The morgue doors fly open smashing against the dirty tiled wall with a crack. In rush two uniformed paramedics pushing a trolley that carries a black body bag.

Jacob Thursby looks up from his work. “Don’t you people understand the system we have here and where are your manners for God’s sake? You gotta call first, you can’t turn up out of the blue with a body? We don’t have room for another. It’s been a helluva day. You understand what I’m saying right?”

“It doesn’t really matter how it works Thursby. We got to put ‘em somewhere, particularly on days like this. They don’t last long in hot weather?”

Thursby’s annoyed. “Don’t tell me my business. I’ve been doing this longer than you. So, don’t get shirty with me – I’ve got bodies stacking up in here waiting for autopsy and the coroner to turn up?

“Okay, okay, I get it for Christ’s sake, it’s been a bad day for all of us, it’s no picknick today that’s for sure, so cool it will ya? This guy’s got himself smashed up bad and he ain’t pretty either, so be warned. He has an arm and leg amputation, and God knows what his insides must be like. Mush probably, I guess. Don’t you just hate bikes?” He says looking at his assistant. “Too fast these days and riders have no sense. Screaming up and down our lanes like they’re on a racetrack, piling into tractors losing their guts on a loader? Geez, turns my stomach just thinking about it, never mind scraping ‘em up of the tarmac.”

Thursby scratches his thinning hair. “Over here then, put him on table 2 and I’ll take a look,” he points to the far corner of the dismal morgue.

“Jesus, this room creeps me out Jasmine, I can’t stand the place.” Says the man as he looks passed his partner into the shadowy corners of the morgue. They remove the body from the gurney, it gets placed on the steel table. “Why not give it a decent lick of paint Thursby? Must be pre-war the last time it got a makeover?” The paramedic looks at the owner dressed in his gown and gloves adjusting a metal tool that looks like an instrument of torture as he awaits an answer.

Jasmine brushes back her dark hair and she looks around taking in aged cracked and peeling paint work. “Yeh too right, it’s like something out of a gothic horror movie I used to watch down the pictures on a Saturday afternoon years back. Ha, funny though he looks a bit like Vincent Price when I think about it. Spooky eh big fella?” She replies.

Turning, the lead paramedic gives a brief wave. “Gotta dash Thursby, we’re on another call. We’ll leave him with you okay. Could be back later, so free up a couple more spaces if you can, yeh?”

Thursby pulls back the zipper on the body bag and whistles a happy tune from decades back that’s stuck in his head. The damage he sees on the dead man doesn’t bother him. He’s seen worse, plenty worse, fire victims with no skin or hair. Crush fatalities, limbs pummelled flat like minced beef and children. Dead kids pull Thursby’s heart stings like nothing else on earth. He can cry, shed tears of pain at the loss of an infant. There’s no point to it, what harm have they done to anyone? The death of a child is the worst it ever gets, everything else is meaningless in comparison. There’s nothing he’s not seen a thousand time before; emotion doesn’t come into it. That said, certain things he can never block out, like a living thing only needing a trigger to make them run in his memory like a video on constant replay. Thursby hates those memories, one in particular haunts him constantly each and every night.

The phone rings, he picks up the receiver, an old model from the seventies. Even that’s never been replaced, much like the rest of the equipment at Thursby Funeral Services. It’s ancient but serviceable – why replace something that works for new-fangled stuff? He knows the answer to that question.

“Hello,” he says.

“Jacob, apologies for troubling you on a busy day, but we need you for a fast-track.” The voice on the phone is urgent.

“I’ve no room down here, can’t it wait?” He says stressed.

“Unfortunately, not Jacob. No problem though we’ll get it shipped down to Milton Villiers place instead.” Says the voice unperturbed.

“Hang on, I’d rather you didn’t.” He replies thinking double quick.

“We can’t Jacob, it needs sorting today, not tomorrow. Now in fact, the pathologist is already on her way.” The voice says agitated.

“Who’s the pathologist? Kate Garrison?” Jacob asks.

“Yeh.”

“Then get it down here now, I can make room.”

“It’s a hush job, the body has to remain a “John Doe” and off the records for the time being. Not a word to anyone Jacob, you need to be positive about this. The guy is known. Well known and it needs to stay that way till the autopsy is complete and in the coroner’s hands and we have a cause of death, okay? If word gets out to the press right now, we are all in serious breach of the individuals privacy. You fully understand what I’ve said?

“Yeh, yeh, course.  Just get it down here. I’ll keep your little secret, okay? It is Kate?”

“Positive.”

The line clicks off and Jacob Thursby replaces the receiver on the old cradle. A large grin blossoms on his face.                  

“Kate.” He says to himself with a touch of excitement. “Well, that is good news.”

The body arrives one hour later hidden inside the back of a plain white van and is carried inside by two unknown paramedics. They look like private guys to Jacob, not regular NHS staff. The unforms give it away, he looks at them puzzled. This is unusual, he thinks to himself, not your regular cadaver, the coroner’s office did say it was hush hush? He wonders who it might be. He holds a bet with himself. Pop star, famous actor? Politician maybe caught in the throes of some extracurricular sexual activity as a faulty heart takes him to a better place.

Several seconds behind the body in walks Kate Garrison. She stops Jacob in his tracks, he’s instantly mesmerised. Down goes the equipment he’s using; the face mask is removed in one swift hand motion; a smile erupts across his face. This is the exact moment she always dreads. Thursby is a creep, a vile individual she considers, but remains silent on the matter, to speak out would be unprofessional and create a workplace barrier between them. She knows they have to have a relationship but sometimes it nearly destroys her. Thursby freaks her out with his closeness and inuendo. She knows what he wants, it’s obvious, but he ain’t getting it? Milton Villiers is much the smarter man. There would be a soft spot for him if she had the opportunity? The pathologist is not fashionably attractive but pretty enough for most men to look twice. She knows they both want her friendship and the rest that goes with it – intimacy.  As a single girl she finds it difficult to constantly knock back their advances. It’s Milton one – Jacob minus three. She reckons it’s not personality that counts, but money and cars. Milton has an Aston Martin and a superior fleet of funeral vehicles. Jacob is not even on the list with his vehicle ownership. Like the rest of his business, it ventures on the antique, even his stationery is Victorian in design.

“Hello Kate,” he finally says struggling to string a few words together. “Busy day, eh?”

“The hot weather brings ‘em out, all those lunatics that can’t wait. Road rage? Some drivers don’t seem to know the basics, fast ones, slow ones, frustrated ones, and those that just don’t care. This guy though,” she points to the trolley. “Dead in his hotel room. Common practice, I’ve seen a few end this way. Drugs probably, accidental more than likely. New town. New dealer and they don’t know what they’re gonna get. Trust or addiction gets in the way of common sense I guess, but it catches them all out sooner or later. Still, keeps us all employed, eh? Get him on one of the tables guys. Which one this time Jacob?”

“The usual – number two my favourite.” He says pointing across the room.

“Really. I would never have guessed. What’s the story about table number one Jacob? Never used that one yet in eight years of coming here?” She asks raising her eyebrows looking at Jacob for an answer to the mystery. “Over there boys. Number two it is. Take the bag back with you if you wouldn’t mind.” She says looking back at Jacob.

“Well, I’m waiting, if you can force out an answer? It can’t be just that you hate the colour of the metal. There must be a good reason you never use it. The drain blocked up or something. Knowing the age of this place, you’ll probably tell me the whole system has collapsed and we’ll be sucked into a pit of coagulated blood? Hell Jacob, you need to spend a bit of money, get this old building up to scratch. Villiers got some proper equipment down at his place. Modern, state of the art stuff. But you, jeez man,” she looks around shaking her head as she evaluates the dilapidated premises, “just look at this place Jacob, this apparatus should be in a museum, not in a modern functional funeral business.”

“I have my reasons.” Jacob fumes, angry, annoyed by the pathologist’s comments. It ain’t none of your God damn business girl, he says in his head.

“Well, I gather that Jacob, I’m not completely stupid.”

“It’s my father?” He says louder than he should watching the two paramedics leave. The doors close behind them and Jacob feels free to confide with his would-be girlfriend now they are alone.

“Really,” she says shaking her head resting against one of the tables for support. “How’s that?”

“It was my job to embalm, clean him up and dress him, you know when he passed. I used table one. Don’t know how I got through it. Made me sick to the stomach and I wasn’t right after that for months. My head was battered. I nearly closed the place down, it had screw me over badly seeing my old man like that. I should never have done it, but what could I do? He was my only kin after all. And I vowed never to use that table again. Not sure if I didn’t lose the plot for a while? The memory of his body on that cold table split open like a crippled victim of war haunts me still. It come back every night, a ghost that eats away at me. Is it guilt, did I get it wrong. Why does he need to remind me of the accident. It wasn’t my fault – it really wasn’t? You have your answer, so let’s leave it. I don’t want reminding of it anymore. I can’t face turning this place upside down just to update it. My hearts not in it.” He says walking towards Kate looking miserable and lost.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that Jacob. I didn’t know. It must have been awful for you?” She says moving backwards as he walks by.

“Well maybe I’m over it now, maybe I’m not? But it’s left its mark on me and it hurts. Sometimes I just want to hurt something.” He says fighting back tears of regret over the outpouring of his problems. Still, he thinks she’ll need to know all this when we live our lives together. Man and wife?

Jacob walks across to the body and glances back at the pathologist. “Who the hell is this anyway? Nobody I know.” He says remaining annoyed from the last conversation. “Doesn’t look no big deal, big shot to me?” He remarks.

He’s not from your era Jacob. What do you know about music anyway? Last record you bought was probably Des O’Connor or Gary Glitter from some church jumble sale? You “Wanna be in my gang” remember. Bloody pervert. Hope he rots in hell one day?” Chokes Kate.

“I know some stuff, it’s only the big five O next you know. Don’t be so God damn cheeky, I’ve been around. So, who the hell is it?

“Quit the blasphemy Jacob, this is in part God’s house after all. Be lucky he doesn’t strike you down one day with talk like that.”

“Okay – a name then please.” He asks struggling with his patience.

“It’s Jason Summerville. Do you not recognise his face? He’s been in all the papers recently. Went missing a couple of weeks back. When they found him he’d been on a drug and booze bender. Vomit, needles and shit everywhere – living with the down and outs under some motorway bridge in Devon. It was sickening to read about it, all that money and talent wasted on stuff to push into your arm.”

“No.” States Jacob looking perplexed, like he’s missed out on some world changing event.

“You know lead guitarist with Heavens Angels,” says Kate willing Jacob to agree he had heard of them. ” They’ve only sold millions of albums. Everybody knows them. Not my cup of tea to be honest. I like something with more crash and bang, you know, heavy chords and moody lyrics and screaming vocals. I’d give anything to team up with Wicked Cross though. Now that’s a great band. My all-time favourite guys, especially the singer. What a man.”

“Not heard of either of ‘em. He looks like some freakin’ hippy from the seventies.”

“Yeh, whatever Jacob. Anyway, he’s famous and we gotta keep a lid on this till cause of death etc; is sorted and formalised. Okay?” Reminds Kate as she starts to remove the dead musician’s clothes.

She snips away the fabric. The man is not a pretty sight, its obvious he been dead some days and decay is advanced.

“A hotel room eh?” Enquires Jacob trying to keep the conversation going as he steps back and watches the pathologist at work. He follows her figure, idolising each curve and crease in her clothes. Beautiful, he thinks, one day. Just one day, I can do that, snips those clothes away. One by one till I get right down to the flesh. The luxuriant flesh of your thighs and stomach. Pervert, stop it. He laughs and rubs the back of his neck.

Kate turns. “Yeh, that’s right. You’d think they’d learn their lesson right. Drugs will have done this. I’ll bet anything that’s what I find?” She looks puzzled. “You okay.” She asks as Jacob fidgets with his hands.

“It doesn’t mean shit when your Maker comes visiting. You come in with nothing and leave the same, except this guy has some notoriety and glamour, I guess, from a vile death wish. Just a fool and a waste of a soul if you ask me?” Remarks the funeral director.

“Just get on with it Jacob,” she sounds agitated, “we don’t have all day. I need results and I need them damn quick. So let’s get him sorted and in the cooler pronto. Come on!”

Jacob smiles. He likes it when she’s angry. It gives him a funny feeling inside. He just wants to hug her like a bear and squeeze her till she pops. Pervert, his brain says, but he takes no notice of his conscience and stares intensely.

Three days later the guitarist is still housed in the refrigerator. There have been no calls from the coroner or any report or notification that the body can be released to the family. Neither has the body been officially identified. Jacob Thursby is puzzled, Kate Garrison has stayed away, no messages there. He knows processes can be protracted but not necessarily shrouded in mystery. The signs are ominous, something isn’t right?

Thursby has endless restless nights, he tosses and turns unable to get relief from the nightmares. Intuition thought his confession to Kate might have broken the spell, but there is little to no respite from the terror that engulfs him in the early morning hours. His father still appears regularly at the end of his bed, like a black spectre of foreboding, he never says anything, just stands and stares with a sullen smile. Thursby assumes that his father talking will be the death nell, the coming of his mortal end. He dwells on memories of Kate Garrison, images of lust and longing as he lays wide awake in the comfort of his lonely bed, it helps take away the cold misery of his father. Infatuation is a demon Thursby subscribes to particularly with the love of his life. It stops short of stalking, he’s never contributed to that affliction, but he has pondered and wondered what he might find or see if he did. A bridge too far his inner soul tells him and so far he has stayed clear, but temptation remains high on his priorities.

Thursby has limited emotions, empathy sits on a cold shoulder that he cannot warm and release. But the man knows no different, he doesn’t understand the sulky looks, downcast eyes or feel pain in tears. That’s not to say he’s bereft of feelings, no – he’s suffered pain and guilt, but tenderness and the joy of life’s rich harvest cannot function in his day to day understanding of humankind. He is cold and harsh, difficult to understand, has no friends and lives his life in an impenetrable bubble. In the mirror he is normal, to outsiders, acquaintances, colleagues consider him strange, and women often say, “he’s a creep.”

The telephone rings disturbing Kate Garrison from taking in the six o’clock news. She’s not that interested as it’s more stories of hate and murder, the crashing of economies and wars in far off country. She lifts the receiver. “Hello Kate speaking.”

“Hi Kate, it’s been a while since we last met up. Are you doing anything in a couple of weeks on the 9^th. It’s a Friday night. I’ve got a couple of tickets to see that band you like, the something Cross?”

“What Wildfire Cross?” She asked excitedly.

“Yeh, that’s them. I knew you liked those guys. Interested?”

“You kidding? If this is not a joke and you have tickets, then hell yeh.” She leaps around the room. Excited is a not word to describe how she feels.

“It’s a date then. I’ll pick you up early and treat you to something exotic at a place I know as a prelude to the gig – okay?”

She tries to hold in her emotion and joy as the idea of seeing her favourite band sinks in. “What do you want though? I’m sure it doesn’t come free, I guess there’s a price to pay right?” She asks tentatively.

“Nah – my pleasure entirely. But you know somethings can lead to other things.”

Kate laughs knowing there’s always a catch. She laughs again. It’s a real bitch being so damn pretty all the time, but for Wildfire Cross I’ll take my chance she thinks. “Bye,” she says, “See you in a couple of weeks?” The line goes dead.     

Jacob Thursby is at a loose end. It’s been a busy day for a Tuesday. Several new incumbents to deal with, but nothing out of the ordinary, old folks mostly and the odd traffic accident. Just a regular day. He can’t stop thinking about Kate Garrison, it’s almost a fanatical pastime, the desire he harbours to move the relationship forward. She’ll be too old to have kids if he doesn’t pull his socks up and get her married, he admits. He needs a plan, a cunning plan to get her onside. He ponders his options. They seem limited, almost non-existent considering the opposition in the court of admirers. Milton Villiers, he considers. Ha, what has he got? An Aston Martin, yeh, well anyone can have one of those and money and a fat cheque book. Makes me sick, he chatters to himself as he scrubs down tables two and three, cleaning away the detritus of death. Blood, occasional scraps of flesh and waste. Human waste, just like the body itself. Once the soul, the living spark is gone then what have you left. Nothing but waste, a lifetime of memories and humour and adventure and love lost. Gone, in an instance leaving nothing but detritus of life. Jacob smiles, most philosophical he agrees. And on a Tuesday too. But where was I with Kate Garrison?

He grabs his morning toast and lightly smears best butter across it its surface before applying seedless raspberry jam precisely in three swipes of the knife. Thick and red, sticky on the utensil like clarified blood, it reminds him of his morning duties, to sluice down the drains before they clog and fester and begin to stink. He hardly slept through the night, tossing and dreaming intermittently about the only subject on his mind. But a plan is hatched, sketchy and obscure, but none the less possible, yet criminal in the most ferocious of ways.

A week passes, they pick up Jason Summerville’s body. It’s a quiet affair they slip him into a white Transit van to be interred down south in a private grave. There’s limited thanks to Jacob for his discreet work. He thinks that’s shameful.  The newspaper are not calm, there are questions asked and raised, the fans almost riot at the loss of their God of a musician. Suicide, a deathly selfish mess on a third-rate hotel bedroom floor. There’s irony, thinks Jacob as the family depart. All that money and fame and adulation and what does it all come down to. A dirty needle, bad drugs and your life blood washed away down the drain as you lay cold as a fish as embalming fluid floods your veins. He laughs a small chuckle; well your corpse will linger around a bit longer than the average stiff Jason he thinks. “Au revoir my friend – see you in the next life?” There was no mystery in the end, just notoriety of an awkward kind.

Kate Garrison had not been to the funeral home to clear up loose end, the phone and laptop are better tools to complete the formalities and in her own mind and determination she’d rather stay away from his sultry talk and eerie presence. It suited her mentality to be absent from a fool she had zero respect of. However, Jacob is not one to cease in any game and dials her number late one evening, more anxious then ever to bridge the ever-widening gap of their placid relationship. He needs to put some fire between them, get her motor running and head out on the highway – so to speak?

“You fancy a trip this weekend Kate?” he asks her excitedly with little thought there would be any other answer than yes.

“What just you and me?”

“Yeh, the seaside. Might be fun? You know on the beach and in the arcades and maybe fish and chips. All girls like the sea?”

“No.” She states solidly leaving little to question.

“What, not just you and me or no to the seaside.” He asks confused and bewildered at the rebuttal.

“No Jacob, just no to the whole things for Christ’s sake. What don’t you understand? We have nothing in common. No common ground, no chemistry – you know the things needed for a loving relationship? Hard for you to understand I guess, but there’s not a God damn chance of me being with you . . . ever.” She thinks for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. “Milton is taking me to see Wildfire Cross and that’s the best thing I could ever want in life Jacob. Just the best – why would I ever want to go to the stinking seaside with a creep like you?” The phone is slammed down instantly. Jacob suddenly feels betrayed and angered that Milon Villiers has moved in with his Aston Martin, sweet talking personality and cheque book to take her to watch a band. “The best thing I could ever want.” She said.

Jacob suddenly calms, the adrenaline of rage frees his mind and he thinks clearly. “Well,” he says out aloud. “Maybe I can do better than that?”

It’s late and dreary, the night air is cool and mist hangs low in the streets. Perfect conditions he ponders as he peers through the drizzled windscreen of his old car. He eats his fish supper, there’s too much salt on the chips and the mushy peas look as if they’ve sat in the pan for several weeks. He gobbles the meal down, discards the wrapper across the back seat and belches loudly. Time to move, he looks at his watch. 8.30 pm. He starts the car, pulls down the black ski mask across his face and moves off down the road.

Jacob chunters to himself as the streetlights saunter passed, half hidden in the hazy light of a Friday evening. “A band, is that it? The best you can do Villiers. You have no right, no not just right, but don’t deserve the company and respect of a woman like Kate. Stealing her from me. But I’ll get her back. You watch, you just watch Villers. The papers, the TV, it’ll be there loud and clear. Shock horror to the nation and you won’t understand – no you’ll not have a clue.”  He draws the car up close to the red double doors. The sign reads ‘no admittance’. They hang half ajar and he slips inside like a Ninja without being noticed, dressed all in black, keeping close to the walls like a shadow. He holds a small bottle and linen cloth in the palm of his right hand, his nerves are on heightened alert, but Jacob Thursby is calm and follows the plan in his mind in every detail.

He returns home, it is 11.30 pm precisely and he feels exceptionally pleased at his performance, the job was a perfect success which exceeded all expectations. No complications, no catastrophes, all under control and satisfactory. Now the true work begins he perceives and downs two large shots of best Scottish single malt whisky in celebration of his achievement as he looks over the tools of his trade with pride and acute confidence.

For all his obvious fault, Jacob Thursby is still a master craftsman and has honed his skills over many years following in the steps of his father deceased some years back and as he looks down at the body on the table, he prepares his thoughts and begins the process. It will take several hours to complete. First, clothing is removed and the prone body washed thoroughly and inspected. He removes the eyes and replaces them with glass replacements that match the originals and sets the man’s mouth into a welcome grin, as though he is beckoning an old friend. There is no music in the morgue, Jacob refuses to fund the performing rights association their licence fee to listen and instead talks loudly. It eases the quiet eerie character of the Victorian morgue, sometimes first thing in the morning or in the silence of the night he shivers and swears there are spirits that walk the cold white tiles. Occasionally, he fears there are voices that call on him, beckoning the man for mischief and deeds that should remain secret. It’s not the bodies that whisper, they are silent, but he takes no notice as there is limited malice to be garnered in a sinister voice.

“I’m so sorry about this, but there was really no other reasonable way . . . was there? And you were the only choice, the others just players in the team, but you, the leader. The adored one. No, no other choice I’m afraid?” He makes two incisions, inserting the tube into the main artery by the heart whilst making a deep cut in a vein on his arm. Jacob had already prepared the fluid, attaching the tube to the buzz of the embalming machine. As it whirs and clicks, pumping its slow drone of pressure, blood pours out of the body across the table in a constant stream flowing into the drain holes and away from sight. Jacob hates the stench of old blood, the smell makes him nauseous, but he pushes the feeling aside and carries on.

“I wasn’t happy doing this to my father, you know, but I had no choice of course in reality to save his good name. I knew what he was doing, turned a blind eye to it. I was younger then, more tolerant of the deceitful bastard’s failings. It sickened me. Yeh, after a while, when I knew what was really happening, there was no option but to perform some censure. Stop the vile rot growing in the man’s perversions. So, I took some steps, big steps, steps of finality. Because there were murmurings in the wider workplace, some of the pathologists had seen things, you know, things not right. Not in keeping with the work and I couldn’t let that destroy a good clean business, my future well-being and livelihood . . . now could I?”

The veins visibly bulge as the foul fluid courses through the body excreting the old blood in its wake. Jacob caresses the limbs flushing the blood through the drainage point. It is work he enjoys, smiles in satisfaction, virtually slapping himself on the back that tragic secrets are unfolding before his eyes and only he knows. The world was waiting, unaware of a tragedy. But soon, very soon, it would be revealed to all.

“Are you listening?” He asks in the quiet of the tiled room. ”Silence won’t stop me talking and pulling that stupid grin doesn’t impress me either, so cut it out. And look here, you’re leaking all over the floor. Now that just won’t do. What are you thinking?” Blood dribbles down the side of the inspection table and across his waterproof boots. It smears his apron as he reaches for the slop bucket and mop. He wipes sweat from his brow; the marks it leaves appear like the warpaint of a native American before the call to battle. He doesn’t see or care about his image, to a bystander it would appear bizarre – Dr. Frankenstein performing his intimate surgery.

It’s 5.15pm on a Friday evening, the telephone chirps in another room as Kate Garrison readies herself in the bedroom. She ponders, wondering what to wear, what might be best served for the occasion. Discarded clothes lay about her on the floor, she is getting flustered and irritated as nothing seems to work or please her. “What a mess I look?” She whispers holding another blouse to her chest as the noise of the phone rings louder. “What now?”

“Hello,” she sounds annoyed.

“It’s Milton.”

“Oh, hi everything alright.” She wonders why he’s calling.

There is a short silence, it seems like minutes to Kate, she speaks again. “Hello – Milton, you there?”

“It’s off, the shows not happening. The band have pulled out, said something about circumstances beyond their control. One of the bands got a problem. That’s all I know Kate.” He says disappointed as tonight was the night he was going to show his cards, make the relationship formal and now disaster. Typical, he thinks, what am I going to do now, this might just be the opportunity Jacob Thursby needs to get her under his wing. She had already told Milton of Jacob’s request and invitation. The rage inside him, when he heard, was hard to bear but he tried to contain his anger when Kate rang him with the news. User, he thinks, she’s just using me. Getting me jealous. “Well, it God damn worked.” He screamed as he threw the telephone to the floor.

“What, well that’s just typical of you Milton, letting me down at the last minute again. Why do you never keep your promise to me. You’ve made this up about the band? You just don’t want to go, that’s it, isn’t it? Well, Milton you know what you can do, right. I still have the offer from Jacob, and guess what? I am taking it, because he really cares and you just don’t give a damn about me. So, take you gig tickets and shove them where the sun don’t shine! Goodbye, good riddance.”

The funeral director flies into another rage and clatters about the room kicking furniture, swiping documents and papers off his kitchen worktop. That was not the reacting he expected, least of all her alternative options thrust down his throat. “Bitch . . . I’m gonna sort this out with Thursby once and for all.  The woman is mine, you ain’t getting your greasy, blood stain hands on my girl.” He shouts. The outer door slams and the noisy Aston Martin roars out of the drive and into oncoming traffic. Angry horns blast out, tempers flare but Milton Villiers only has one thing on his mind, he does not see or care about the chaos he’s leaving in his wake.

 Jacob Thursby is cleaning up after a long day’s hard work, the place is a mess. He thinks he might leave it and deal with it later, but drying blood and stained equipment is not something that should be left. Heaven forbid another customer or pathologist should see it, it could dent his reputation. He hurries around scrubbing and scrapping, throwing dirty instruments into the steriliser. He thinks perhaps it’s time for an apprentice, another body to learn the ropes and do the dirty work. Without warning the double doors of the entrance slam open and Milton Villiers stands legs apart in the bright lights seeking his victim. “Thursby, we need to talk,” he says viciously, “I got some things to say and you’re not gonna like it.”

Jacobs pulls himself up from behind an examination table he’s scrubbing, smudges of blood linger on his coat and face from the clean down. “What can I help you with Milton?” he says innocently and calmly, knowing exactly the reason for the intrusion.

“It’s like this Thursby,” He builds himself up on his heels and steps closer to the other man subconsciously clenching and unclenching his fists as he moves slowly towards the other man. “We don’t like each other, I know that and so do you, but that’s okay and we can live with a little hatred? It helps with the competition. But that’s something you’ll never appreciate or better me with, I’ll always be better at this that you Thursby with your hand me down place that’s coming apart from age and equipment from a museum. But let me warn you Kate Garrison belongs to me, not you Thursby and I’m telling you to leave her alone or there will be real trouble between us. You understand me, right?” Villiers steps up to face his counterpart, inches between them. “I don’t want you anywhere near her, stop these ridiculous invitations. You’re out of your league, way out. A man like you, rough, no manners, no finesse, just a loser trying trying to romance with a woman like Kate.” He pushes Jacob backwards with a finger in the sternum, but he stands firm a stoic expression lingers on his face. “I mean it Thursby, you’ve already cost me a good night out with my girl and now she flirts with you saying I’m no good and out of her life for good.” He hesitates mid-sentence. “But let me tell you . . . “

Jacob Thursby turns his back and walks away undeterred by the abject threats. The play acting of Milton Villiers does not worry him. “Come with me. I have something to show you that might explain your troubles tonight in finer detail?”

Jacob Thursby doesn’t sleep for three days, he’s busy. His time is precious, there is a sign on the door stating the funeral home and mortuary will be closed for a week due to renovation works. However, any mindful eyes would not see the appearance of workmen or equipment, the renovations are purely his own to complete and he undertakes the task with vigour and determination. Occasionally he leaves the premises, he takes the van with its blacked-out windows. He loads the interior with lengths of wood, metal tubing and specialist liquid solutions. On one occasion, he detours to Kate Garrison’s house and raps on the door violently. There is no answer, she is not at home. He posts an envelope through the letter box that contains an invite to join him for a special party evening in celebration of his business success and forthcoming fiftieth birthday. The exquisite festive meal, it reads, will be complete with hors d’oevre, champagne and caviar followed by an evening of music and dance. The note is written in beautiful gold copperplate script. There is no reason for her not to be impressed at the magnitude of the proposed evening of delights or decline the offer he thinks, particularly following the words Villiers had relayed to him that their relationship was over for good, and she was looking to embark on an association with a new beau – that being himself – Jacob Thursby. He was so pleased with himself that a smile never left his face as he drove home slowly, savouring the rural scenic route whilst whistling his own reworked version of “My Way” in a pseudo-Frank Sinatra voice.

Kate Garrison triumphantly accepts the invitation, returning the RSVP request in her own personal way. She is excited, things appear to be looking up for her. Now that Villiers lies on the emotional scrap heap, she acknowledges her freedom to embark on any new romance. If it doesn’t gel with Thursby then there are plenty of other wealthy ( relatively speaking ) prospective sugar daddy’s she muses to herself. She does not and never has considered herself a ‘gold digger.’ If her new beau does not bestow gifts of love and passion willingly then she’d take it upon herself to robustly inveigle whatever she could from the man and his bank balance by any means without remorse. After all, at her age she should be happily wed and content with life. But she wasn’t, never had been? Had she picked the wrong men – maybe, but there was still time, still a multitude of opportunities to wrangle with and Jacob Thursby was next on the list.

When she arrives, duly on time, there is a fanfare of trumpets announces her. The opening of the door to the premises creates an electronic link that triggers the musical accompaniment of her entry. She smiles, this was not expected but pleases her as she throws the tassels of her shawl around her neck and walks with confidence into the funeral home.

There are garlands and multicoloured balloons festooned from every corner of the room. A small stage has been set up at one end with a velvet curtain hanging low concealing the occupants or equipment that are resting there. She gasps, the transformation is spectacular, the walls are repainted in brilliant colour, reds and blues, turquoise and scarlet as if to match the romantic mood of the evening. The examination tables adorned with crisply laundered cloths covering the dark deeds performed underneath, the floors scrubbed and polished, the last remnants of personal garbage and dull stains removed hours earlier with a heavy brush and scrubbing machine. As she walks forward into the swirling crystal glare of the shimmering light from the mirror ball the music changes to subtle melodies that entice the mind and relax the apprehension that was coasting her mind as she wondered what awaited on this evening of desire. Kate Garrison is not disappointed, for once it appears Jacob has transcended his apparent dull facade to manifest a longing in her heart that has been absent many years. She eagerly awaits the entrance of her newly acquired admirer.

“Hello Kate,” says Jacob dramatically appearing from behind the velvet curtain that surrounds the stage. “I’m glad you came.”

There’s a smile of gratitude and instant devotion runs across her face as she realises all this circus and theatrics is just for her. “Been rude not to Jacob. All this effort, just for me?”

“Of course, there’s only ever been you in my life Kate. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a very long time and now it’s here I shall make the most of it with you . . . but first?” He come quietly forward gliding cross the floor like a professional dancer his shoes silents as he moves. He takes her hand and kisses the back of it as he bows like a French Count welcoming foreign aristocracy. Kate Garrison does not move, titters slightly under her breath as she is agog with surprise as the man before her parries with a passionate embrace.

“Oh – Jacob,” she fumbles her words, “whatever next.”

“It’s all for you my darling, you shall have it all before the night is through?” His hair is slicked back, oiled and neatly trimmed. Trousers pressed and sharp like the polished leather adorning his feet. He wears a crimson velvet jacket with black edged cuffs and collar, a neat handkerchief sprouting for its top pocket. Jacob Thursby has spent money, he looks and feels a million dollars as he gently pulls Kate across the floor and begins to waltz as the music changes once more. They turn and float around the covered examination tables to the music and instinctively Jacob knows he has succeeded in turning the head of a woman that thought little of him weeks before. She is mesmerised by the spectacle and grandeur of the images that flutter into her bedazzled mind. She never anticipated or believed the man was capable of romancing a woman with style and sophistication. Again, she struggles to find words that extoll the feelings in her heart, which burns with pride and emotion for this once feeble man. What awaits in the evening and night she can only wonder.

The minutes of the spectacle slowly pass, they sit and eat the prepared meal that Jacob wheels in upon a hostess trolley and it’s all there as advertised on the invitation. A feast of dishes, meats, breads, stews and soups. Curries created from the finest ingredients, mouthwatering aromas complete with samosas, bhajis and spiced condiments to flavour the most wearisome of palates.  There is enough to fulfil the hunger pains of a battle-weary army of men. The wine flows as the hours draw on and Jacob presents a champagne toast to success, newfound friendship and lasting love. “Let’s not forget those we lost and loved that are no longer here and to souls passed to mischief and violence that shall remain as images and memories in our forgiving minds.” Remarks the funeral director.

“Yes, let’s do that and to you Mr. Thursby for this fine and grand occasion. I champion your sentiments and wish everlasting peace to all we have known and will never know.”

“To one and all.” Jacob raises his glass and Kate joins the toast with a chink of crystal as the sound echoes around the vaulted room.  

There is burgundy from France, Rioja from Spain, heady Barolo from Italy and several dessert wines for tasting following the consumption of an abundance of delights from the dessert trolley. Kate Garrison is heady; the alcohol has loosened her emotional firewall as she is drawn closer to the attractive personality of Jacob Thursby. She might be falling in love, this is not the man she has met many times before, this is a different person, suave, sophisticated and confident – a totally revitalised Jacob Thursby and she like it. Likes it a lot, her mind working overtime, because she thinks that if he is willing to go to these lengths to woo her, then what would he present if this was an engagement or following wedding vows.

She sees herself in Canne walking the promenades in the glamour of Versace, and then skiing down the slopes of Aspen welcoming the gratitude of common mortals. And Summering in the tropical heat of St. Tropez, bathing in the warmth of the midday sun as the motor yacht lurches through the waves of the Mediterranean. Kate Garrison doesn’t consider reality; her head is dizzy spinning around the globe in a whirl wind of extravagance and plunder.

“Let me take you, my darling, on a voyage to a destination far here. A destiny you have never seen or will ever see again. A present, just for you. Something to savoir, a memory to keep you warm on the other side of life.” Jacob leads her towards the stage, she is unprepared for the show, has no idea what she is about witness.

“Whatever next Jacob, I cannot imagine? A gift, to end this night of all nights?” She replies, as the excitement of the occasion begins to coarse through her expectant body.

“You have indulged in a banquet fit for a Queen my dear,” commands Jacob bowing at the feet of his princess. “You drank your fill of the finest wines any man could hope to offer and now I give you something more. The grand finale. The ‘piece de resistance.’ A feast for the eyes to fascinate over. A divine sight that will occur once in a lifetime, never to be repeated. Close your eyes my darling and wallow in the love of the myth, the legend, the man that is . . .  ”

The stage curtain opens, Kate is only several feet away and Jacob feels her swoon, lean on him for support as her legs tremble and buckle at the knees. “My God, Simon De Favreau . . . how on earth did you . . .?

“For you anything. It wasn’t easy, but persuasion has its remedies, and I knew it would be a gift on this last night that you would remember forever.” He says proudly.

“But Wildfire Cross cancelled their gig Jacob, how on earth . . .? She asks perplexed as she looks at the man on the stage. He is rigid, silent, unmoving. Then the music starts, pounding out of the speakers at the side of the stage, chest thumping, vibrating around the room like the band is deep in concert. De Favreau sings loudly, the guitars ring out, the drums crash and emphasise every bar, every beat, but the singer’s lips do not move.

“For you, my darling, only for you.” Says Jacob Thursby excited that his guest is enjoying the moment.

She tries to focus completely on the singer, to understand. “What’s going on Jacob, what is this?” She stammers edging towards the stage.

“No, let the man sing – it’s your favourite. The greatest song ever recorded. Sing along. Come on Kate sing with Simon.” He chants gripping his love by the arm whirling her around to the sound of the rhythm and the chime of the chords. “Sing lets sing my princess. Sing away your fears and worries, let your heart and love grow.”

The singer is frozen in an awkward stance, he is static like a model from the waxworks. His face pulled into a grimace of pain and suffering like the last note of a song is a step too high. He seems to balance on one leg, perpetual in dance with no steps or choreography. The music cascades the walls, the plaster shuffles in isolation of its Victorian age, the mirror ball throws ghastly shadow into every corner of the room.

Kate Garrison trembles in fear, the extent of the occasion hits her like a hammer to the back of her head. She gasps. “Jacob what have you done?” She screams so loud it makes the crystal glasses rattle in unison. “Oh my god, he’s de . . .”

“No, no, no. He wants to meet you Kate. You must say hello. After all, this is a very special occasion. a moment to treasure for the rest of eternity.”

“You must be mad Jacob, out of your tiny mind. This man is famous, do you not think he’ll be missed? You’re a killer, cold blooded and evil. I need to leave; you need to let me go.” She says looking towards the exit, finding her feet to leave.

“It’s okay Kate, you must stay. Have to stay, you see I’ve saved all the good bits for the ending. You see I rescued him from the talentless members of the band. He’s going solo now, doesn’t need any of those two-bit musicians. His manager has paved the way for a successful career without them. You should meet him. Here,” he grabs her hand with strength he shouldn’t have and drags her towards the stage. “Come on over here, just say hello. I think he’s a friend of yours, no harm in that is there?”

They walk past the stage to a small room, the music blasting out around them. Jacob pushes the door open, there is a man sat at the desk looking occupied, a pen in his hand, he looks to be signing some important documents. Kate Garrison falters a second time, leans heavily into Jacob who catches her around the waist.

“What’s wrong Kate? Are you not happy to see his future manager? He’s already doing a sterling job – see, signing contracts already. What a man, but it’s a far cry from his day job isn’t it, Kate?” He speaks the final sentence with venom, there is poison and bitterness in the words and hatred in his voice.

She struggles to speak, the shock chokes her vocal cords, she whimpers like a sick crying child. “What . . . have you . . . done Jacob? My God – is he dead too?” She chokes back tears; the recognition makes the reality of her vision unbearable.

“Resting Kate, waiting for you. He has a proposition for you and Simon. He’s a quick thinker, always on the ball don’t you think and it’s brilliant. A duet, for the next single and then who knows? A world tour, arena’s, maybe? All you have to do is sign your life away. See – it’s easy.” He speaks flippantly, as if there are no alternatives to his suggestion. It’s a done deal and he knows it.

“You killed Milton Villiers – why Jacob, for what reason?”

“He said he was better than me. I was the loser, always going to be with my old stuffy ways. So, I thought its time I moved up a gear. You know, came out of my inhibited closet. So, I’ve bested him. No complaints from him, look he might be writing his apology to me right now. Dear Jacob, apologies for calling you a loser, I need to say you have the better of me and I . . . “

He does not finish the sentence. Kate cracks him across the head with a crystal paper weight she has lifted from the desk as her captor’s mind drifted away mid monologue. He drops to his knees, blood gushing from a severe gash. He collides with the desk, his weight pushing it sideways. Milton Villiers topples under pressure of the movement from the chair and slithers like a man with no bones to the floor. Kate Garrison screams a cry of fear and panic as his head lolls to one side uncovering a deep gash that has almost severed it from his torso.

She runs looking for the exit, fright in every step as she wobbles on high heels past examination tables, colliding, instruments, blood stained and dirty scatter across the floor as Wildfire Cross reach the climax of a song. The music stops, there is only silence – deathly quiet after the uproarious noise. She looks around, Jacob is nowhere, Simon De Favreau watches her as he prepares to burst into his next song, his face angular, mouth wide, hanging open as if he screams, but there is no sound.

She turns back towards the exit and is hit full in the face by a steel tray. Jacob smiles and gives a brief chuckle as blood pours from her nose and she staggers away looking for support. There is none, her legs cave and she tumbles to the floor.

“Well Kate,” he says pulling a puzzled expression, “this is not what I expected at all. No, not the way this was supposed to be. An evening of pleasure, enjoyment and excitement at seeing your hero and your friend too. No this will not do at all.” He adds disappointed and then wipes the blood from his face with a dirty cloth picked out of a bucket at his feet and ponders, thinking, mulling over a thought in his mind.

“Still, the night is young, no need to hurry. Plenty of excitement to be had yet eh, Kate?” She murmurs, its incomprehensible but he thinks it maybe a protest at his current behaviour. He takes no notice and drags her heavily across the floor. He lets her drop and she cracks her head on the pitted concrete floor as he pulls the cover off an examination table.

“Time to re-instate table one, I think. Up you come Kate.” He lifts her onto the stainless-steel trestle, she cannot find words. Kate Garrison is frozen in fear. “Father would be proud.” He leans backward as he holds down Kate Garrison as she struggles to move on the cold steel table and tugs at the electric switch. The embalming machines suddenly bursts into life and hums a tiny tune as the motor finds its optimum speed. Jacob Thursby reaches for the container of fluid and the tools of his trade.