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Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd - Robert Kerr

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106 pages

English

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Description

Laszlo works as an embalmer in a funeral director, where he’s worked since he left school. He feels bored, he feels his life is going nowhere, and he craves some adventure. His life changes when he goes to the morgue to collect Joseph Figg, also known as Big Joe, the murdered head of a gangster family. Laszlo becomes familiar with some members of the Figg family while Big Joe is at rest in the chapel; encounters he finds utterly unnerving. He somehow manages to get himself involved with gangster business, which initially increases his worried state of mind, but quickly has him in fear for his life. He turns to a close friend for advice, and the two hatch a plan to get Laszlo out of the situation he’s got himself into. The friend, in turn, reconnects with some old friends to help with the plan; people Laszlo must now rely on. Laszlo also finds romance when he meets someone he connects with, but this is hardly an ideal time to be starting a new relationship.

Sujets

Humour

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
Date de parution	30 novembre 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528995900
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0175€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Laszlo
Robert Kerr
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-11-30
Laszlo Dedication Copyright Information © Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen
Dedication
For Gwen
Copyright Information ©
Robert Kerr (2020)
The right of Robert Kerr to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528995894 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528995900 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Chapter One
I’ve been working in these undertakers since I left school. I was sixteen then, and I’m thirty now. That’s all my adult life; working full time at H Partridge & Sons Funeral Directors. My best years so far, and I’ve been surrounded by stiffs. In truth, the perks of the job far outweigh the negative aspects, which is why, I suppose, I haven’t got off my arse and found another job. It’s quiet here, which suits me. I play my music while I work and I live pretty stress free. And I get to work with Henry Partridge and his son Nicholas Partridge. There is another son, William Partridge, but he didn’t like the smell of embalming fluid so he fucked off somewhere else. I’ve heard them mention his name but they don’t discuss him with me. I’m not sure how much either of them likes me, but we get on, and they know I do a good job. Some days I don’t get much conversation out of them at all, but they mainly talk about the undertaking business, so I don’t feel like I’m missing out. Henry and Nicholas were old when I started working here, but are ancient now. They’re so old that they look the same age. When I started, Henry was grey and stooped, and he’s the same now. Though he does have more hair growing out of his ears now; two thickets growing in tandem. The extra weight can’t help the stoop. Nicholas is taller, not because he doesn’t stoop, but he keeps his back straight nonetheless. Both have eyes like hawks when it comes to money. They monitor the contents of all bottles, boxes and cans. They scrutinise every penny going out, and hoard all the pennies coming in. I get paid what I should, and they treat me kindly, but I’ve never been invited to a family do. I only met Henry’s wife once before she died, and then again after she arrived here. I’ve met Nicholas’s wife many times, she comes in here from time to time. She’s ancient too, so I try to be sweet to her, but she’s enormously annoying. If I see her, I duck out the backyard to the shed, but sometimes she sneaks up on me. I don’t know how, she moves really slowly and can barely see. But she’ll trap me in a conversation and there’s no escape. Everything I try, she ignores. She just keeps talking. Curtains, Mrs Riley’s gout, flans, her grandson Simon, the latest daytime quiz show, washing machine tablets, Mrs Pearson’s new prosthetic eye, the list is actually endless. As long as I get to the shed, I’m all right. The garden is about ten metres across and eight metres long, and there isn’t a blade of grass in it. It’s brown and dry with bits of gravel lying around. It’s not a place to entertain friends; it’s just used for storage. There are a few different coloured waste bins and some discarded items under a tarpaulin. I can’t remember what they are. The other end of the garden is where I’m interested in; there’s a beautiful apple tree in the right corner, and next to it, in the left corner is my shed. It was going to be pulled down and scrapped, but I persuaded the Partridges to let me have it. I have decorated it with style. There is an armchair, a bin and a table upon which I have placed an ashtray.
I’m walking through the building, heading to my office after having lunch in the kitchen. ‘Laszlo,’ I hear the strained voice of Henry behind me.
‘Yes Henry,’ I turn around and see he’s enjoying a stoop as usual. He’s almost side-on and I look at the thicket growing out of his left ear. The hair is so dense in there, it’s a wonder any sound can get in, but Henry can hear a sparrow cough from half a mile away. He has one of those old men hairstyles. It recedes past his crown and down the back of the head, past the top of his ears; it keeps going, until it stops with an inch to spare. He has an unbroken line of hair arching up and over his ears; it’s like a beard on the back of his head. I have been tempted to draw a face above it; it would freak people out. But he’d need to be asleep, and as old as he is, he doesn’t have afternoon naps. I’d have to break into his house at night, and that’s just silly. What if he wakes up and I’m in his bedroom? What the fuck could I possibly say? The only plausible explanation would be to tell him that I was going to draw a face on the back of his head; and I’d have the pen in my hand as proof. I’d get the sack, but he wouldn’t think I was a pervert. I decided against it.
‘There is a new arrival at Saint Catherine’s. Are you able to collect it?’
I have a mate who works at the morgue, Con, and sometimes it’s better if we chat where there are less people around. There aren’t many visitors to the morgue, and the residents don’t mind our conversations. ‘No problem Henry, I’ll collect it. I’ll head over there straight away.’
‘Marvellous, I’ll fetch the paperwork.’ He shuffles off in the direction of the office.
Aubrey is the official driver for the Partridges, but he’s two hundred thousand years old as well, so he only works part time. He’s been with the Partridges longer than I have, used to be full time, but as age has had its wicked way with him I’ve taken over day-to-day driving duties. Aubrey takes care of formal occasions, taking the wheel for funerals while I’m passenger and pallbearer. Traditionally the driver can be a bearer too, and Aubrey used to be, but he gave it up some time ago. He’s as fit as a fiddler’s elbow, unlike most men his age who would struggle to lift a tin of soup above their heads, but lugging coffins around is a stretch. And he still drives well; he’s only required to go at twenty miles per hour, but I’d be happy to accompany him if he had a job delivering furniture to Inverness.
I’d best head to the office, reduce the amount of floor Henry has to cover in giving me the paperwork. There are stacks of papers on the desk, and one loose sheet. He picks it up and extends his arm towards me as I enter the room. He hasn’t even managed to raise his arm much higher than waist height, so I reach over and take it from him. I give him a great, big smile, ‘See you later Henry,’ and I’m out of there. The hearse is parked in the front yard, which is tastefully decorated with trees and various types of shrubbery. The area has five visitors’ car parking spaces, but the main area in front of the building is reserved for the hearse. I jump in and key the ignition; a tune blasts out of the speakers, mid-song. I have a habit of forgetting to turn the music off when I park, so I sit here boogieing to “Foggy Road” by Burning Spear. Aubrey hates it when I do that, says it scares the shit out of him sometimes. He’s a quality guy Aubrey, I like his company; he tells me some good old stories. Not just about funerals, though he does have some funny stories there, but about his life. He’s put himself about a bit in his time, and remembered to live his life. I enjoy the days he works.
I started work here as an apprentice, which meant I got to do all the shit jobs, and they got to pay me next to fuck all. I did that for six months, and then they tried to get me to sign up for another six-month apprenticeship. I refused. I told them I wanted a full time, permanent contract. I said I’d accept the going rate, which I thought was pretty decent of me. During those six months, I’d kept my nose clean, arrived on time every day, and worked really hard. They gave me the contract, and I’ve been here ever since. Fourteen fucking years, be careful what you ask for. I wouldn’t mind a bit of adventure in my life, everything’s so pedestrian. Slower than pedestrian! At work people don’t move, or walk incredibly slowly. When visitors arrive to view their deceased, they too walk unhurriedly. You rarely see someone striding through the building. Maybe the grieving find it more respectful to walk below average walking speed, maybe their legs are sapped of energy through supporting sobbing relatives who look ready to topple over. Well, gentlemen, you’d better regain some of that leg strength by the time we’re carrying the fucking coffin.
After my apprenticeship finished, I was employed at Partridges as a funeral services operative. I’ve always been Aubrey’s passenger on funeral days, and we used to be bearers together. We have a good laugh, but whenever families are around we’ve always been fantastically good at hitting the required level of respect and empathy. Aubrey would bring the stiffs to the prep room, and the Partridges were responsible for the embalming and preparation of the body. At first, my role was preparing the coffins; fitting and lining them. After a while Henry allowe