“Seems like a bloody big box for someone’s ashes,” I said.
Manderley picked up a large plastic bag from behind the desk. “There’s more of Mr. Becker in this. People are often surprised at the volume of their loved ones’ remains. It’s generally more than you would imagine. And the mortician said Mr. Becker’s ashes were unusually plentiful. He elaborated with an unnecessarily graphic detailing of the cremation process that I won’t repeat.” Manderley lowered his voice conspiratorially. “If I can give you a small piece of advice, never talk shop with someone in the death business. They’ll tell you stories that would make a goat vomit.” He straightened his tie, and when he spoke again it was in a more formal tone. “Mr. Becker has bequeathed his earthly remains to you.”
I tried to think of an appropriate place to keep them. My mantel, perhaps, or the sunny spot on the top of the piano? Of course, the plastic bag would fail to blend with my decor. Perhaps I could upgrade to a bigger container.
“As you probably know, the deceased usually requests that their ashes be spread somewhere meaningful. A holiday spot, the place they fell in love, or even a treasured private garden.” Manderley paused again. “Mr. Becker’s assignation of his mortal remains is quite different. Quite different, indeed.”
Manderley opened his desk drawer, took out a manila envelope, and pushed it towards me. “Inside this envelope are the contact details of six people whom Mr. Becker felt had done him some injustice. He has requested that you meet with these people individually and…throw his ashes into their faces. Their eyes, if possible.”
“Righto,” I said.
Manderley stared at me. “Did you understand me correctly?” he asked, incredulous. “You are to take Mr. Becker’s ashes…”
“And throw them into the faces, preferably the eyes, of six people. Yes, I believe I have it.”
Manderley stared at me, gobsmacked. “I have to say, Mr. Morley, I was expecting an entirely different reaction.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well…I suppose…any number of reactions, really. Shock, surprise, disgust.”
Manderley’s disapproval was palpable, and I felt compelled to explain myself.
“Mr. Manderley, Ian is—was—my dearest friend. In fact, he was my only friend. We met when we were twelve. Ian was being bullied by a schoolyard thug, and since I was taller than most of my classmates, I intervened.”
“And saving him led to a lifelong friendship? How marvelous.”
“No, we bonded on the way to the hospital. I was plucky but uncoordinated and weak. I was beaten like an egg, and Ian walked me to the infirmary. By the time my bruises healed, we were firm friends. We were confidants; we were allies against the world. Ian would have done anything for me, and I, him.”
“Well then,” Mr. Manderley said, smiling warmly, “I suppose he chose wisely. But I have to say I’m still shocked at this. In my dealings with Mr. Becker, he never showed a predilection for revenge, he never struck me as a vindictive man. He was always very charming, quite lovely in fact. He remembered my birthday, and few clients do, I can assure you. Always a Christmas gift for me and Mrs. Wilkens out there.” He remembered something and looked at me, alarmed. “Did you accept her offer of tea?”
“No,” I confessed, “but I did take a biscuit.”
Manderley looked relieved. “That should be fine, then. As I was saying, Mr. Becker seemed the easygoing sort. The only thing he was ever rigid about was this codicil.”
“Obviously it was important to him. So I will honor his wish, and he will not be disappointed.” I stopped for a moment. “Although, being dead, I suppose he will not be anything. So…six people, you said. Depending on their relative proximity, I suppose I could get it done in four weekends.”
“Why weekends?” Manderley asked, looking up from his papers.
“Why, weekdays are impossible because of work.”
“You’re going to keep your job?” Manderley asked, quite astonished. “You’re a millionaire. You never have to work again.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Could I get through the rest of my days without formulating and testing pet food? Yes, I realized, I could, and quite happily too. I took out a notepad. “I had better write this down. No…job. Now, what else should I do, do you think? What would you do if you had sixty-five million pounds, Mr. Manderley? I can’t imagine what to do with that much money. Do you have any suggestions?”
I sat poised, my pen in the air.
Manderley stared at me over the enormous plastic bag and wiped a speck of dust from his desk.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5
Today I quit my job. Old Perkins scowled and said that it was actually better for the firm that I was leaving. It’s totally untrue, of course, for who else has my grasp of the perfect ash/protein ratio, but Perkins is a bloody fool. He’s on the top of the list for my own ash scattering. Right between his trouty little eyes.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8
One of the few things I am good at is planning. Given the importance of Ian’s final request, I want to make sure that its chances for success are quite high. I am fortunate, indeed, given Ian’s extensive travels, that the six people who wronged him are not scattered across the world. One of the six is dead. Four of the remaining five are still in the U.K. Two reside directly in London, and two others are within a three-hour drive. The contact information for the fifth seems to be out of date. But since I now have unlimited funds, I suppose I can hire a private detective to find him.
I can do the first four in six days, including travel time if I opt for a leisurely pace. Three days if I rush and double up on the two in London. I think the more relaxed approach might be nice. Since I am now rich, I could certainly take advantage of the time and make a vacation out of it. After this job is done, I may go abroad for a while. I’ve never been outside of London in my life. I have never taken a plane. So many firsts to look forward to! Of course, this will also be the first time I’ve ever thrown the ashes of a friend into someone’s eyes, but I’m fairly positive I’m in the majority there.
The dead one is a Mrs. Bernice Lafontaine. I remember her, actually. She brazenly stole Ian’s father from his mother, and she was quite despicable to Ian on the days his mother didn’t have custody. I’m happy her death was ignoble.
Bernice was a world-renowned unicyclist, and on the day of her death, attempted to become the oldest cyclist to cross the Thames on a tightrope. She also would have been the only cyclist to cross the Thames on a tightrope, but I digress. Unfortunately, she was absolutely bladdered. Stinking of gin, and flashing antique bloomers, she fell from her tightrope at midpoint over the river and plummeted head first into a speedboat full of German tourists. Good riddance, I say.
As I was poring over the tube maps and circling the appropriate stations to compile my itinerary, I realized that I should probably practice my ash-throwing technique. I’m fairly certain that there are no manuals to study, so it was incumbent upon me to come up with a competent method. I set up my dartboard and stuck a page torn from a magazine upon it. It was a picture of Simon Cowell. I don’t have any particular animosity towards the man, but it was the only life-sized headshot I could find.
The first thing I discovered was that throwing ashes accurately is next to impossible. I had to be right on top of my victim if I were to have any chance of hitting his face, never mind his eyes. And I was determined to get the eyes as per Ian’s request. I also learned that there could be no windup. Try standing a foot away from a target and throwing a ball at it. You naturally follow through, which means you end up with scraped knuckles or a sprained wrist. Another impediment: I tend to have sweaty palms. Which means that more of Ian sticks to me than to the corneas of my target. And then one must take into account wind conditions, the height of the victim, etc. What a messy, complicated business. But I’m determined to get it right.
I spent the evening sweeping up all the bits of Ian that I had practic
ed with and collected them in a little plastic baggie. Tomorrow, I will pick up latex gloves.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 9
The gloves work like a charm. I practiced all day, until I could hit Simon Cowell nine out of ten times. I devised a simple flicking motion that guarantees a high success rate. I am very, very pleased with my progress.
According to the posh-sounding weather lady, it is supposed to rain for the next couple of days, so I will embark upon my journey on Tuesday. I am starting to get excited.
MONDAY SEPTEMBER 10
I watched Terminator 2 on the telly today. I quite enjoy movies and television. I think it’s because the endings always take me by surprise. (Except for the series Columbo. You know who the murderer is right away, and you know he’s going to get caught by the strange little man. What is the point, I wonder? And which is his good eye?) At one point in the film the Terminator says, “Hasta la vista, baby!” Although it sounds ridiculous in an Austrian accent, nevertheless it became a popular catchphrase. I wonder why the supercomputer of the future made his killing machines with barely understandable European accents? No matter. What occurred to me, though, was that perhaps I should prepare a little catchphrase to shout out once I’ve thrown Ian’s ashes into the eyes of my victims.
“Hasta la vista” might be appropriate as I run away from the scene, but I would really like to be able to deliver a pronouncement of sorts, something with gravitas that explains the reason for my actions. After hours of pondering my options, the best I could come up with was: “Ian Becker’s ashes in your eyes, sucka!” (I added “sucka” to give it more street feel, but I confess the whole phrase seems a little too forced. It’s not my style, and it certainly wasn’t Ian’s.)
I have printed out some famous catchphrases that I hope to adapt to my needs. I find I have really warmed to my task!
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
I feel as if I am about to embark on a momentous journey. Today, by honoring my dear friend’s final wishes, I’m traveling to places I’ve never ventured to. I’m engaging in behavior that I’d never previously even considered. I may even be committing crimes. The thought emboldens me.
After wolfing down the largest breakfast I have had in years (two eggs over easy, bacon crisp, four link sausages, pancakes, berries, yogurt, two slices of whole-wheat toast, granola, two cinnamon buns, a chocolate croissant, orange juice, and a pot of coffee), I am heading out with the address of my first target in hand.
LATER, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Jeanine Carson. Of the five remaining, she lives closest to me and I know her well. She deserved the fate that Ian had chosen for her. She had married Ian shortly after we graduated from college. From the start it was an unfortunate union. I had tried to warn Ian away from her but succeeded only in causing a rift in our friendship. During their short union, Ian and I rarely saw each other. She disapproved of my disapproval.
Now, I am not often subject to bouts of intuition (“gut instincts,” as the colonials say), but from the day I first met Jeanine on the campus common, I took an instant dislike to her. Perhaps people who lack certain qualities, like imagination, are more sensitive to the gaps in others’ personalities. Yes, I find it hard to dream, to imagine a wide spectrum of possibilities, but in my defense, I submit that I am fundamentally a good person. I have common sense, I tend not to judge people, I am a steadfast friend. Not to toot my own horn, but I also have a very low cholesterol count and have been told on more than one occasion that I am an exceptional kisser. Jeanine had lots of dreams and ideas but no common sense, no strong character to anchor her. And in Jeanine’s world, she was the main bunny, it was all about her. She was sharp-tongued, selfish, self-involved, and vain. Worst of all, she pronounced “nuclear” incorrectly.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, of course, with auburn hair and deep blue eyes. But Ian would have been happy with someone who looked like a rhino. He was never shallow and certainly not obsessed with physical beauty. I suppose they must have had some things in common, but I can’t imagine what. (Not surprising.) It was her failings, I was quite sure, that destroyed her marriage to Ian. I saw how hard he worked to make her happy. Marrying her was one of the few lapses of judgment that I could recall Ian ever having.
I know he realized it early on, too. At the wedding, as Jeanine walked down the aisle, he whispered to me, “What have I done? Quick, get me to the car!” Unfortunately, I had a horrendous head cold that impaired my hearing. I thought he said, “You know what’ll be fun? Recite me some Bard!” As I plunged into the five or six Shakespearean sonnets that I knew by heart, Ian looked at me with growing astonishment. God bless him, he started to laugh right there at the altar. When he tried to muffle it, tears streamed from his eyes. Jeanine was not amused. She hissed out several variations of a popular Anglo-Saxon curse that intimated I should have relations with myself. I could have saved Ian a lot of pain if only I’d had a good decongestant.
Across from Jeanine’s Kensington Street home I stood watching and waiting. She had done quite well in the divorce and had retained the beautiful terraced townhouse that Ian and she had shared for fourteen months. Quite posh. I stood across the street for six hours, thinking that perhaps I should have “cased the joint” as they say in the films noirs. Gotten a trench coat and made notes on her comings and goings, looking for patterns, that sort of thing. At the very least, worn more comfortable shoes. Just as I was about to give up hope, Jeanine stepped out her front door. Although I had never found her attractive (because of her poisonous personality), I could see that she was still a beautiful woman with a lovely trim figure. She hadn’t seemed to have aged at all. Indeed, I have found that to be true with most shallow people. It’s almost as if the lack of depth gives the wrinkles nothing to attach themselves to. I followed her.
There were few people on the residential street lined with Georgian terraces, but she was heading for the busiest part of the high street, which would make my job much more difficult. It had to be here, under the shade of the plane trees. I quickened my pace till I was just a few feet behind her. My heart was pounding as I put my hand in my plastic-lined jacket pocket and grabbed a handful of Ian’s remains. I raised my hand to the level of Jeanine’s reddish coiffure and shouted.
“Jeanine!”
She whipped around, her painted lips pouted in a perfect moue. Before she could recognize me, I flicked a heaping handful of ash smack dab into her deep blue eyes. She reacted as anyone would.
She screamed.
“Ian Becker has passed sentence!” I shouted. I should have left it there, but I panicked. “And we’re going to need a bigger boat!”
Jeanine actually stopped clawing at her eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of my utterance. The ashes coated her delicate face, and for a moment, she looked like a mime. Feeling more than a little embarrassed at the scene before me, I ran away.
Back home in the safety of my kitchen, I made myself a strong cup of tea. My hands shook as I brought the steaming cup to my lips, but I was exhilarated. It had gone quite well, except, of course, for the Jaws reference. I had stayed up quite late last night and caught the last half on Men&Movies channel.
One down, four to go.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12
I did two today without a hitch. The first victim, like Jeanine, was someone with whom I had a personal history. Jeremy Parkinson was the bully who terrorized Ian. He ran the schoolyard with the ruthlessness of a South American dictator. He even had the beard. It has been said that bullies are cowards, and if you stand up to them, they will back down. This was not true of Parkinson. Ian and I stood up to him regularly, and he rewarded our valor with punches, kicks, and repeated dunkings in the girls’ loo. Ian once remarked that he had never come across anyone who enjoyed the discomfort of others as much as this yobbo.
Tracking him down was easy, though admittedly not because of my superior detective skills. Our school was having a thirty-five-year reunion and, through an old a
cquaintance who was on the planning committee, I procured Parkinson’s home and work addresses. I went to the work address to carry out Ian’s sweet revenge.
Parkinson is the owner of a flower shop near Covent Garden. The only thing that would have surprised me more would have been if he was lead dancer for the London Ballet. He never seemed to have any interest in botany when we were younger, though to be fair, he did favor a willow switch to beat our bare bottoms. Maybe it’s strange, but I think of florists as emotional, sensitive types. We never opened our hearts to each other, although I’m sure Parkinson would have loved to have done it literally.
I arrived at the shop just before business hours. I watched as Parkinson opened his door, bringing out green plants and little potted bulbs that he lovingly placed in front of his window. I have to admit that the placement of each flower and plant was quite aesthetically pleasing. Parkinson, not so much. He was about six-three and muscular. He looked like a shaven ape.
I was wondering if he was still the ill-tempered yob that I remembered when he viciously kicked a pigeon hopping near his flowers. I put on my latex glove, stuck my hand in my pocket, and made my way into the store. Parkinson, without looking up at me, said pleasantly, “With you in a moment, sir.”
“Take your time,” I said, disguising my voice for no good reason. Parkinson would not have recognized it or me. I was chubby last time we met and quite a different-looking person than I am now. Parkinson had his back to me and was fussing with some yellow tulips. I made my way to him, all the while noticing how much bigger he seemed in here with ivy creeping about his shoulders than he did outside. I raised my arm to eye level and cleared my throat. He turned to me, and before he could register what was happening, I flicked. In a voice more panicked and in a higher register than I would have liked, I shouted: “Becker says, ‘Kiss my ash!’”
Again, shame coursed through me. It was a vulgar thing to say, and it didn’t capture Ian’s spirit at all. It was only after I ran away, with the sounds of Parkinson’s wounded roar ringing in my ears, that I realized how horrible things would have gone if I’d missed his eyes. As I ran, I stumbled over a disoriented pigeon sprawled on the cobblestones.
Not QUITE the Classics Page 15
