Operation Time's Up
“Right then, lads! They’ve come through,” I declared as I wandered into the shed. The Antechamber, the lads call our shed. Tossers.
Ben and Connor looked up from their mugs of tea. Spud kept on snoring under his stupid woolly hat. They were all filthy but hadn’t done a stroke of work yet.
“What have?”
“The letters from the Council and the Parish. Operation Time’s Up is go. The notice periods have run out and that gum shoe tosser has drawn a blank on the relatives. Here’s the plot list, and the map. I’ve already highlighted the oldest, to dig up first.”
“Now?” Connor whined.
“Nah, you three keep on digging the new plot. It will have to take a couple dozen residents. Then we’ll work backwards as we free up space. As for me, I’m going to inspect the crypts here and here, and see if the coffins can be moved at all.”
“Why shouldn’t they?”
“You’ve got no bloody idea, have you, kiddo?” laughed Ben.
“Digging them up’s not like putting them in. The family plots are real deep, with up to a dozen coffins piled on top of each other. The bottom ones are often crushed. And plots, like vaults, can flood, turning those crates to mush. You pick ‘em up and the stiffs drop out.”
“Ooze out more like,” chuckled Ben. “And the stench! Like nothing you’ve ever sniffed, lad.”
“Fucking hell! Better you than me then!”
“Off you go. Wake that tosser up, and make sure he does some bloody work.”
I wandered off through the early morning mist in the opposite direction from those three apes, down the slope towards the brook that formed the edge of the cemetery. Down here, the lanes were all overgrown. Full grown trees hugged the gravestones like dirty lovers or listing boozer pals, or pushed them over in slow, drunken fights. No-one ever came down this end, not even students seeking a cheap thrill or junkies somewhere quiet to shoot up. Down here, it was always cold and wet and foggy.
At the end, there was a row of crumbling family crypts. Proper little houses, with wrought iron gates and marble steps. One of the oldest and biggest mausoleums belonged to the Antonescu family. Not from round here, obviously, but they settled a couple hundred years ago and became rather respectable. Little did people know.
I fished out the crumpled packet of Gitanes I kept especially for emergencies like this, and my Zippo. I took a few deep draughts, coughing and wheezing like a baby. I blew the oily blue smoke down the front of my jumper and under my jacket. I wanted to stink of the stuff. My first line of defence.
My gloves flaked bubbles of rust off the ancient gate as I pushed it, but it swung open without a sound. I went down to the chamber below. The torchlight app for my iPhone produced a painfully bright, white light. My second line of defence.
It was a little musty down here, but clean and dry despite the dampness of the surroundings. No oozing here. Three walls each held three rows of five vaults. The stone stoppers for most of these sepulchres were neatly stacked on either side of the steps. I found the coffin with Anton Antonescu’s plaque showing. Then I rapped the riff from For Those About To Rock on the lid. There was a shuffling within.
The lid opened a crack and a deep, croaky voice rumbled: “You have some gall to wake me this early, my friend.”
I took another puff of my Gitane, trying not to hack too much, but kept my torch pointed to the floor. “Got some news, Anton. The papers have come through.”
The lid dropped a little, as if shying away from the coils of smoke, and started to shake.
“Are you fucking intent on enraging me? You wake me, you bring bad news and you fucking smoke in my tomb?”
“I’m trying to give up. Listen, Anton. That Sam Spade tosser couldn’t find your great-great-great-whatever nephew.” I tried to sound blazé, but that wasn’t easy when spluttering, with a voice as squeaky as a thirteen year old’s. “Work will start in a couple of weeks, latest. Now, I know that you and your ... uh ... family will be a little trouble for me and the lads. So I’ve been thinking. If someone ... anyone ... pays the Council, you get to stay.”
“You want me to pay fucking – rent?” The crack opened a little more, and two red eyes blazed from the velvety darkness. “Do you think I earn a fucking living, man?”
“You could perhaps pimp out some of your babes here,” said I, waving at the other tombs. I wished I hadn’t straight away, as shuffling noises came from inside several of them.
Anton chuckled. “And you’d pay for that?”
“Just saying. Look, I don’t know how you’ll do it, but it’s not going to be that expensive. And if you wanted, you could save the other crypts too. Keep the character of the neighbourhood and all that.”
“I’m not use to pumping marks for money, now am I? And how do I pay your fucking Council anyway? It’s not as if I can sign a fucking direct debit, is it?”
“Well, we can come to an arrangement. I can make the payment. Anonymously. You just bring me the cash ... I’ll take a cut, of course.”
A really horrible grating noise came from the coffin. He was laughing. Bloody hell! I smoked like a loon, shrouding myself in blue swirls.
“It’s not wise to fuck over the undead, my friend,” Anton rasped.
“Ah, I’ll take my chances. I’ll need a week or so to set up a standing order, so next Tuesday, yeah?”
“Just stub your fucking tab outside!” Anton’s lid slammed shut.
I tore up those steps into the daylight, deal done.
Ben and Connor looked up from their mugs of tea. Spud kept on snoring under his stupid woolly hat. They were all filthy but hadn’t done a stroke of work yet.
“What have?”
“The letters from the Council and the Parish. Operation Time’s Up is go. The notice periods have run out and that gum shoe tosser has drawn a blank on the relatives. Here’s the plot list, and the map. I’ve already highlighted the oldest, to dig up first.”
“Now?” Connor whined.
“Nah, you three keep on digging the new plot. It will have to take a couple dozen residents. Then we’ll work backwards as we free up space. As for me, I’m going to inspect the crypts here and here, and see if the coffins can be moved at all.”
“Why shouldn’t they?”
“You’ve got no bloody idea, have you, kiddo?” laughed Ben.
“Digging them up’s not like putting them in. The family plots are real deep, with up to a dozen coffins piled on top of each other. The bottom ones are often crushed. And plots, like vaults, can flood, turning those crates to mush. You pick ‘em up and the stiffs drop out.”
“Ooze out more like,” chuckled Ben. “And the stench! Like nothing you’ve ever sniffed, lad.”
“Fucking hell! Better you than me then!”
“Off you go. Wake that tosser up, and make sure he does some bloody work.”
I wandered off through the early morning mist in the opposite direction from those three apes, down the slope towards the brook that formed the edge of the cemetery. Down here, the lanes were all overgrown. Full grown trees hugged the gravestones like dirty lovers or listing boozer pals, or pushed them over in slow, drunken fights. No-one ever came down this end, not even students seeking a cheap thrill or junkies somewhere quiet to shoot up. Down here, it was always cold and wet and foggy.
At the end, there was a row of crumbling family crypts. Proper little houses, with wrought iron gates and marble steps. One of the oldest and biggest mausoleums belonged to the Antonescu family. Not from round here, obviously, but they settled a couple hundred years ago and became rather respectable. Little did people know.
I fished out the crumpled packet of Gitanes I kept especially for emergencies like this, and my Zippo. I took a few deep draughts, coughing and wheezing like a baby. I blew the oily blue smoke down the front of my jumper and under my jacket. I wanted to stink of the stuff. My first line of defence.
My gloves flaked bubbles of rust off the ancient gate as I pushed it, but it swung open without a sound. I went down to the chamber below. The torchlight app for my iPhone produced a painfully bright, white light. My second line of defence.
It was a little musty down here, but clean and dry despite the dampness of the surroundings. No oozing here. Three walls each held three rows of five vaults. The stone stoppers for most of these sepulchres were neatly stacked on either side of the steps. I found the coffin with Anton Antonescu’s plaque showing. Then I rapped the riff from For Those About To Rock on the lid. There was a shuffling within.
The lid opened a crack and a deep, croaky voice rumbled: “You have some gall to wake me this early, my friend.”
I took another puff of my Gitane, trying not to hack too much, but kept my torch pointed to the floor. “Got some news, Anton. The papers have come through.”
The lid dropped a little, as if shying away from the coils of smoke, and started to shake.
“Are you fucking intent on enraging me? You wake me, you bring bad news and you fucking smoke in my tomb?”
“I’m trying to give up. Listen, Anton. That Sam Spade tosser couldn’t find your great-great-great-whatever nephew.” I tried to sound blazé, but that wasn’t easy when spluttering, with a voice as squeaky as a thirteen year old’s. “Work will start in a couple of weeks, latest. Now, I know that you and your ... uh ... family will be a little trouble for me and the lads. So I’ve been thinking. If someone ... anyone ... pays the Council, you get to stay.”
“You want me to pay fucking – rent?” The crack opened a little more, and two red eyes blazed from the velvety darkness. “Do you think I earn a fucking living, man?”
“You could perhaps pimp out some of your babes here,” said I, waving at the other tombs. I wished I hadn’t straight away, as shuffling noises came from inside several of them.
Anton chuckled. “And you’d pay for that?”
“Just saying. Look, I don’t know how you’ll do it, but it’s not going to be that expensive. And if you wanted, you could save the other crypts too. Keep the character of the neighbourhood and all that.”
“I’m not use to pumping marks for money, now am I? And how do I pay your fucking Council anyway? It’s not as if I can sign a fucking direct debit, is it?”
“Well, we can come to an arrangement. I can make the payment. Anonymously. You just bring me the cash ... I’ll take a cut, of course.”
A really horrible grating noise came from the coffin. He was laughing. Bloody hell! I smoked like a loon, shrouding myself in blue swirls.
“It’s not wise to fuck over the undead, my friend,” Anton rasped.
“Ah, I’ll take my chances. I’ll need a week or so to set up a standing order, so next Tuesday, yeah?”
“Just stub your fucking tab outside!” Anton’s lid slammed shut.
I tore up those steps into the daylight, deal done.
Originally published here: http://www.authonomy.com/forums/threads/84050/fff-september-16-2011/?pagenumber=2
