Clive sat bolt upright! They were being burgled! There was a light at the far end of the parlour: there came the stark sounds of banging and sliding, and the urgent whispered curses of the perpetrators. Clive wondered who would try to steal coffins? Clearly, Jerry’s designs had some amount of value to someone. This is what you got for loud-mouthing off in every pub (called the Duck) around town about how great you were at your job, then handing out cards with your name and address on them to boot! Jerry’s total lack of business acumen was simply astounding to one of Clive’s superior intellect.

Where on earth was Phil? Clive still had no idea where he slept, or even if. He had always just assumed Phil took to another of the coffins when he felt the call of Morpheus. There was certainly nothing so refined as a bedchamber in this warehouse-that-served-as-the-parlour.

Wrapping his Giapanese thong carefully around his neck, Clive reached for the gardening fork beside the casket. Phil had let him keep it. A souvenir, Phil had said: a gift for completing the first level of his training.

Clearly, he was going to have to deal with these miscreants by himself! He half wondered if this was another of the Undertaker’s tests...

Moving ever so slowly, careful not to bump into any of the caskets and make a sound that would give him away, Clive stalked towards the light. He was under no delusions: he was no master of the martial shovel like Phil. Yesterday had been his first ever taste of real combat, and, had Phil wished to continue, Clive suspected it would not have gone well.

No, he would be relying solely on the element of surprise. The thieves would be nervous on the job: a nervousness only added to by the morbidity of the location (dead bodies in the dark tended to do that to people). Clive would use that fear against them. He pictured himself, bursting from the darkness, a clawed undead creature of the night, slashing left and right, screaming for the blood of the living... He was willing to bet the would-be coffin abactors would quickly realise they had gotten more than they had bargained for, and make for the door with their tails between their legs... Clive could already picture the grudging respect in Phil’s eyes.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

He could see them now: there were five of them. One had his back to Clive and was holding up a dark lantern. He seemed to be the leader: he was directing; the others were handling the coffins. Oddly, it appeared almost as if they were bringing the coffins in from outside, not removing them, but Clive paid that insignificant detail no heed: the criminal mind was not to be tolerated, much less understood. Of the handlers, Clive caught flashes of red and gold, wide puffed shoulders and black caps with large white feathers. It was an expensive getup, not what one would expect for a band of ne’er-do-wells. Clearly, these were highly successful thieves! Clive licked his lips at the thought of taking on the London underground’s finest: Jerry would have kittens when he heard tell of this!

Still they had not seen him... he was but a few fathoms away now! Clive hefted the garden fork, and began to breathe deeper, ready to give Susie the vixen a serious run for her money...

...and then he stepped on a nail. Damn it, Jerry! He tried to hold it, but the blood-curdling scream came out a few paces too early...

The thief with the lantern swung about and opened the shutters—No! It couldn’t be! The pain must have been addling his mind – either that or the ringleader was a truly fiendish master of disguise – for the face revealed in the swinging light, was none other than that very same Jerry’s!

“’Ere! What are you doing up?”

Clive never saw the blow that stuck him from behind.

“Night night!” said the Jerryganger with a wave.

Clive sank down into the murky depths of unconsciousness.