by David Haynes
"For what could be grander than the day you meet your maker? What more import can be placed on a day which was forever the one and true destiny? I shall bring back those days to this town, Mr Moreton. I shall make life of death once again."
Bobby shook his head. "What on earth are you talking about? You're a lunatic Jacobs, a proper lunatic."
Then Jacobs made a sound which travelled not over the earth but through it; through the detritus of a millennium. Through the rotting bones of man and beast and up into Bobby's ears. He laughed. "I am no lunatic, Mr Moreton. I am simply a business man and your little enterprise will leave Littleoak with its head bowed in shame and derision."
"Fuck off!" Bobby bellowed into the wind and walked away.
By the time he'd reached home he was angry. When Jacobs turned up on the bluff all hope of creative thought was gathered up by the wind and hurled into the ocean. He lit a cigarette on the doorstep and watched the lane for any sign of the old man coming back that way. After the third smoke, he decided enough was enough and if Jacobs decided to lose the plot entirely and come to the house, a locked door was the best defence.
The grandfather clock chimed nine. The clock had always been in the house and like the bell in the shop he seldom heard it. Not because it didn't chime, it always did, but because of a bored familiarity. He looked at the half drunk bottle in his hand and then up the stairs. "Bit early yet," he said to no-one in particular. He flicked the light switch in the parlour and stared at the selection of carefully chosen chairs. They were all empty and he flicked the light off again. The house let out a long drawn out creak which was also a daily, and sometimes, hourly occurrence. As a kid he'd told Tom it was an ogre Dad kept in the cellar. He told him Dad conducted embalming experiments on the beast and the ogre was mad about it, but he couldn't escape because Dad had removed all his blood and replaced it with formaldehyde. Tonight the house sounded very much like an ogre.
Bobby tried to smile but Jacobs had spooked him a bit. Perhaps spooked was a little strong but the old boy was certainly pretty unpleasant to be around. And now all the old noises of the house seemed to be amplified. He looked toward the cellar door. How long had it been since he or anyone else had gone down those steps? All the antique funeral equipment was stored down there; all the gear which had seen the golden days of Moreton and Sons. Dad hadn't bothered much with all the old stuff, not that he'd seen anyway but he'd mentioned the cabinet plenty of times. "Priceless!" That's what he'd said about it. "I couldn't sell it though. For one thing no-one would want it and for another no-one could afford it."
Bobby opened the door and took the first two steps before flicking the light switch. Nothing. He tried again with the same result. There was no chance of there being any candles in the house but he did have his trusty disposable lighter. "Five for a pound!" The sign in the newsagent had said and he'd taken them up on the offer.
He sparked it up and adjusted the flame to burn higher. The burning flame did little to disguise the damp, fusty and tired air which rose to greet him like an alcoholic's breath in the morning. It was very much like his own breath. He reached the bottom step and waved the lighter slowly in front of him to illuminate the rest of the room. It was enormous and was the same size as the floor above. Sheet covered furniture rose before him like long forgotten gravestones and they trembled under the flickering flame. Where to begin? That was the question. It would take him all night to look under all the covers to find what he was looking for.
"Goodnight!" he called into the room and turned to face the steps back up to the hallway. Something reflected the flame for just an instant though and stopped him in his tracks. It looked like it was metallic. He waved the lighter and the reflection winked back at him again. "As good a place to start as any," he whispered.
He manoeuvered around the boxes to the back of the steps. In front of him was a large rectangular block covered in a heavy dust sheet but on top of it was a single candle and it was sitting on a brass candle holder. It took a few attempts for the wick to gather the flame from the lighter but it eventually did and saved Bobby's thumb from a burgeoning cramp.
He tugged at one corner of the cover revealing a heavy looking wooden box beneath. He ran his fingers over the corner and down the side. The workmanship was superb. Bobby prided himself on his carpentry skills and although he generally ordered the coffins in from elsewhere, he still kept his hand in from time to time. Each time he'd completed one he felt such repletion at what he'd created that it almost surpassed anything else he could imagine. He knew his work was far superior to anything manufactured elsewhere too and that made his lack of recent activity all the more saddening. He held the candle closer and looked at the grain. It was either Rosewood or Mahogany but under the light it was difficult to say. He pulled at the cover again and it dropped at his feet revealing the entirety of what lay beneath.
It was beautiful. The wood came to life under the candle flame and sparkled with the golden threads of the grain. The box was almost as tall as he was, and judging by its structure, probably twice as heavy. He had no idea how long it had been down here, discarded in the cellar, but from first glance it didn't seem any the worse for it. Calling it a box was to do it grave disservice but box shape it certainly was. Looking closer, the wood was almost certainly mahogany but around the edges, forming an elegant yet simple frame, was inlaid a narrow band of rosewood. The wood itself would have cost a pretty penny now let alone a hundred years ago.
He ran his fingers down the front and they found something which his eyes could not detect, such was the fine craftsmanship. A slight, almost imperceptible joint and on one side was a hole; a key hole. Bobby sank his little finger into the hole and tugged. The door didn't budge an inch and neither did the box itself. It was clearly packed full of something heavy. He looked at the steps leading back into the house. There was no way he'd be able to drag it up there. Not on his own anyway.
His curiosity was well and truly piqued but without smashing the door in he wouldn't be able to see what was inside. Not tonight at least. There was a collection of old keys in the office; keys he'd added to over the years. Keys taken from the pockets of the deceased when the families shrugged and told him to throw them away. He'd never been able to discard them for some reason, but neither it seemed, had his father or maybe even grandfather. He'd have to rifle through them tomorrow after Tom had helped him load the box into the one of the hearses. It was frustrating but there was absolutely no chance he was going to risk damaging it. It was simply too beautiful. But what was in there?
He put his eye to the key hole and raised the candle as close as he dared. The idea of burning his hair or eyebrows off was not something he particularly relished. He squinted and waited for his eye to adjust to the change in lighting. Dark shapes swam before him but nothing formed into a discernible shape. He moved the candle a little closer and felt the heat tickle his skin. What was that? Was something moving about in there? It couldn't be. He pulled away quickly. He knew nothing could be alive in a sealed box. Nevertheless his heart had upped its tempo.
He put his eye back against the hole and peered in again. It was just a shadow that was all. A shadow from the flickering candle playing games with him. He was relieved to see nothing. But then something dropped in front of his eye. It fell from top to bottom but not quickly, almost as if it wanted to be seen. He felt his heartbeat go up another notch. Another shape fell, then another until it was just one mass falling before his eye. Falling? No that wasn't quite right. Running was a better description. Something was running down the inside of the box, something thick and syrupy. Something like congealing blood. "How...?" Bobby whispered.
The black liquid ran slower and slower as it congealed and started to fill the box. It started to run into the key hole and toward his eye. Bobby was hypnotised; captivated by the sight and could not move away. Not until the warm, clotting liquid touched his eyeball.
The shock hurled him backward and away from the cabinet. He dropped t
he candle and frantically scrubbed at his face to get it off, whatever it was. "Get off!" he shouted helplessly.
His fingers felt slick with whatever was coating them but the candle had gone out when he dropped it and he couldn't see a thing. The light in the hall sent a wedge of clarity onto the floor at the foot of the steps and he made for it as fast as he could. With one eye closed the already difficult route back was worsened and he crashed against one of the many covered boxes jarring his knee painfully. He lurched forward with his arms out in front, searching for something to steady himself on; anything at all, but all they found was empty space. Then there was a flash of bright light and a surge of pain through his skull as his head bounced off the corner of something. The strength left his legs immediately and he fell to the floor unconscious.
Richard Jacobs put his elbow on the fence post and raised the little cup to his lips. He'd lost his teeth, his real teeth, years ago. Not to lack of care or disregard but to his penchant for anything sweet. And that included coffee laced with a handful of heavy brown sugar and a measure or two of brandy. He licked his lips and flashed his teeth. He liked showing his shiny white teeth to anyone and everyone but he really loved smiling. Smiling was just under half-way along the road to screaming and that was just fine by him.
He'd seen Moreton standing on the doorstep of his shabby house smoking his cigarettes, waiting for him to pass along the track. He'd watched him flick the filthy butts into the air and shuffle off back inside. The lights were still on, at least for now. Soon they would go out though and they would stay out.
He tipped his hat at the house and flashed one more smile then strode off back toward town. Was it worth speaking to Tom Moreton? Just for a bit of sport perhaps? It was doubtful Tom would feel any different from his elder brother. Besides, it was clear Tom had little to do with Moreton and Sons now. Perhaps Tom would be more susceptible to other methods of encouragement. Yes, that was it, a little poke in Tom's ribs would generate substantial dividends, he was sure. In any case he couldn't care less for the business, and destroying it was simply good fun. No, what he really wanted couldn't be bought, not for money anyway. It was priceless.
Chapter 9
Poor dead Bon Scott was busy telling everyone he was on a Highway to Hell and he was going down, all the way down. His faceless form roared into the sky like a savage beast but when he turned to face Bobby his smile wasn't that of a deceased lead singer but that of Richard Jacobs. His teeth were no longer white but glistening in congealed blood. "I'm on my way to the promised land. I'm on the highway to hell." The song played over and over again, swirling through the forlorn and barren landscape like the chorus from a lunatic choir.
"Stop!" Bobby shouted but the song continued playing and Jacobs carried on smiling. "Stop! For God's sake stop." His body jerked with effort and sent him hurtling toward reality. "I'm on a highway to hell!" Christ, the song was still playing. He opened his eyes and waited for the song to retreat back into the hellish landscape it lived in. Only it didn't stop, it just faded back before starting up again, over and over again.
His mobile. Tom had messed with the phone and changed his ring-tone last week in one of his bad taste jokes. He'd phoned him whilst he was talking to a potential customer. The customer had gone scurrying for the door accompanied by a profusely apologising Bobby. He hadn't changed it back because no-one ever phoned him and now it had come back to haunt him; literally.
He reached into his pocket and wriggled the phone free. "Hello?"
Tom's voice came back loud and clear; too loud. "Where are you?"
"What? At home. Why?"
"Because it's gone ten and the shop's still shut up. And..."
Bobby heard his brother swallow hard as if his mouth were dry. "And what?"
"You're going to want to see what's happened in town over night."
Bobby groaned and touched his temple. "Shit!" he spat through gritted teeth. It felt like a lump the size of a tennis ball had grown on his head.
"Bad night eh?" Tom asked.
"Yeah, something like that. Listen, you still have a key to the shop?"
"I think so."
"Good. Can you bring one of the cars round? I need help with something." Bobby looked over at the box and looked away quickly.
"No worries, but you really need to see what's going on up here. You're going to be mad, really mad."
"I don't want to know. Just bring the car." He ended the call.
He touched the bump on his head again and winced. Forget a hangover, this headache was brewing into the mother of all of them. He made it to the steps and sat down on the bottom one. The blow to his head had shrouded everything that happened last night in a blanket of confused horror. Blood dripping down the inside of the box? Really? He shook his head. It was a ridiculous hallucination brought about by too little sleep, too much booze and a night-time visit from a geriatric weirdo. Nevertheless it was unsettling.
He rubbed his face and felt the skin beneath his fingers. It felt flaky and scaly; dried blood no doubt. If he looked bad yesterday he dreaded to think what he resembled today. He climbed the steps and walked into the light again.
*
"Slow down would you!" Bobby looked down at his brother. They had managed to slip a sheet under the box and were trying to drag it up the steps. "I don't want it marking." He'd managed to avoid touching it directly again by draping the heavy dust sheet back over it. But he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later he'd have to touch it again; he'd want to. Need to.
"Yeah, yeah. What is it anyway?" Tom looked like he could push boxes around all day and all night if he had to. He'd probably been up half the night with Ruby but he looked as fresh as a daisy.
"A big old cabinet, my friend. One of Grandpa's priceless possessions I believe."
"And what exactly are we going to do with it?" Tom put his shoulder to the box and shoved it nearly sending Bobby falling backward.
"I said slow down! I want to have a better look at it that's all. I just need to find the key."
"Right. You know when you went arse over tit last night? Just how pissed were you?"
Bobby thought about the blood slipping and oozing past his eyeball. He wasn't about to tell Tom what he'd seen, or thought he'd seen. "Shit faced."
"Might be time to slow down a bit then."
Bobby thought he heard a trace of concern in his brother's otherwise jovial voice. "Like you, you mean? Come on, just two more steps. See if we can get it up without breaking it." He turned and pulled the sheet again.
"I mean it." There it was. Concern and fear, plain as day. "It was pretty messed up the other night. I've never seen you like that before and I don't want to see it again. It's just you and me, you know? Everyone else has gone. Mum, Dad, Lucy, they've all gone."
Bobby stopped and turned to look at his brother. He hadn't seen him cry since they were kids but he thought he might do now if he didn't say something. "It was a one off. That's all. Things got on top of me but I'm over it. Trust me. And you know what? I was stone cold sober when I fell over last night but if you tell anyone I'll kill you."
"Sober?"
"More or less. Another hour and I would've been on the outside of a bottle but I didn't get the chance." He saw Tom wince. Now wasn't the time to make jokes. "Okay. Look, I've got about two months' worth of savings. That's two months of breathable air for Moreton and Sons. I'll give it a rest for those two months. I'm not going cold turkey because I don't think I can right now but I'll take it steady. Okay?"
"That's as good as it's going to get isn't it?"
Bobby nodded.
"Then I'll take it. I've made a decision too."
"What sort of crap am I going to hear now then?"
"I'm coming back to help. You and me again. How does that sound?"
"Like a load of old bollocks." Bobby turned away and tugged on the sheet.
"I mean it Bob. I'm guilty of desertion and now I want to help. I really do."
Bobby
stopped but didn't turn. He could hear the sincerity in Tom's voice and it made him want to cry. "What about Crabbe's? What about Ruby?"
"It's like our chapel of rest during the day and I'll still go and pull some pints in the evening. Ruby won't mind as long as I'm there for last orders. If you know what I mean."
Bobby swallowed hard and tried not to sound like he'd won the Lotto.
"No more dicking around though. We have to make this work or it's all over. Okay?"
"Aye aye Captain!"
"I mean it."
"I know you do. I mean it too. We both mean it. Deal?"
Bobby felt like he was shaking hands with the devil. "Deal. Now push!" His smile was so wide the egg on his head felt ready to crack.
