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“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.”
“It’s what Adolf would have wanted.”
“I’m sure he would have appreciated a more peaceful resting place.”
“His last words to me were, ‘Don’t bury me’.”
“We also provide a cremation service.”
“And then he said, ‘Don’t burn me either’.”
The funeral director sighed. “Elvis, I don’t think we are the people to help you. It is not often I recommend our rivals across the road, but I feel they would be more suited to your needs. I’m sure they’d be happy to deal with your … requests.”
He smiled.
Scapegrace left the funeral parlour and crossed the road, dousing himself with a half-can of deodorant as he went. He was greeted by another sombre funeral director, explained his injuries without the chuckling this time, and was shown to another comfortable chair. He skipped through the tragic loss stuff quickly and got down to specifics.
“Adolf was a devout Catholic,” he said. “And I mean, devout. Oh, he was crazy for that religion. He’d be praying every day, sometimes twice a day. It was all Our Father this and Hail Mary that. Rosary beads and signed pictures of the Pope. He went nuts for the whole thing. He thought priests were great altogether.”
The funeral director nodded slowly. “So at least he was comforted in his time of need. Then it will be a traditional funeral you’re looking for?”
“Not at all. Have you read the Bible?”
“I have, yes. I find great strength in its words.”
“Did you read the bit about the zombies?”
“Uh …”
“The bit at the end, where God raises the dead for Judgement Day.”
“Um, I … I’m not sure I …”
“It’s when God decides who gets into Heaven and who doesn’t, and all the dead climb out of their graves and they all wait there to see who gets in. That’s in the Bible, right? That’s what Adolf wants to do, but he wants a head start on all the others. He doesn’t want to waste time crawling out of a hole in the ground. He wants to be ready for the sprint. So I want you to preserve him.”
The funeral director paled. “Preserve?”
“I was thinking, if you pump all that embalming fluid into his veins, then I can take him away, store him somewhere cool, and he’ll be ready to go at the end of the world. What do you think?”
“Are you … being serious?”
“I’ve got my dead brother in the back of my car. Of course I’m being serious.”
“Mr O’Carroll …”
“Elvis.”
“Elvis, what you’re saying makes no sense.”
“Do not deride my brother’s religion.”
“I assure you, I am doing no such thing. But what I am saying is that … your plan is nonsensical. A dead body will rot, sir, no matter how much embalming fluid is injected into it. Over time, everything decays.”
“Adolf is particularly resilient.”
“Even if Judgement Day happened before he started to decompose – say, if it happened on Thursday – embalming fluid would actually be a hindrance. It suffuses the muscles, stiffens them until they can’t be moved. Do you understand, Elvis? He wouldn’t have a head start on anyone. He’d actually be left behind, unable to move.”
Scapegrace frowned. “So … So there’s nothing you can do to stop decomposition?”
“I am sorry.”
“What about those bodies they find in bogs, hundreds of years old?”
“Do you really want to lay Adolf to rest in a bog? Elvis, unless you’re prepared to mummify your brother, he is going to decompose.”
“What’s that? Mummify? He’d be a mummy?”
“We don’t do that sort of thing here.”
“Well, who does?”
“Nobody.”
“What about the Egyptians?”
“Nobody apart from the Egyptians,” the funeral director nodded. “Take him to an Egyptian funeral parlour. They’ll wrap him in bandages and put him in a sarcophagus and he’ll be right as rain come Judgement Day.”
“Really?”
“No. Those morons across the road paid you to come in here and waste my valuable time, didn’t they?”
“Of course not.”
“Did they tell you to act so stupid?”
“I’m not acting,” Scapegrace responded.
“Tell them if they want to start this practical joke war again, then I’m fine with that. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. If it’s a war they want, it’s a war they’ll get.”
Scapegrace left the funeral parlour, confused and disheartened. It was as if the universe was closing off every avenue just as he was realising it was there. He had pinned all his hopes on being embalmed, and what was he left with, now that science had let him down?
He stopped in the middle of the road. Magic. Of course. He hadn’t considered it before because, quite honestly, he had no sorcerer friends. But surely there must be something a mage could do. They were always coming up with new and exciting ways to live for as long as possible. Would it really take that much power to stop meat from rotting?
He was no expert – even in life, his grasp of magic had been negligible at best – but this seemed possible. All of Scapegrace’s magic was used to animate his body and keep him thinking, but there was nothing stopping anyone else from performing magic on him.
There was a name that his old master Scarab had once mentioned. He had been talking about an expert in science-magic … Grouse, that was it. Kenspeckle Grouse, who had a Medical Facility somewhere in Dublin. Butterflies of excitement fluttered within Scapegrace’s stomach. He just needed to find out where it was, and all his troubles would be over.
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