Funeral guy
There is something truly fascinating about vultures. You
can’t mistake them for any other kind of bird. Their shoulders hunch, expanding
the oil-slicked feathers. Their scrawny necks thrust away, exposing their veiny
pimpled skin. Their black eyes survey their plains with glistening excitement.
A predator and a stalker but above all a sign of death. Either a death has
occurred or one is imminent and they just wait, silently circling or perching,
barely containing their blood lust.
Well – I knew a man just like that.
I couldn’t believe
what I saw on the front page of the paper. I should’ve known that one day I
would be seeing this headline but I still felt sick with shock. I should’ve
told someone what I had seen and what I heard. I thought I was being paranoid
and letting my imagination run away with me, as it so often did. But it’s here
– all in crisp black and white – Grinning at me. I should’ve known.
I come from a small town just outside a large city. It’s very
vanilla. An awful lot of Victorian buildings rammed with expensive, uncomfortable furniture. The centre is dabbled with mini supermarkets and
charity shops; the only glimmer of interest is the big Woolworths. The kids get
lulled in with the multi-coloured pick and mix and the latest charts on
cassette, the parents by the DIY section which is slightly cheaper than the hardware
store on the corner.
Most of the habitants are rich folk. The men
drive around in their slick convertibles, toupee’s flapping in the breeze. They
congregate in the same pub they went to since they were 16 - to laugh about the
mate’s terribly poor £30,000 bonus and all the stuff they would like to do to
the blonde receptionist in the bank. The women draped in expensive
clothing saunter with self-importance along the pavement. Some gossip in hoards
at the coffee shop like animals at a watering hole, ignoring their screaming
babies. The older Ladies twiddle their pearls and put their noses up at the
loud children. The teenagers walk around with their invisible silver
spoons jutting out of their condescending mouths. Just a run-of-the-mill small
upper-class town.
I was not a rich kid. I was not a poor kid. I got picked on
by the rich kids for being poor and I got beat up by the poor kids on the
outskirts due to my “pig father” arresting them or their relatives. I was an
outsider and because of this I was wary and paranoid of everyone. My small town
was a place of nightmares for me; I felt too suffocated in the whiteness of it
all but one night in particular will haunt me forever.
One thing about a small town is you always have a town
“weirdo”. Usually it’s the drunken retired forces guy, who drinks away his
mental scars, who is regularly caught taking a leak against the bank on the
corner but our town - because we had to be the best - had the real deal, we had
a monster. He owned the funeral parlour in the centre. That was sufficient
enough to be labelled a weirdo. Then taking into account that he always dressed
head to toe in black – regardless if he was working or not – adds fuel to the
fire.
My hands clutch the
paper so tight my knuckles have turned white. The black ink is running and
smudging my fingertips, beads of sweat drop on to the page. I should’ve known.
I awoke in a funny mood. I felt uneasy and on edge for no
reason. I racked my brain to think if I had had a bad dream but something was
in the air. The small town felt different all of a sudden. It was summer but
the misty clouds darkened it so much that you could have sworn it was a winter’s
day. Everything looked gloomy and sad in the thick clouds. It didn’t help my
nerves.
Feeling on edge, I trotted to the train station and
wrapped my arms tight around myself, shielding my vulnerability to the townsfolk. I sat away from the shelter – as always – to avoid any kind of confrontation
but my cloud of uncertainty got disturbed when a shadow crept on to my denim
covered legs.
I
couldn’t make out the face at first but a strange smell that I couldn’t distinguish slid
up my nostrils and pulled ever so gently on my gag reflex. Then my eyes
adjusted and I saw him, funeral guy. He loomed over me, neck protruding
and back hunched. His lank black hair hung down his sunken face, creating
obscure patterns on his hollowed cheeks and a frozen grin spread across them.
I felt sick.
“Hey, girl, you alright?”
“Yes, thanks” I hoped
he hadn’t heard the little crack in my voice.
“You look sad, sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine, honestly” please
be convincing!
“Hey, I know you, you’re P.C.’s daughter!”
“Yeah” Go away,
please, go away!
“Nice guy, your Dad, does a lot for this town”
I try to smile, I think I wince.
A tsunami of silence smothers us. I squirm on my concrete perch, avoiding any eye contact. His breath is resonating in my ears. Louder and louder. He is waiting for something.
His voice inappropriately bellows from the gloom
“I’m not as scary as I look, you know!”
“I know” Oh god, he’s
gonna kill me!
“You smoke?”
“Um, ah no”
“How about a drink? I got some cans”
“Oh, I’m not old enough to drink, thanks”
“Ahh, come on, I won’t tell your Dad!” his smile widened, he
was trying to be friendly, he looked predatory to me. Me and my paranoid mind!
His teeth were tar stained and he had the same brown tinge on his
circular glasses, I couldn’t quite make out his eyes. This also scared me. Then
he let out this chuckle. That chuckle drags me from slumber sometimes.
“Honestly, I’m fine, oh the trains coming” If he’s getting on the train I’m not getting
on the train, he’ll sit by me for sure! Just go back home and wait for the next
one.
“Oh no, I’ve actually forgotten my purse, I’m going to have
to go home, nice talking to you, bye” Well,
that sounded ridiculous, he’s obviously
going to follow you home.
But he didn’t. I waited and returned to the station a while
later but as I arrived, loud cackles broke the silence. I hung back not wanting
to face the girls that caused the laughter.
“You girls smoke?”
Shit! Funeral guy,
still there!
“Yeah, we smoke, you got fags?”
“Yeah, help yourself!”
The girls attacked the skeletal hand that clutched the
cigarette packet and took far more than his generosity was suggesting.
“I got cans too, wanna can?”
“Ah, cheers man, although we’re so pissed already we
shouldn’t drink anymore”
More cackles, please go away, hurry up train!
I watched him through the railings circle the girls, his
long black coat billowed out around him, like feathers being plumped, then he
suddenly bid his farewell and scurried off, stooping as he went, one hand
protruding in a claw like shape as the darkness swallowed him up.
I went on to the platform, big mistake.
The girls knew who I was, I could tell by the way the stared
at me.
“Hey, it’s P.C. Pigs girl!”
“Your Dad arrested my boyfriend” said the tall girl with a
menacing face
“Your Dad locked up my bruvva” said the shorter but equally
as menacing girl
“I don’t know what you’re talking about my Dad’s a doctor” please stop going red, cheeks
“Do ya fink I’m fick or summing? Smarter than me, are ya?
I’m gonna slap you so hard!”
Then I was running like I have never run before. I was out
of breath but I pushed myself, my heart beating as solidly as the hanger’s drum.
I never looked back to see how close they were, their voices were muffled by my
panting. It wasn’t until I had a blow to the head and the world went black that
I realised they were right behind me.
I came to in “Death Alley”. It was the alley that ran behind
the funeral parlour. No-one came through here. What a delicious spot the girls
had chosen to seek their revenge on my father. As I sat up, stars exploded in
my head and eyes, I was in a pretty bad state. I decided to carry on sitting
still for a while but I started feeling sick due to this awful smell, like
gone-off beef mixed with bleach. I knew I was bleeding heavily, I could feel
the wetness of it and I could taste the metallic tang on my tongue.
Just then, the door of the funeral parlour opened slowly,
letting out a sharp beam of obscene white slice through the darkness and
funeral guy stood still in the frame, nostrils flaring and head darting around.
I huddled closer into the corner, not wanting to be seen. I breathed quietly
and watched. I watched him open his back door of his pristine hearse and he
heaved a body out. Considering that he looked like he was going to crumble at
any moment, he could certainly handle a corpse. He then returned and took out
another body, then slammed the heavy door closed.
The way he had moved, skulking around in the middle of the
night, carrying bodies alone, unnerved me but this was his job, he was nothing
more than funeral guy.
But now, here on the
front page of the paper, is him, grinning at me. I think I’m going to be sick,
I feel dizzy
He has been arrested – by my Dad – for murder.
I can’t see
Laced cigarettes and cans of lager
My head’s swimming
Sexual assault, smothering
Bile is rising. I drop the paper and run. I run until my legs explode
in pain.
Teenage girls getting drunk, falling in the sea and drowning
was quite frequent in my small town.
My attackers suffered that fate.
I should’ve known.
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