Mortal Coil

“Yes, sir … only …”

Scapegrace sighed. “What?”

“Don’t you think I should be the one to talk to these people, Master? They are civilians, and I don’t have the … distinguishing features that may alarm them …”

“Nonsense. I have it all worked out. I have my plan, and I’ve accounted for every single possibility. Every question they are likely, or even not so likely, to ask, I have prepared an answer for. My backstory is rock solid. My lies are intricate and one hundred per cent infallible. You’d only mess it all up.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Back in the van, moron.”

Thrasher bowed, and did as he was bid. Scapegrace adjusted his tie, then strode purposefully along the pavement. The road was a cul-de-sac, with only three buildings on it – a funeral parlour on either side, and a large house at the end with a car outside.

Scapegrace entered the first funeral parlour. A man in a sombre suit hurried up to him, took one look at his face and faltered.

“It looks worse than it is,” Scapegrace chuckled good-naturedly.

“I … see,” said the man.

“It was the same accident that killed my brother,” Scapegrace continued, realising that he should probably stop chuckling. “It’s a tragic shock. We’re all very saddened by his loss.”

The funeral director shook Scapegrace’s hand, and gave him a sad smile. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked gently.

“I would, yes. I’m feeling quite faint, because of the loss of my dead brother.”

The funeral director showed him to a comfortable chair, then sat behind his big desk and solemnly opened a ledger. He picked up what looked to be an expensive pen, and raised his eyes to Scapegrace. “May I ask your name?”

Scapegrace had rehearsed this part a dozen times, coming up with answers for every possible question. This was an easy one. “Elvis O’Carroll.”

The funeral director hesitated, then nodded, and wrote it down. “And your brother’s?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your brother’s name?”

Scapegrace froze. It had all been going so well. “My brother’s name,” he managed, “is … a name that makes me cry every time I hear it. His name, my brother’s name, my dead brother, is …” His mind raced, careered off walls and stumbled over hurdles. A name. A simple name. All he needed was a simple name to get to the next stage of the conversation, and he could not think of one. Aware that he was staring at the funeral director with a perplexed look on his face, Scapegrace seized a random name from history. “Adolf,” he blurted.

The funeral director stared at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Adolf O’Carroll,” Scapegrace continued, trying to be as calm as possible. “That’s with two L’s at the end.”

“Your brother’s name was Adolf?”

“Yes. Do you find something wrong with that? It’s a common name in my family. I had an uncle Adolf, and a great-aunt Adolf.”

“A great-aunt? You realise, of course, that Adolf is traditionally a man’s name …?”

“Well, that makes sense, as my great-aunt was traditionally a man.”

“You do seem to have an interesting family, Mr O’Carroll,” the funeral director said politely as he scribbled notes.

“Please,” Scapegrace said. “Call me Elvis.”

“Indeed. May I inquire as to what service you wish us to provide for you, during this trying time? The funeral, of course, is what we specialise in, but we also—”

“Embalming,” Scapegrace said. “Do you do your own embalming?”

“We prepare the departed for their final resting place, yes.”

“And you do that here?”

“On the premises, yes. We have a staff of professionals who take care to treat each individual with the utmost respect. We have found there to be dignity in death, as there is in life.”

“How long does it take?”

“The embalming process?”

“How long does it take to stop the decomposition?”

“I’m not sure I understand … What exactly are you asking us to do?”

“I want him preserved.”

The funeral director put down his pen, and interlaced his fingers. “Are you … Are you asking us to perform taxidermy?”

“Am I? What’s that? Is that when an animal is stuffed and mounted?”

“It is.”

“That’s it!” Scapegrace said happily. “That’s what I want! Can you do that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the actual animal body is not used in taxidermy. The animal is skinned, and the skin is stretched over a replica animal body. Note, I keep saying animal. That is because taxidermy is not done to humans. It might be seen as somewhat barbaric.”

“Wouldn’t suit me anyway,” Scapegrace murmured. “It needs to be the original body. So can you embalm it and just give it to me?”

“I’m afraid that we do not provide a take-away service.”

“Maybe the place across the road does.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” the funeral director said huffily, “but I doubt even they would stoop to that level. Mr O’Carroll—”

“Elvis.”

“Elvis, I think the death of your brother has affected your judgement. You’re not thinking clearly. What you’re asking for is … unsettling.”