by Isobel MacDonald

Danny loosened his black tie, let his head fall forward into his hands, rested his elbows on his desk and groaned. The day had started badly and now at nine thirty it had worsened to a level he had never before experienced.

The first signs had been as he came downstairs after his shower. He heard Bet's voice, strident and shrill, from the other side of the kitchen door. When he entered he saw his younger son, sitting at the breakfast bar, head down, glasses askew, lip quivering.

Jason was their youngest by a long chalk. Danny had considered a snip job but had kept putting it off. The thought of what would be done had made him squeamish and Bet was quite happy on the pill, or so he believed. The inevitable had happened and twelve years after his daughter had been born came this boy, different from his brother and sister as chalk is from cheese. He'd even suspected that he was not his. He didn't look like any member of his or Bet's family. Did he remind him of someone else?

The sight of the yellow car sitting outside brought to mind his daughter. His darling little girl Cheryl. How she'd changed over the years. From a delightful, blonde, curly haired and blue eyed innocent she had become a scary dark force. Pierced here there and everywhere, purple nails, red and orange spiky, streaked hair, leather studded bands at her wrists and dark ill-fitting clothes. He couldn't do anything right these days. The yellow sports car he'd bought for her eighteenth birthday roared in and out the driveway with never a mention of where she was going or when she'd be back. He'd become an alien in her eyes; an interfering spoil- sport and so he was ignored.

'What the problem?' he asked.

'He's the problem.' screamed Bet. 'He's bought a snake. I found it in his room this morning curled up on the bed. It's not staying here.' Jason had lowered his head even more. Such a sensitive child. At least he knew where his name had come from. These new world soap operas that Bet watched either on her own or with those friends; the coven as he called them. Drinking wine all afternoon and bitching about everyone and everything.

'We'll talk about it later,' he'd tried, but knew that by the time he got home the offending creature would have gone. 'I hope she won't just flush it down the toilet. That would be typical. I should maybe phone and check.'

But there was this other pressing problem. He would be a laughing stock if this ever got out. This, after all, was a long established firm. Calder and Son it said over the door and he had hoped that with his father now out of the business there would be his own older son to follow into the next generation.

He groaned at the thought, let his right hand rumple his face, opened the bottom drawer of his desk with his left hand and lifted out the bottle of Black Label. This was only for emergencies and not for him. He never had emergencies. It was for his customers, or rather his clients, to calm them down and give them a bit of courage.

He unscrewed the top. 'Bugger a glass,' he thought, as he lifted the bottle to his lips. The phone at his right rang. He picked it up. Janice his secretary. 'There's a Mr and Mrs Black here. Will you see them now?'

'Give me a minute,' he replied and screwed the top back on the bottle. No point in smelling of drink. Of all the names they had to be Black. Not Green or Brown or White. That just summed up his day. It suited the black depression that had lain over him since he'd arrived this morning and heard the news.

Bet and he had been away for the weekend leaving Tarquin in charge. Where had that name come from? He'd dutifully visited the maternity unit just after he'd been born. He knew Bet had had a hard time with this first born and needed to be treated gently and pandered to. But he'd not been able to control the incredulity in his voice, 'What name did you say you wanted? Tarquin?' he'd queried. It would be out of the latest book she'd been reading. He wasn't even sure how to spell the name but the Registrar had kept him right.

Tarquin was a dreamer, always had been, even as a toddler. He had coasted through school doing as little as possible and left as soon as he could. He'd scraped passes in most subjects but was more interested in music. His music. Not the kind that achieved exam passes. He and his friends took over the garage with their drums and guitars making what Danny called 'headbanger noise.' The constant thump, thump, thump of the drums was enough to drive anyone mad. It was a good job their house was well away from the neighbours.

And now Tarquin had landed him in the shit.

The phone rang again. 'Christ, the Blacks'. He rose from his chair and walked heavily to the door, tightening his tie and smoothing his jacket as he went. In they came, a middle aged couple, to attend to the needs of their father. He led them to the soft chairs at the opposite side of the room. He made the usual noises required of the situation. He went through the necessary questions and extracted from them in his usual respectful manner exactly what they wanted. His pen flew over the forms as if it had a will of its own. He was on auto pilot. He stood and shook hands with them assuring them that everything would go as planned.

That was a laugh. Except it was not.

He'd had all the staff in together as soon as Big Billy had told him. He'd looked at them. 'Go through everything you've done from Friday morning up to right now.'

Tam, affectionately know to his colleagues as the Fat Bastard, had explained, 'I did the necessary and left at two thirty on Friday. I wasn't needed for the rest of the weekend'. Danny knew Tam was the best embalmer in the business. He'd been here when he arrived as a rooky apprentice and was still here passing on his skills to the younger generation. He worked miracles with his lotions and potions, his wax, his cotton wool and his cosmetics. He could make the most wizened deceased look decades younger and allow the relatives to remind themselves of how the person used to look.

Young Alan had commented, 'Wasn't it funny that the man was a Naismith because now there was Nae Smith'. He'd had the grace to look sheepish when his boss had glowered at him.

Old Dougie shuffled from one foot to the other. He knew Tarquin would never live up to the expectations of the boss but couldn't say so. 'No, I can't explain it. I was only the driver and the last I saw was the coffin in the back.'

John and Barry had transferred the coffin from the hearse to the gurney and wheeled it in to Tam's workplace and then had gone for lunch. They knew nothing.

Tarquin had not been seen since they closed on Friday and that morning, as usual, he'd still been in bed when Danny had left.

The premises were extensive with the reception area and offices at the front. Behind that was the Chapel of Rest, wood panelled in oak, with its green plush chairs, lectern and concealed music centre. Far back in the yard, beyond the garage for the immaculate hearses and black cars was the work area where Tam had performed his usual tasks on Friday morning.

Since the discovery that morning the staff had been searching everywhere. The whole place had been turned upside down. But to no avail. Danny had retreated to the office.

He groaned again. 'The funeral is only two days away on Wednesday. How can I explain to the relatives? Can I send a coffin to the crematorium filled with stones? What if the wrong person was buried on Saturday?' There had been a funeral that day. That wouldn't work. There would be a spare body. In any case that funeral had been a child in a white coffin.

'My God, there was a cremation on Friday afternoon. Was that what happened? Could two bodies have been put in the same coffin? What the hell had the idiot done?' Another groan. 'How could he have lost a body?'

© Isobel MacDonald

Isobel is a member of Lanark Writers