I start dinner. Laura held onto the armrest of the sofa and lowered herself onto a cushion. Stretching out, she closed her eyes.  Don't let Joe see you resting. He might think you're sick. 
 She remembered what her mother said when she saw her napping: 'Goddamnit, you know I'm hungry when I come home from work.  Just because you're tired, that's no excuse.'  
She rested for ten minutes, and then slowly getting up, shuffled to the kitchen. While standing at the sink peeling potatoes for dinner, Laura's began to cough continuously. Her chest hurt. She felt hot. Beads of sweat formed above her upper lip and across her forehead.She saw stars and everything blurred. Laura collapsed.
When Joe walked in and found Laura sprawled on the floor, he rushed to her. "Laura. Oh, my God, Laura."
He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her.  He noticed blood in the corner of her mouth.
Billowing white curtains floated like ghosts reaching through an open window. Laura lay flat on her back in bed. She'd been diagnosed with tuberculosis.
At seven in the evening, Emily stopped by the modest home attached to the store.  She had swept her hair up into pompadour, her eyebrows were plucked into an arch, and and she had painted her lips painted red.
Joe sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and looked up when Emily barged in without knocking. "You're made up. Going someplace?" he asked.
"Only here." She smiled. "Thought you might like some chicken soup."
"Thanks, Emily. Put it on top of the stove."
"You must get lonely, with Laura being sick in bed.” She put the pot down on a back burner.
“I’ll heat it later. I’m sure Laura will enjoy it.” He took a sip of his coffee.
"I guess I better check on her." Emily knocked, cracked open the bedroom door, and holding onto its edge, she popped her head into the room, "How do you feel? I brought dinner."
"That's not necessary, Joe knows how to cook." I hate that she stops by here every night. She doesn't care about me. I know what she wants.
"Doing my duty, that's all. Doing my duty." She closed the door.
Tears trickled down Laura's cheeks when she heard Emily's laughter in the kitchen. I wish she'd stay away.

Darkness descended 

A few weeks later, the flame of a candle sitting on top of the nightstand was reaching the bottom of its wick, it sputtered as Laura struggled to take her last breath.
Joe drowned himself, but not in religion. He didn't believe in God. Not in his work, because that didn't matter anymore. Not in liquor, it only dulled his senses. None of these. He wanted a wife. So, Joe married Emily. 
Within a few months, Emily changed.  No longer the laughing, carefree woman he'd known, she nagged and spent money as fast as he could make it.  He felt like an insect caught in a black widow's web and needed to cut free. 
Joe divorced Emily. He sold his store and journeyed by boat to live near his brother in Brazil.
Emily continued to work at the fish cannery. She kept her eyebrows plucked, put on her makeup, and still wore her hair in a pompadour. She looked good, but would never be able to wash away the stench of fish.


About the Author

Phyllis Souza lives in Northern California and is retired from a long real estate career. After taking several on-line writing classes, she started writing flash fiction and short stories. Her stories have been published in CaféLit, Spillwords, and Friday Flash Fiction. 

The Haunted House

by Mark Kodama  

ruby port

I needed a job to pay for my last year in nursing school.  So I searched the want ads in the local newspaper for work a nursing assistant.  That how I got a job at the haunted house.

            The white three-story Victorian mansion was in the best part of town in a neighborhood with other Victorian mansions.  In front a large oak tree with a swing dominated the well manicured front lawn.  But who knew what lay beyond the door.

            The mansion housed or should I say warehoused fifty mental patients. But what did I know those days?  I was a 20-year-old nursing student.  My father told me a woman should pursue the same career that a man would.  But I tried business school and hated it.  I always wanted to be a veterinarian but veterinarian school was largely closed to women then.  So I decided to become a nurse.

            I thought there was something strange from the moment I started there.  The place smelled of old diapers and urine.  The kitchen was infested with cockroaches. You could not walk in the kitchen without feeling them crunch underneath your feet.  An old woman on the first floor forever threatened to hit me with a cane.

            I worked the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift.  I was the only non-patient there.  The cook was a patient there himself.  The first two floors housed the women but the third floor housed the men psych patients.  I was warned never to go up there.

            Everyday I would hand out the Thorazine, anti-psychotic medication, to the female patients, then prepared eight women for bed.  We took this creepy elevator with bars up to the second floor each night after dinner.

            If you did not line up the bars just right, that old elevator did not work.  I always feared that the elevator would break down with me and my eight wards.

            One night one lady pooped all over herself and her room.  I had to clean her and her room in addition to attending all my other duties.

            One night, they brought down a dying man to the first floor.  I attended him, helping comfort him as he lay drowning in his own phlegm and secretions.

            The place was strange.  In the six months, I was there I never saw a visitor and sometimes I worked weekends.  The patients walked around drooling with a blank face and stare and doing the zombie shuffle.

            The nurses assistant on the next shift warned me about a male patient who would occasionally sneak down the curved stairway in the back of the house and suddenly appear. He had murdered his wife.

            On Halloween night I had finished my duties early so I was watching a really creepy horror movie “The Sentinel” on television.  It was about a priest who kept the lost souls from hell from entering back to earth through a portal.

            Suddenly, I heard a man coming down the banister.  I looked up and it was the man who had murdered his wife.  He was about 40 with brown hair and sunken eyes and an emaciated face.

            He seemed to look through me as he approached me.  “Can I walk you to your car?” he asked.  No, and no and more no.

            After that I quit.  A month later, I read in the newspaper that a man had fell out of the third floor window to his death.  The state closed the haunted house.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

by Richard C Elder

ruby port

A bright-blue winter morning. January 5th. In the driveway of the redbrick house a hearse stands waiting, its tailgate an open maw. A burbling exhaust growls a warning as it slavers onto the frosted concrete. Swathed in black coats and steaming breath, two funeral directors wait to be summoned in.

Gary stands motionless in the front room of his father’s house. He’s twenty-eight, tall and athletic. His mother lies upstairs in her coffin, ready for the journey to the church. Gary stares through the window at the hearse. The chromed deck is rolled out, empty and shining and cold. For some reason it reminds him of a Pizza oven. Family members swirl around him like fish investigating a wreck. 

‘How are you, Gary?’ a face asks, its beard and moustache glinting in the sunlight streaming through the glass.

He doesn’t acknowledge the question, doesn’t show recognition. 

‘Gettin’ Dad,’ he announces, his voice too loud, each word a dagger-thrust. 

A florid, chubby face. Aunt May, his mother’s sister. She’s blocking his path to the door.

‘Do you want me to come up with you?’

‘No,’ he mutters, his eyes burning. ‘Tell them five minutes. We’ll be ready then.’

The staircase is a steep mountain path, forbidding and misted. He knows what he’ll see when he gets up there. Grabbing the newel post he dips his head and starts the climb.

What a way to spend my Saturday, standin’ here freezin’, waitin’ to box-up some aul doll. Shite.

Frowning, Gary stops on the first tread. The hallway is empty, the front room door closed. At the far end of the hall he can see the cat in the kitchen, biting at a ham. The only people he can see are the two funeral guys in the driveway. The tall one is at the far end of the hearse wiping a blemish from the windscreen and talking on a phone. His colleague is at the open tailgate, standing side-on to Gary, hands in his pockets, marking time, his polished shoes jerking up and down, up and down. Two glass doors separate him and Gary, both of them closed against the cold. Gary stares at the pale, pinched face which twitches and frowns under the shock of red hair.

Is there any friggin’ chance? Some of us have a life. Give me a friggin’ break!

More words, but Red’s lips aren’t moving.

Gary’s breathing has almost stopped. He’s light-headed and more detached now than before, in the front room. He sways then leans on the post. May appears in front of him. Smiling, she covers his hand with hers, feels tremors rattling through the rigid fingers gripping the painted wood. Leaning toward him she whispers, ‘I heard him, what he’s thinking. And you heard him. But no one else did. You know why, don’t you?’

Choking, he shakes his head but the words come as fast as a slot machine jackpot, ‘She told me, that last night. I thought it was the tablets. Passin’ it to me? You know? You know?’

May studies his face, sees confusion and distress, asks, ‘So what will you do about him?’

Gary wipes his brow with the back of his hand, saying, ‘Dunno. It’s not as if he said it out loud.’

‘But you want to do something?’

Sniffing and swallowing, he gives her a hard look, murmuring, ‘Yeah. Definitely.’

May stands on tiptoe and puts her soft lips to his ear. ‘Tell her,’ she purrs.

Chanel has him salivating as electricity surges through his groin. ‘Who?’

Words spiral into his head on hot breath. ‘You know who,’ she whispers, her tongue flicking across the fine blonde hairs covering his ear lobe.  

‘She’s dead,’ he groans, blood rushing through him, his body filled with fire.

Like a tarantula pinioning a frantic bird, May’s hand tightens on his, crushing resistance. ‘You need one minute alone with her before they come up. Hold her hands and tell her, then leave him there.’

‘This is mad,’ he hisses, trying to pull away.

May’s green eyes glitter and she digs her nails into his skin. ‘What was it he called your mother? An aul doll? Eh? Yes. So get on with it.’

Sobbing envelopes him as he pushes on the bedroom door; it moves smoothly across the carpet pile, makes a shuffing sound. His father is sitting at her bedside, stroking her hair, blinded by tears.

‘Dad,’ he breathes, ‘Dad, it’s time.’

‘Son...I know. But I can’t...’ 

Gary kneels by his father’s side, holds him. His mother lies still and calm, crisis past, pain gone.

‘Dad, it’s time. They’ll be up in a minute. You go to the bathroom and wash your face. Get steady.’

His kiss drying on her forehead, Gary’s dad stumbles from the room. Gary bends over his mother, reaches into the coffin and takes both her hands in his. They’re cool and soft. He tells her the tale and that he loves her, then places a kiss on her cheek. As he straightens he hears a soft knock on the door. Shuff. The tall guy enters the room first, smiling sympathetically, warmly. Gary steps back to give them room. As they make for the coffin lid set upright in the corner, Gary asks the tall guy if he can have a quiet word on the landing. Red says he can manage. 

They leave the room, pull the door closed. But before Gary can speak, a shriek shreds the silence. He throws the bedroom door open. 

Red is cowering on the floor, tearing at his hair, staring wide-eyed at the coffin. He turns his face toward Gary and the tall guy and reaches for them with straining arms.

         On the pale skin of his left cheek is the imprint of a hand: four fingers and a thumb glowing bright and hot, as if he had just been slapped.