DEATH IN SERVICE

Old man Carver had the largest coffin-making factory in the Western World, employing five hundred and fifty people. Carver Coffins were in demand, an essential, the ultimate fashion accessory for the dead.

It was the biggest, indeed the only, employer in Matthew’s town. There were many benefits to being employed by Carvers Coffins, and these were carefully explained to him when he took employment there. He had always known he would work at Carvers, just as his Father and Grandfather had before him, and knew the terms and conditions of employment by heart. Not least was their promise that death in service automatically entitled the employee to a Carver Coffin for his personal use, in perpetuity as it were.

Then there was the staff social club, and if you had enough influence a place on the Works Committee. Though invariably the Committee was ruled by a faction from Security. They felt that they were the cream of the workforce, and rightly so. It was their proud boast that no coffin had been stolen in all the factory’s long history.

His Mother, who due to his families long history with Carvers had been allowed to witness his interview, stood in a corner of the personnel office, wiping tears of pride from her cheeks, while at his back his Father’s smile beamed down on him as he signed his contract.

In the factory proper he was shown his workstation on the assembly line. Either side of him was a cauldron of activity, the whirring of motors, the sweeping of wood shavings. Mr Meridew, a twenty-year veteran, showed him what was required of him.

They stood by three conveyor belts. On the central one was a stack of wooden boards. Mr Meridew lifted one. "See this? Bad wood, see the splintering? This goes to belt B. B for Bad." He replaced it, and lifted a second board. "See this? This is good wood. Run your finger along the grain. Good wood. That goes to belt A. A for good, B for Bad.

"See him?" he asked, pointing to a thin faced man in a frayed white jacket. "That’s Horace. He counts what you put on the belts. You get paid according to what you put on the belts. If you put A wood on the B belt it’s stopped out your money. If you put B wood on the A belt it’s stopped out your money."

Matthew nodded seriously.

"Here’s your jacket," said Mr Meridew, handing him a white cotton jacket that had CC and a small coffin embroidered in gold thread over the breast pocket.

Rapturously Matthew put it on. It was several sizes too big, and he pushed the arms back over his elbows, bunching the cloth together so that it would stay up. "Thank you."

Mr Meridew gave him a broad smile, revealing a row of broken teeth and a flash of yellowing gum.

Matthew turned to Horace. "Thank you," he said.

Mr Meridew stepped between them. "Hush, boy." He looked nervously about him. "You must never talk to Horace. He’s your counter. Collusion you see. Security wouldn’t like it. It’s in the rules."

"Sorry." Matthew blushed. Only moments in the factory and already he had made a mistake. Following the rules was harder than simply knowing them.

"Don’t worry, boy," Mr Meridew reassured him, glancing around at the other workers and counters about them. "We were all new once. All right?"

"Yes sir," said Matthew.

Mr Meridew smiled again. "Good."

"Sir," Matthew asked, "who do I ask if I have any questions?"

Mr Meridew’s eyes narrowed. "Questions? Good wood goes on the A belt, bad wood on B. No questions."

"Suppose I make a mistake and put bad wood on the good belt?"

"The money comes out your wages."

"But how will you know?"

"Quality Control," answered Mr Meridew. "All right?" he repeated.

This time Matthew, feeling foolish enough already, nodded.

"Good," said Mr Meridew, turning away. "Tea-break at ten-thirty," he called over his shoulder.

Matthew lifted a piece of wood. He ran his finger along it as Meridew had. He had seen no difference between the two pieces of wood that Mr Meridew had handled. Swallowing hard he put the slat on the A belt, and watched as it disappeared into the distance.

Horace made a note in his book.

Matthew lifted another, put that on the B belt. Horace made another note. Then Matthew picked up two pieces and put one on the A and one on the B belt. Horace’s pen dipped down into his notebook, lifted back up, then dived back down again.

A few moments later Matthew picked up three pieces of wood, and without any hesitation dropped two on the A belt and one on the B. He saw Horace smile. He knew why - the more Horace counted the more he got paid.

At tea-break in the staff canteen Matthew met his workmates. In Initial Sorting, which was his section, most of the workers were young men like him, though there were a few old hands too, people who had slipped up in some way in one of the better paid jobs, and had been demoted.

Over the coming months he came to know some of them, the younger ones, well. Fat Alex with his thin blond hair and horn rimmed spectacles, wild-eyed Marlon who was thought to be slightly mad, Billy-Boy who talked endlessly of 'getting on', and Jennifer... of all of them she was the one that he liked best. But that was in the future, today, until someone volunteered to join him, he sat alone.

Though Horace was there he would not make the mistake of talking to him again. All the Counters sat apart, mindful of their special position.

Watching them all was security. The guards took no breaks, but a few always stayed in the canteen during break periods to ensure that there was no collusion going on, no conspiracies, no dissent amongst the workforce.

Security was ever present; dressed in uniform black, matt black pistols in open holsters on their hips, the CC insignia on their armbands, scowling, pushing, threatening. Already Matthew had been searched twice, and none too gently. He could think of no way he could possibly conceal a slat of timber within his anus, but doubtless the security guards knew of some technique that would allow it. Why else should they conduct such searches?

Seeing Matthew looking at the guards, one of his co-workers, an older man, came to sit at his table. "Be careful of them," he whispered. "They're a bitter bad crew."

"Do they ever catch anyone?" asked Matthew.

The older man's eyes widened. "How could they? You don't think anyone would risk their job by wrongdoing, do you?" he asked slyly.

Matthew shook his head hastily. Just then his Father entered the canteen and hurried toward him. "How's the first day going, son?" he called cheerily, taking a seat beside him. He nodded acknowledgement to the older man, who nodded curtly back and stood up, moving away, leaving his mug of tea unfinished behind him.

"Fine, Dad. It's an interesting job. Sorting the wood." He was about to ask just how it was that he was meant to be sorting it when the horn sounded for end of break. Instead, he rose to join the exodus of workers heading back to their stations. "I'll see you at lunch, Dad."

His Father reached out and took his arm, squeezing it meaningfully. "Be careful, Matthew. There are informers everywhere."

And so there were. Those who spoke to their colleagues while on duty were invariably found out. Those who worked too slowly or rushed their jobs were inevitably visited by Adnil Bertrob, the head of Factory Security. He would stand by the suspect’s workstation, his sweaty little hands clasped across his pot belly. Narrowed unblinking eyes stared through rimless spectacles at his prey, a hint of a malicious smile on his thin lips. He would wait as the unfortunate target of his attention would become ever more nervous, until they would finally crack, and drop their work or their tools, or simply fall weeping to the floor. Then he'd say what he always said. The words that everyone in the factory dreaded. "We know. We've been told." The poor unfortunate would be led away for interrogation in personnel. An interrogation in which they would always confess their crime. Demotion would follow, or worse, a letter would be delivered by hand to their families, a brief note that regretfully informed them that their husband/wife/son or daughter had been discharged from Company employ. They would never be seen again.

When such things happened around Matthew he studiously ignored them. As a third generation worker he should be above suspicion, but still he was conscious of the eyes of security on him, on them all. Always.

After the shift was over he'd meet his new friends in the Factory Social Club. There they'd sup the thick black beer that Carver provided at a subsidised cost, and talk endlessly of the finer points of carpentry and coffin making. His comrades were like him, Factory boys born and bred. Fat Alex was the thinker amongst them. Matthew was surprised that he had graduated at all - he asked too many questions, and that wasn't encouraged at the town school; perhaps it was a new thing, maybe he'd only just begun to ask.

"What do you think happened to the others?" Alex asked them one night as they sat at a table in the corner of the club, slightly drunk at the end of a long evening.

"What othersh?" slurred Marlon.

"At the school. When I started school there were a couple of dozen of us in the same class, but at the end there was only me and Billy and a boy who went to work in French Polishing. We were the only ones to graduate. What happened to the others?"

"They couldn't cut it," said Billy-Boy decisively.

"But what happened to them?"

Billy shrugged his shoulders. "Who cares? Losers, that's what they were. Just means there's less competition for you and me." He smiled to himself. Obviously he didn’t think Alex much competition.

Matthew said nothing. His class had been reduced in numbers in his final months at school too. No-one asked where the dropouts went, once gone it was as if they’d never been. Like those dismissed from the Company. Anyone curious enough to enquire after them would soon follow them. He shook his head to clear them of such thoughts. "I’m going to ask Jennifer to the Company dance. Who are you taking, Billy?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Bev," answered Billy, his eyes still on Alex.

Matthew felt a chill run down his spine. Billy wasn’t an informer, he was sure of that, but a sudden flash of insight told him that he would be, that his ambition wouldn’t allow him to miss any opportunity to get on.

"Nice girl," he commented, "but I thought you’d ask Susan, she’s really keen." She wasn’t, Matthew knew, but the lie took Billy’s attention from Alex. Susan was stunningly beautiful, already working in the stapling dept of the office, she was obviously destined for greater things.

Billy’s eyes shone. "Really? How do you know?"

"My Dad’s in and out of that office all the time," bragged Matthew. "He’s told me he’s seen her looking at you from the window."

Billy smoothed back his greased hair. "She can recognise potential, Susan," he leered.

"Yeah." Matthew smiled weakly. "I’ve got to go, be curfew soon." He stood. "Come on Alex, I’ll walk back with you."

"I’ve got time for another."

"I’ll get it," said Billy eagerly.

Matthew stood at the table, gritting his teeth.

"Come on, I’ll walk back with you," said Marlon, staggering slightly as he stood and grabbing Matthew’s arm for support.

With a last look at Alex, who was now deep in conversation with Billy, Matthew and Marlon left and walked down the wet streets towards their homes.

Once outside Marlon seemed to sober up, and they quickly reached the tenement blocks where they lived. At the dark mouth of his building Matthew bid him goodnight, but Marlon grasped his arm once more. "Wait a moment," he whispered, "we need to talk."

Though low his speech now was crystal clear. "I wasn’t sure about you until tonight, but I am now."

"Sorry," Matthew shook his head, puzzled, "I’m not with you."

"Not yet," smiled Marlon, his eyes wide and staring. "But you will be. Forget Alex, there’s nothing you can do for him. He talks too much, especially after a drink, asks too many questions. It’s only a matter of time before someone reports him to security, if not Billy-Boy then someone else."

"I thought he was your friend," hissed Matthew, surprised to find himself whispering too.

"He is. And don’t mistake me, Billy-Boy’ll pay if he’s the one that shops him."

"Pay how?"

"Not everybody who goes does because the Company wants them to. We can make people disappear too."

"Who?" asked Matthew, frightened now.

"There are more of us than you think, dissidents they call us. We work for the day there’ll be another employer."

Matthew had meant who had they made disappear, but he was shocked at the answer. Dissidents. People who worked against the factory but inside it. His Father had warned him of such.

"And you want me to join you?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," said Marlon fiercely. "The factory rules our lives, what we do, what we think, what we are. It isn’t right. When enough of us realise that, then it’ll be time to change it."

"How?"

Marlon shook his head. "No more questions tonight. If you’re with us I’ll see you tomorrow, if not..." He shrugged his shoulders.

Matthew turned away, responsibility heavy on his shoulders. If not then he would have told his Father, and Adnil Bertrob and his men would have Marlon before dawn broke.

That night he tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. To join Marlon and his dissenters was unthinkable. The factory looked after you. Old man Carver cared for the welfare of his employees. But he did not want to betray Marlon either. It was security’s job to weed out dissenters and slackers, not his. In the end he decided to do nothing, to wait and see.

The next day was just like any other, the workers assembled on the factory floor as they did each morning, and gazing up to the huge portrait of old man Carver that looked down on them all, together they sang the factory song:

I’m going in a Carver Coffin
When I die that’s what I’m off in
Maple or oak, teak or willow
I’ll rest my head on a velvet pillow
I’m going in a Carver Coffin
Carver Coffins they are the best
So I’m looking forward to eternal rest
I’m going in a Carver Coffin...

Alex was nowhere to be seen, and Marlon looked meaningfully at Matthew as they made their way to their workstations.

The morning passed slowly, Matthew sorting slats of timber automatically, simply moving half to the A belt and half to the B. Somewhere further down the line someone would sort them properly. Maybe. Maybe not. He had found the deductions in his wages remained constant regardless of whether he attempted to assess the wood or not. His eyes were drawn to Alex’s empty station, as he looked up he saw Billy-Boy looking there too. He narrowed his eyes in question and Billy-Boy just shrugged in response, turning all his concentration to the belt.

At break Marlon sat beside him. Billy-Boy, as he often did, was working through his break period. "Well?" asked Marlon.

"Leave me alone, Marlon," Matthew told him. "I’ve forgotten what you’ve already told me, and I don’t want to hear any more."

Marlon stared at him for a moment, as if weighing things up in his mind. "All right," he said finally. "But hear just this - at the Company dance don’t drink anything, whatever you do don’t drink anything. You will want to talk to me afterwards," he said meaningfully.

Matthew stared at his retreating back, vowing to himself that he would never be seen talking to Marlon again. He looked about the room, worried that someone from security had seen their brief exchange. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realised no-one was paying him any special attention.

His eyes settled on Jennifer and he stood, determining to wash these negative feelings from his mind, and what better way than to ask Jennifer now to be his partner at the company dance...

He left the canteen buoyant, unworried. That day, to Horace's joy, he processed a record number of slats. Across from his station he could see Jennifer, working just as enthusiastically. She had said yes.

Only one thing troubled him. Billy-Boy was no longer at his station.

The day of the dance was always a great one. Immediately before it the Company shops in the town would be well stocked with exotic foodstuffs and a selection of fine clothing so that everyone could look their best on the night. An air of excitement and expectation would blow down from the factory like a wind from the far off mountains.

Matthew felt it more keenly than most. Only Company employees and their wives were allowed to the dance, so this would be his first. For years he had seen his Mother and Father ready themselves each October, and set out to enjoy the great night while he stayed at home. Now, for the first time he would accompany them.

On the day itself Old man Carver toured the Factory. A dry stick of a man in an overlarge suit, his cadaverous figure strode through the narrow aisles, deep set eyes drinking in all around him. It was said that he had the production figures of every man in his head, that he knew who was able and who was not, who was loyal, hardworking. The dark figure of Adnil Bertrob was at his back, always a pace or two behind, occasionally leaning forward to whisper something in the great man's ear.

He paused for a moment before Matthew’s station. Head bowed low, Matthew's heart beat like a drum in his chest, and in his mind he cursed Marlon.

Carver's voice was deep, powerful. "Your Father has served me well. I'm sure you will too." It wasn't a question; it was just a statement of fact.

Matthew looked up, ready to declare his undying devotion to the production of Carver Coffins, but the old man had already moved on, his thin figure some way away. Adnil Bertrob was looking back at him though. Looking back, and smiling. Hastily Matthew bowed his head once more.

That night he stood in the tiny front room of their apartment with his Father, both regaled in their finery for the dance, awaiting his Mother. His Father wore a sober blue linen suit, as befitted his years, while Matthew boasted a short red blouson. His Father looked at him and away, shifting his weight from one foot to another. "Matthew," he began, "take care at the dance tonight, won't you?"

"What do you mean take care? Has someone been saying something about me?"

"No," his Father assured him. "No. Just, take care, that's all. And don't drink too much." He laughed, a false hollow sound in the little room, and lowered his voice confidentially. "I get so drunk I can't remember it the next day," he admitted.

"Dad," ventured Matthew, "things at the Factory aren't what I expected, they're..."

"Son!" His Father barked at him, shocking him for he could never remember his Father shouting at him before. "The Factory is life for us. Where would we be without it? Any of us? And life's never like we expect, boy, never. Only death is sure, and that only because the Factory guarantees us a Carver Coffin."

Matthew wanted to go on, to talk to him about the disappearance of Fat Alex and Billy-Boy, about the job that he did that had no point, about Marlon and the rules and the searches, but then his Mother joined them, looking resplendent in a golden gown. Matthew was somewhat embarrassed by how décolleté it was, how heavily made-up she was, her lips ruby red and her eyes heavy with mascara.

"You look lovely, dear," his Father told her, taking her by the arm.

Matthew smiled his agreement. As they left he noticed that despite her best efforts the mascara was already smudged, a single tear diluting it and making it run. Mother had always cried before the dance, and for the first time he began to wonder why.

Jennifer was waiting for him outside the Social Club. She looked wonderful, and kissed him on the cheek when he told her so. Putting her hand in his they went inside, joining the crowd in the great hall. The room was festooned in festive banners, and on a low stage a band played while people swayed to the rhythm of the music. Every employee of the Factory was there. Tonight they could mix freely, only security still in their uniform, though even they were off-duty. There was a low hum of laughter and conversation. Long tables were laden with food and bowls of punch, which security staff generously doled out.

"This is your first dance isn't it?" he asked her as they rested between dances.

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful?" Jennifer shouted over the music. Her eyes shone with excitement as she gulped down another glass of punch.

"Great," he agreed, looking about him. He saw his Mother and Father on the dance floor, each with a cup in their hand, the liquid staining their mouths and the floor about them in equal measure.

It was then he caught sight of Billy-Boy, wearing the black uniform and armband of security. Susan was by his side. Billy-Boy smiled across at him. A satisfied smile that made his skin crawl. He turned back to Jennifer who was still talking at him. Her words were lost in the noise of the music. "Let's dance," he mouthed. Taking her arm he led her onto the floor.

As they danced security moved amongst them with jugs of punch, refilling their glasses. Remembering Marlon's warning, and his Father's words before they had left, he had drunk little, taking only a sip each time his glass was refilled before letting the rest spill to the floor. Jennifer drained each cup as it was filled, as did the others about them. Everyone was on the dance floor now, and as the evening wore on the lights were lowered while the music became ever louder, the beat more insistent. The dance became wilder and wilder, and he lost sight of Jennifer as partners were first exchanged in a wild reel then became meaningless in the thick throng of bodies on the floor. Hands grabbed roughly at his body, tearing at his clothes. His flesh felt aflame as it was caressed and stroked, and he watched in horror as his body responded while his mind screamed out for Jennifer.

A spotlight beamed down onto the stage, and he saw Fat Alex, bound and screaming, dragged into its beam by Adnil Bertrob and one of his men. Old man Carver stood to one side, a great cup in his hand. A fourth man, dressed in blue, stepped up onto the stage, and took the cup from Old man Carver. The cup and something else, something that Matthew couldn't quite see.

The man strode purposefully to Fat Alex, and turning to the crowd he held his hands aloft. In his left he held the cup, in his right a great curved blade. It was his Father. The movement on the floor was slowed now, all eyes on the stage.

He watched as his Father turned to Fat Alex and slashed the blade across his throat. His cries were lost in the roar of approval from the crowd. The cup was held beneath his throat and filled with his blood.

Old man Carver took the cup from his Father, drinking deeply before throwing the remains of its contents out across the floor to shouts of acclaim. Behind the stage other victims were being hauled forward. Matthew fought to free himself, to get away. Hot blood splashed onto his face. A figure below him was furiously fellating him. Taking its long hair in his hands he brutally pulled the head back. Her face a grotesque mask of melted make-up, the wild staring eyes of his Mother looked up at him. Matthew screamed.

"Hurry, son, or you'll be late for work," his Father urged him. Matthew looked up at him from where he knelt on the floor. He couldn't remember how he had gotten home. He looked at his Father with new eyes.

"How many died, Dad? How many did you kill?"

His Father shook his head impatiently. "I know the first dance can be a shock, but they were shirkers, dissidents, people who couldn't make their quota. You'll never be a sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?"

"It's all old man Carver asks of us, for everything. Everything he gives us."

"And Mother? Jennifer?"

His father's face hardened. "Hurry. You'll be late." He left him.

Matthew sat for some moments more before tearfully raising himself. Still dressed in the tattered remains of his clothes from the previous night, he staggered from the apartment and, attracting curious stares as he went, he made his way to the Factory.

Jennifer was working at her station, and she smiled that familiar smile at him as he passed her. Numbly he walked on, ignoring his own place, continuing until he stood before Marlon.

"What are you doing?" hissed Marlon, looking worriedly about him. One of the security guards moved towards them.

"You knew," said Matthew accusingly. "You knew."

"Not here. Not here. Oh, shit..." Two security guards were closing in on them now.

"Do they get Carver Coffins?"

"What?" asked Marlon in disbelief.

"They died in service didn't they? They're entitled to CC coffins."

The security guards were on them now. The first grabbed Matthew's arm, and he shrugged him off. "Ask your friends," he shouted. "Did they get Carver Coffins?"

The second security guard had arrived, and he struggled as together they began to drag him away, still shouting. "Did they get Carver Coffins? Did they? Did they?"

One of the guards punched him hard in the kidneys, and he screamed in agony. Their grip tightened on him, and then suddenly loosened, first one side then the other, and they all fell to the floor. Free, Matthew looked up and saw wild-eyed Marlon standing above them, a heavy slat of wood in his hands. One of the guards tried to rise, and he swung it again, like a bat, connecting cleanly with the guard’s skull.

"Did they get Carver Coffins?" repeated Matthew quietly.

Marlon offered him a hand, pulling him to his feet. "No," he told him, "they never do." With a last look at Matthew he turned and ran off, shouting at the top of his voice. "They didn't get Carvers! They didn't get Carvers!"

The other workers stared at Matthew in amazement. Someone walked over to him. It was Horace.

"Didn't they?" he asked.

"No," he told him.

"Then they were dismissed."

"No," he repeated. "They died in service."

Horace turned to look at the others, dropping his notebook. A squad of security was running toward them. He inhaled deeply, gave a great cry, and ran to meet them. The stillness of the others was shattered as with shouts of anger they surged forward to join him. Slats of wood were thrown, workstations pushed aside and toppled.

Slowly Matthew moved through the fighting, on through the Factory. He walked through Quality Control, but Marlon had been there before him, and already it was in ruins, the bodies of its security contingent lying broken on the floor.

The fighting was like a wave that spread out from Initial Sorting throughout the Factory. And the cry went on and out, out into the town.

The burial squad moved silently through the back streets of the town, each shouldering a corner of one of the coffins. Small groups of angry people gathered on the street corners as they passed. They were unimpressed by the plain pine boxes with the gold coloured plastic handles that held the remains of the sacrificed. They had died in service. A slow hiss began to follow the procession. By Main Street it had become a low muttering, and at the cemetery it became a shout. There they were joined by others who had fled the Factory. As one they rushed toward the guards. Abandoned, the cheap coffins burst open as they struck the ground, spilling their gory contents. Above them the guards drew their weapons.

Matthew wandered through the ruined workshops. In the finishing section he found the body of his Father, the hilt of a carpenter's knife jutting from his back. From a shelf behind him he took a gallon container of clear varnish, and carried on toward the storage depot. He knew no-one who worked there, had seen no-one enter it, no-one leave it in all the time he had been at the factory. At a single push its great doors swung open.

Unlike the other sections it was completely untouched, and Matthew gazed inside in wonder. The interior was packed with coffins. Coffins, as far as the eye could see. Custom made specials, production line models, new styles, old styles. Pine and oak and maple wood, stained black and brown and painted gold. Row after row of them, every coffin ever made at the Carver factory. All stacked high and deep and going on forever.

He stood in the doorway, struggling to understand.

"You’ve disappointed me after all."

Matthew whirled about. Old man Carver stood in the yard, a rictus grin on his face. He looked slowly around the ruined factory, his gaze finally returning to Matthew.

"You think you’ve won something?" he asked. His eyes shone with amusement.

From the town behind them there were sporadic shots and the muffled crump of an explosion. Old man Carver’s smile broadened.

Matthew struggled to speak, but his throat closed, invisible fingers squeezing his larynx.

"You’ve won nothing," whispered the old man. Suddenly he laughed, the sound like the explosion of brittle bones. Behind him a black limousine rolled silently into the yard, coming to a stop at his back. Old man Carver turned and took a step toward it, shaking his head, and opened the door. "I have other towns," he said, "Other factories. Other worlds…." Stooping, he moved into the car, seating himself in the rear.

His bony arm stretched out to close the door, and he paused, considering Matthew once more. "And one day," he promised, "One day, I’ll be back." His black eyes twinkled. "Perhaps you’ll still be here."

As the door closed, and the limo rolled unhurriedly away, the pressure on Matthew’s throat disappeared, and he fell, sobbing, to his knees. When he finally lifted his head the limousine, and the horror it carried, was gone.

Standing, he stumbled into the depot, the heavy container a dead weight at the end of his arm.

He moved amongst the coffins, emptying the can of fluid as he went until the fumes were thick in his nostrils. As he wandered down the aisles he saw it, crowning a great pile of caskets. A Senator Imperial, the most elite of Carver productions. Velvet lined, solid brass fittings. Clambering up to it he removed the lid, and lay down inside it. His head rested on the goose feather pillow. Looking up he could see no ceiling, only darkness.

He fumbled in the pockets of his ruined blouson until he found what he was looking for. Striking the match he dropped it over the side of the coffin. He heard the whoosh as the inflammable fluid caught. Clasping his hands together he rested them on his chest.

At last he found his voice, and quietly he began to sing.

"I'm going in a Carver Coffin..."

In moments his words were lost in the roar of the flames, the noise exactly the sound of Old man Carver’s laughter.

From the photo you'll see I'm fat, balding, and over 40. Also happy. Probably something to do with the wife and two sons. Nice boat, isn't it? That's the Skye ferry - I do my best work in the bar there!