“Morning sleepyhead!”

Clive smiled without opening his eyes. Isabella had come to wake him with a kiss...

He reached up... only to receive a sound slap on the wrists.

He opened his eyes upon Jerry’s leering grin.

“Jerry!”

“So you did miss me, then?”

Clive sat up and climbed out of the coffin. “Jerry! I had the most awful dream about you... well, someone who had your face, anyway!”

“Someone ’ad my face? What were they doing with it?”

“Wearing it! And they were... stealing coffins... except they were bringing them in, not taking them out. Weird...”

“Yeah, nightmares can be funny like that... No rhyme nor reason! Next you’ll be telling me the king’s guard were lending a hand!”

“King’s guard? What do they look like?”

“Oh, the Yeomen? Red and gold, fancy outfits... big old feathers too. You’d know ’em if you saw ’em!”

Clive nodded dumbly. Clearly a dream then. Stupid.

“Speaking of dreams, look who’s here!” Jerry stepped aside. Concealed behind him, was a beaming Isabella! “Didn’t think I came to see you alone, did ya?”

“Issy!”

Clive ran, Isabella ran, but they weren’t far apart so they had to both slow down quickly to avoid a collision. Isabella flung her arms around Clive’s neck and pulled his head down for a kiss.

“Ow!” Clive said.

“Sorry!” Isabella giggled. “Too much?”

“No, it’s just... there’s a huge bump on my head! That’s odd... Hey! Jerry, are you sure that was a dream last night?”

“As certain as if I had been there to not see it myself! Now, come and see these new coffin designs I’ve just finished! Knocked them up this morning while you were asleep!”

“New coffins?” There was definitely something going on here...

Scenting preoccupation (as only women and skunks can), Isabella gave him a nudge, full body, a gesture peculiar to the female species. “I’ve missed you!”

“I’ve missed you too!” Then, feeling more was required... “More than daylight, or air, or even... Mavis’ raspberry pottage!”

“Mavis?”

“Uh... just a girl back home. She meant nothing to me, honest! I just... used her to get to her pottage... I mean...” The negative feedback loop Clive was getting from Isabella’s facial expression told him it was best not to continue...

Jerry was champing at the bit to reveal his creations – he already had a hand on the white sheet covering the first of the row of three. “Ready for this?”

Clive and Isabella made like an audience.

The sheet whipped through the air.

The first coffin was largely nondescript, apart from a mast-like structure on the lid with a bell on top, enclosed in a small roofed box. A string ran coffinwards from the bell, and entered the confines via a small hole near the right hand vertex.

Isabella angled her head to the side. “Is that a bird house?”

“No...” said Jerry, scribbling quickly in his notebook, “but I like where your heads at!”

“What’s the bell for?” asked Clive.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jerry rhetoricalised.

“Not particularly.”

“It’s a topside bell! You’re looking at the world’s first ever fully functioning safety coffin! I call it the Second Chancer!TM”

Isabella’s tongue was probing her cheek in confusion. “How does a bird house make a coffin safer?”

Jerry sighed. “Look, picture the moment: you bang your head one day on a low flying eave... everything goes dark. Next thing you know, you wake up... but you’re not in your bed...” He banged the coffin next to him dramatically. “No! You’re in one of these beauties! Who knows how it happened? Maybe you were stone cold for longer than you thought... maybe your doctor never passed med school... maybe overzealous relatives saw a shortcut to an early in’eritance?

But none of that matters right now! Right now, all that matters is that you’re here... and you’re thanking your lucky STARS you invested in a Muldoon Second Chancer!TM You reach out with your right hand – and there it is! – the lazarus cord – a short sharp jerk is all it takes! From six feet under, you can just hear the tolling of your own custom-autographed topside bell – but fear not for whom the bell tolls, for it’s not tolling for you! No, sir! This is no dirge! It is a siren, and help is on the way! Sure enough, barely minutes later... you hear the scrape of soil on shovel! You’re saved!

But wait! What if said salvation turns out to be less than friendly – grave robbers or (more likely) the aforementioned relatives? Well, we’ve thought of that too! Attached to the left panel you’ll find a complimentary truncheon, courtesy of Anbury and Co., and autographed by London’s favourite coffin maker... yours truly: Gerald Muldoon!”

Jism hands!

Jerry beamed!

“Wow!” said Isabella, in a tone that Clive was fast learning was not entirely to be welcomed, “You’ve thought of everything, Jerry! Except... the lazarus cord: what’s to stop rainwater following the cord through the hole into the coffin? I mean it’s kind of hard to ring a bell when you are underwater... wouldn’t you agree, Clive?”

“Oh absolutely!” Clive nodded.

“Alright, alright!” said Jerry, a pat defensively. “You want to talk about drowning? Check this out!”

The second sheet snagged somewhat on its armature.

Isabella folded her arms. “Really, Jerry? Oars?”

“Not just oars! Note the reinforced breathing pipe designed to maintain airflow even when submerged! And this... I am particularly proud of: a miracle of box and mirror that allows the pilot to see backwards even when reclining. I call it the ‘erectoscope!’”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “Of course you do...”

Clive, however, was genuinely impressed. “That’s brilliant, Jerry!”

Jerry inclined gracefully.

“So it’s a boat?” Isabella blunted.

“It’s the Muldoon Ferryman Pro,TM is what it is!”

“And I suppose it’s designed for the discerning and paranoid client who fears the weighty odds of being both buried alive AND carried away in a flood?”

“Not just any flood...” Jerry raised a finger to enunciate further. “A flash flood... in a graveyard!”

Clive’s face was a picture. “Ooh, how... biblical!”

Isabella gave the Ferryman a short circle. “Why does the pilot need to see backwards in a flash flood? They wish to... observe the onrushing swell as it bears down on them with deadly speed? For... motivational purposes?” She looked at Clive.

Clive shrugged. “Well, I would certainly row faster! I mean I’m highly motivated as it is...”

Jerry gave Isabella a condescending look (she forwarded it to Clive). “Boats row backwards, Isabella!”

Isabella smiled without teeth. “Backwards through a flash flood?”

“No...” Jerry was fast losing patience. “They face backward, and row the coffin forwards through the flood... to maximise the speed. Duh!”

Isabella threw up her hands. “I can’t take any more...” Isabella walked off in search of saner company, and Phil.

Jerry watched her go. “Mmh! Who curdled her milk, then?”

Clive tried to mansplain on behalf of the fairer sex.135 “I think maybe she just feels... it’s all a little... ostentatious?”

Jerry took the bait. “Otterspacious, eh? Alright – you want simple? You want practical? Take a gandra136 at this!”

The third sheet ghosted into the air!

Clive had to admit, the third coffin did look pretty normal. “So... it’s...?”

“Locks.”

“I am looking.”

Jerry spelt it out for the idiot in the room. “L-O-C-H-K-E-S!”

“Locks?”

“Yea, we put locks on the lid, not nails. Inside, outside... however the customer wants it! Very popular with the East Europeans, for some reason! Oh, and for a small additional fee, we’ll even make sure you’re buried with the keys! And then, if the relatives pay a considerably larger fee, we’ll make sure that you aren’t!”

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

“I see. And what’s this one called?”

“The Lockdown.”

“That’s... oh, that’s actually quite... normal. No ‘Muldoon’?”

“Nah. Anyone can stick a lock on a coffin. I only puts my mark on the specials! Now! Time to teach you something that might save your life one day! Picture it: you wake up, buried alive in a coffin... No lazarus, no locks, not even an oar. How d’ye get out?”

Clive faltered. “Well, I suppose you... probably have to... try to...”

“Ah, there you all are!” The Undertaker had returned, Isabella at his side. “Isabella tells me you’ve been consorting with the enemy!”

Isabella answered their dumb looks. “He means me.”

“I mean the living!” rumbled Anbury. “Clive should be enjoying our druid friend by now! He’s just entered a rather fine putrefaction.”

“Alrighty then! I’ll get right on it... him!” nodded Clive, moving past them.

“Stop!” said the Undertaker. “I have a better idea!” He pointed at Isabella– “If you’re going to be here, you might as well be useful!” Then to Jerry and the coffins. “What are these?”

“Er... just some er... prototype... design... idea... mockup-thingies...” Jerry was wilting synonymatically beneath the Undertaker’s chthonic gaze. “Sketches really! Fantasies... wet dreams... follies... foi-bles...”

“Good!” said the Undertaker, and Jerry’s face brightened. “So you don’t mind breaking them up for timber?” Jerry’s mien darkened, but the Undertaker merely fastened his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “The dead do deserve a decent coffin at their passing. Not a wet dream!”

Gesturing to Clive and Isabella, the Undertaker walked away across the parlour. Behind him, Jerry slammed the lid shut violently on the Ferryman. One of the oars fell out of its moorings. Jerry’s eyes never left the space between Phil’s shoulder blades.

“Now!” said the Undertaker, coming to a stop at the foot of an especially tall stepladder. “I’ve already taught you how to talk the talk! Time you learned to walk the walk!”

“Walk the walk?” said Clive. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see...” said the Undertaker, holding up a blindfold as black as night.

“I... am fairly sure I won’t if you put that on me!”

The Undertaker tossed the blind to Isabella, and then a coil of rope. “The lady’ll do the honours!”

Isabella rolled her eyes, yet obliged, sliding the fold over Clive’s brow and fastening it securely. “Don’t worry, Clive. I think I know what he has in mind...”

12 feet and a lot of swearing later, a wailing Clive was at the top of the ladder. And still completely blind!

“Phil!” Isabella called from somewhere ahead, “This isn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind...”

The Undertaker had somehow also climbed the ladder and was audeemingly standing beside Clive (who’d have thought the top of a stepladder could be so spacious?). The edges of his beard tickled Clive’s neck (though, given the size of the growth, that didn’t necessarily indicate proximity in the owner).

“Ahead of you,” grated Phil, “is a tightrope. Isabella, love of your life–”

“Steady on, Phil!” called Isabella!

“–daughter of my forsworn nemesis–”

“Wh– no, can’t argue there!”

“–stands but across the tightrope from you, upon the stepladder opposite! All you have to do is follow her voice, and walk across the rope to embrace her!”

“Phil!” Clive squeaked. “How high are we?”

“About 12 feet above the ground.”

Clive turned and scrabbled for the way back down! “No Goddamn way–”

The Undertaker grabbed Clive’s arms and span him fiercely forward – Clive felt one of his feet depart the platform and turnstyle out over the void...

The Undertaker’s voice in his ear was a fervent hiss: “An Undertaker must be able to walk the line in ANY weather, Clive, in the BEST of times, in the WORST of times... in light... and in that most SABLE of darknesses... that which precedes mourning!”

The pressure on Clive’s back from the Undertaker’s body was relentless...

Clive shook his blindfolded head. “I can’t do this, Phil! I’m not strong enough!”

“That’s not true Clive...”

“How... how do you know?”

The pressure on his back relaxed. The Undertaker’s hands were gone.

“Because you’re already 3 feet across...”

Clive felt his breathing stop. Completely. The darkness not so much swam as freestyled! Clive tried to cartwheel his arms... but immediately realised he couldn’t! Of course... Phil had had Isabella rope them to his sides! All Clive could do was bend and swivel like a black banana ripening in a timestrom!

“Focus, Clive!” barked the Undertaker. “Feel the rope beneath your feet! Find your centre!”

It wasn’t the rope Clive was worried about – it was the air to either side... and he knew exactly where his centre was: about 15 feet above hard floorboards! Phil’s directions weren’t helping. He was going to fall, headfirst, to his doom... At least Jerry’s coffins would see some action! (He hoped he got the Ferryman...)

“Clive!” Softly silvered. Not the Undertaker, then... Isabella! “Clive, focus on my voice. Just... focus on my voice... hear me! And as you can hear me... see me! I’m right here, Clive! I’m just feet away. I’m stretching out my hand... All you have to do... is walk to me... and take my hand! Just take my hand, Clive! And then we can go back down... please!”

Somehow, it worked. The darkness ceased to spin, and began to merely oscillate. The rope bowed gently beneath Clive’s feet, but it held. It was tense and firm, a plucked lute string awaiting release. Clive cricked his neck, turned his toes towards Isabella’s unremitting siren call, and began to walk. Step. Step. Step-step.

“Yes!” breathed Phil, watching with wide eyes from the far platform. “That’s it! Find the rhythm!”

Step. Sombre. Step. Step-step. Grave. Step. Assured. Step-step.

Inevitable. Step-step.

Step-step.

Phil’s hand was tapping his thigh in time...

Behind the blindfold, Clive allowed himself the smallest of tiniest mental smiles. He was doing it! He was actually doing it! And he was beginning to enjoy himself!

Step. Step. Step back.

“No!” breathed Phil.

“Just a little further, Clive! I can nearly touch you!” called Isabella.

Clive grinned openly this time!

“No!” Phil hoarsed again. “Clive – don’t do it!”

Isabella: “Almost there!”

Step, step-back, step-back, step-back! And spin...

...Clive toppled off the rope!

His right hand tore free of its fastening and grabbed for the line, the ladder – anything! But it was too late...

–and then a hand caught his wrist... and held it!

He was dangling in empty space! The Undertaker grunted above him, taking the weight...

“Phil!” Clive yelled! “Pull me up, quick!”

But Phil’s voice was not so close– “It’s not me that has you, Clive! It’s–”

“Isabella?”

“Clive! I can’t hold you for long–”

“Issy! Pull me up!”

“I can’t, Clive – I’m hanging from the rope by my ankles...”

Clive swore under his breath. Just his luck to be blindfolded at a moment like this!

“Clive!” wheezed Isabella. “I’m sorry, I have to let you go!”

“No, Issy, don’t! I’ll die!”

“Clive... you have to trust me...”

“Please no!”

“On a count of three...”

“There must be another way...”

“1!”

“Don’t you dare!”

“2!”

“Issy, wait–”

“3!”

“Issy – I love you!”

“Clive, I’m sorry!”

Isabella let go of Clive’s wrist... for an instant, he was weightless... and then he dropped–

–the remaining foot to the floor. He landed on two feet. “What the–”

He ripped off the blindfold – Phil was already at ground level and standing before him. “Simple maths, Clive: we were twelve feet up; you were hanging from Isabella’s arm who was hanging from the wire; your combined lengths are almost exactly at the 11 mark, I would say... give or take a corn or two.”

“Isabella!” Clive exclaimed, with a twinge of chivalric guilt. He had almost forgotten her in the moment!

A swish of skirts in acrobatic freefall, and Isabella landed lightly behind him. “Yes?”

“You saved me! I owe you my life!”

“I also blindfolded you and trussed you up like a turkey before luring you out onto a tightrope! I’d say we’re even. And you–” She stabbed at Phil, who almost managed to look taken aback. Almost. “When does this end? I understand you’re having your fun – but he’s going to get hurt sooner or later – and I’m not always going to be there to catch him! You’re training him to be an undertaker, not a corpse. How many more flaming hoops does he have to jump through?”

Phil mulled thoughtfully. “Flaming hoops...”

Clive nodded in agreement. “I’m ready, Phil! I can be an undertaker! I can jump through bloody hoops, or flaming ones – any kind really as long as there’s a hole! Issy, tell him I’m ready!”

“I just did, Clive!”

The Undertaker did not speak for the longest time. “So. Ready, are you? But three days of training, and you think you can pass the final test and undergraduate, do you?”

Clive licked his lips. “Well... obviously, it would help if I knew the content. I mean is it... multiple choice... oral or...?”

The Undertaker chuckled darkly. “You’ll see soon enough! I hope Jerry taught you well...”

And with that, the Undertaker was gone, back into the shadows where he belonged.

“Jerry?” muttered Clive. “Not sure he’s taught me anything much, apart from never to keep your purse in the same place you keep your money.”

Isabella sniffed and girlied at Clive’s arm. “So you love me, huh?”

“What?”

“You told me you loved me – up there on the rope!”

“I did?”

“Oh!” she recoiled, “I see! So it was just a ruse to try to get me to hold on a bit longer?”

“No – I – well, yes, but...”

Isabella let Clive’s arm drop and made for the door. “Catch you around, Clive. Second thoughts – catch YOURSELF next time, why don’t you?”

Clive watched her, open-mouthed. “Issy! Issy, wait!” He ran around to get in front of her. She didn’t drop her pace, meaning he had to walk backwards to stay ahead. “Issy – what I meant to say was... since the moment I arrived in London, since that first sunny afternoon when I saw you standing in your window on the Bridge...”

Isabella stopped, her brow knitted. “You were ogling me in my bedroom?”

“Well – the window was open – I mean... what did you expect? I...”

Isabella grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s ok, I’m just yoking you, Clive! Carry on! You’re doing much better this time!”

“Oh, right... well, I’ve sort of lost the flow, but... I was trying to say that... I’ve only seen one girl in London, because... if this was a feast, then you would be the Sun. And all the moons are jealous, because you made them sick...”

Isabella raised her eyebrows. “I make whole planets sick?”

Clive was digging deep now. His eyes were rolling up into his skull. Remember, damn it! “And green... are your clothes...”

“I usually wear blue...”

“And... your eyes are not in your head... because they are stars... in the sky...”

“Now I have no eyes?”

“Your cheeks shame your eyes...”

“Not surprising given that they are missing...”

“And... I want that glove. On your hand!” Clive had finished his solosillyquy! Nailed it! He beamed at her!

Isabella forced a smile. She raised her hand and wiggled her fingers pointedly. “No glove!”

“It’s Shakespeare!” Clive mansplained. “It’s not to be taken literally. You’re not really even supposed to understand it. Or remember it, for that matter. I know I don’t!”

“Mmh, that’s beautiful!” nodded Isabella, dreamily. “But you know what? I would burn the complete works, and the man who wrote them, for one sincere word from the heart!” A sharp poke to his chest. “Your heart.” Nod.

She stepped round him, and continued her beeline for the door.

Clive could only stand and watch, open-mouthed. Even the bard had failed him. Love’s labradors lost, indeed!

Isabella raised a hand to the door handle–

“I do love you.”

Isabella stopped. She turned.

Clive’s hands were open, palms upturned. “I loved you from the moment I saw you. But, it wasn’t real. Not really. You were just a vignette. Then I met you in the bar. But it wasn’t real then either. You were just a mark. Do you know when it was real?”

“My father’s house? The tarot reading?” breathed Isabella. “I mean for me, that was–”

“Just now! When I saw you leaving. And I realised that, if I didn’t stop you walking out that door, you were going to take my heart with you – and all the king’s gold and all the king’s men, might never make Clive a whole man again!”

Isabella looked at Clive long and hard, and then giggled.

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, Clive! Did you just make that up?”

“Most of it.” Clive hoped that was the right answer.

Coy of eye, Isabella sashayed up to him and pressed her lips to his. “Thank you. It was terrible. And that means it was ALL you! Now, finish your training. I want my man with plenty of time on his hands!”

She turned at the door, doe-eyed, over her shoulder. “Perhaps, next time, I’ll let you see more than just my ankles...” And, with a last revealing toss of hem, she was through the door, and gone!