Double Bad Things

By Matthew Hattersley

He didn't want to get involved. He knew those guys were bad. But now Mikey's hiding dead bodies for gangsters…

 

His cousins are to blame. They convinced him it would be okay. Worse still, they're making Mikey use the family undertaker business as cover. Putting the murders in with closed casket burials. Whatever would would his Dad say?

 

Mikey feels scared, trapped. Then his Ma is taken ill and he thinks life can't get any worse. But he was wrong…

 

The gangsters have other jobs for Mikey. Jobs he doesn't realise the dark implications of until it's too late. He only ever wanted a quiet life.  But now people he cares about are dying and the police want to talk.

 

Mikey has to make a choice. Keep quiet, protect his family. Or become a very reluctant hero.

 

But can a gentle giant whose only friends are a cosplay-obsessed teen and an imaginary alien really take down a deadly gang and avoid arrest himself?

 

Double Bad Things is a dark and quirky crime thriller - for fans of Dexter and Six Feet Under.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boom Boom Press
• Release date: Jan 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224640959

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The skin on my neck prickles as DS Kestler appears at the back of the crematorium. He stands there in the doorway. Bold as brass, as Ma would say. As though he’s every right to be here. I watch him out the corner of one eye as he joins the line of mourners making their way towards the casket. I’m not sure what he’s hoping to achieve by doing this. Trying to spook me perhaps? You can only swerve someone like DS Kestler for so long before he finds you.

Have you ever heard that saying: if there’s no body, then there’s no murder? Well, if you have, ignore it, because it isn’t true, not in every case. I’m just finding that out now. It’s not the best timing, no it’s not.

DS Kestler looks over at me, as though making sure I’ve seen him. I feel like marching over there and telling him: whatever he’s here for, he’s had a wasted trip. He’s not going to find anything. Not today. Not without some serious power tools.

For the tenth time in five minutes I feel for the key in my trouser pocket. The special key that looks like a hexagon if you stare down one end and is the only way anyone gets to open that casket today without making a real scene. What I’m hoping is even DS Kestler wouldn’t go that far. Without a warrant, I’d like to see him try.

The funeral this afternoon is for Mrs Lemington. A lovely old lady, everyone has said. Though you ask me people talk a lot of nonsense about dead people, act as though they were some kind of saint, using words like generous and kind and so very funny. They’ll tell you how they were so active. So full of life. That is until they suffer a fatal heart attack whilst having a bath, like Mrs Lemington. Poor old lady. At least it was quick, from what you can tell. Thing is, with these sorts of jobs it’s not always easy to tell.

You see, when someone lives on their own and dies in the bath, oftentimes no one finds them straight away. We’ve had bodies come in that were lying in bath water for weeks. They’re the really nasty jobs, the sort Robbie will never attend. When Callum and me pulled Mrs Lemington out of the tub she’d been soaking for at least five days straight. Water does weird things to the body after that long, especially to old people. Bloats them up in weird ways, breaks down the cells quicker. In the business we call it a closed casket job. To each other we call it human soup.

But that’s not a nice thing to say about someone and Jamelle would say I should practise my compassion.

She’d say, Not classy, sugar. She’d say, Hold more respect for the dead.

The thing about Jamelle is she’s pretty much always right. That’s one of her best traits.

Still, in this job you have to laugh at death now and again. Gallows humour they call it. It helps you deal with grief and other things that can cloud your thinking. If you ask me, jokes are a good thing. They get you through the bad times.

And there’s been plenty of those.

DS Kestler is still looking over so I give him my best funeral smile. Solemn, but kind. The sort of smile people do when they don’t know what to say. He doesn’t smile back. Just stares, all cold-like in his eyes. You could say he’s giving me the creeps. And for an undertaker to say that it must mean something.

‘Robbie’s still not answering. Lazy git.’ I jump a little as Callum appears beside me. He looks angry, his mean face even meaner, redder than usual. He sneers at his phone and stuffs it back in his pocket. ‘He told me he’d help work this service. Seeing as you’re too good for it these days.’

I shrug. I’m here aren’t I?

‘Woah. Shit. Isn’t that the copper was in asking about Morina? You know the one I mean. In the line, there.’

I pretend to look.

‘Don’t remember.’ I try to make my voice sound casual as possible. ‘He could be a relation?’

Callum grunts.

‘Keep your eyes on him. The last thing we need is the fuzz sniffing around.’ He spits these last words out, causing one of the mourners to turn around and give us the evil eye. Callum mouths sorry and shuffles his way off to stand by the casket as tuneless organ music drifts into the room. Almost show time. A few more seconds and DS Kestler will have to take a seat with everyone else.

I close my eyes, try and imagine what Fistar would say if he was here.

He’d say, Calm the hell down brother. He’d say, Mikey, be cool like a cucumber.

Cool like a cucumber.

I say it to myself a few times, but it doesn’t help. The problem is, it’s not only Mrs Lemington in the casket and that’s the reason why my heart is beating loud and fast, like the drums at the start of Sunday Bloody Sunday.

Dada dada da bum bum bum…

That’s why every move DS Kestler makes is freaking me out, double-big time, yes it is.

Dada dada da bum bum bum…

He’s almost at the front of the line, his mouth twisted to one side in concentration. What that means is he knows something. What it means is I need to think fast.

Dada dada da bum bum bum…

One more step and he’s at the casket, walking around it, eyeing it up as though it’s a used car he’s thinking of buying. Then a smile appears at the corner of his mouth. The sort of smile you do when you know you’ve got the upper hand.

Dada dada da bum bum bum…

He bows his head and then looks straight at me with narrow eyes, and even though it’s the worst thing to do, I can’t help but look away. Be cool Mikey. He knows nothing.

Dada dada da bum bum bum…

Then he’s walking towards me, all confident, as if he’s got a really funny joke he wants to share and he can’t wait to tell me.

Dada dada da bum bum bum…

But there is no joke here. That’s the problem. All that’s here is a big, stupid mess and right now I have no idea how I’m going to get out of it.

6 MONTHS EARLIER…

CHAPTER 2

My first client today is Mr Angelos. An older gentleman. Not much hair. If I was to guess I’d say he’s sixty-eight, maybe sixty-nine. Though from the looks of things, he hasn’t lived the best life, so he could be younger. Either way he’s not getting any older.

I pull back the cover and tilt the light, so it shines better on his face. Mr Angelos has already been through the embalming process, so today’s jobs are mainly reconstruction and make-up. Robbie and Callum always leave these parts to me, but I don’t mind. I enjoy my work. Lubs says the correct term for what I do is an encoffineer, but that’s too hard to say, so I just call it fix-up work. Fix-up work is my favourite part of what we do here. Sometimes I’ll be here in the backroom all day long and never see anyone and that suits me just fine, yes it does. I don’t even mind doing the really nasty stuff, like plugging up personal areas to stop purge fluid leaking out if it means Robbie and Callum leave me alone.

I slide open the metal drawer under my bench and take out Box of Tricks. That’s what I call the box where I keep all my make-up and glue and padding material, and anything else I might need for this part of the process. Tricks is the right word too, yes it is. Some of the stuff I can do still amazes me. Industry secrets.

The notes say Mr Angelos had a massive stroke whilst walking his dog and died in the ambulance on his way to hospital. That means it’s a pretty straight-forward job. He’s already dressed in his best suit and there’s no visible lividity. That’s when blood stops flowing round your body and because of gravity it collects in places and turns the skin purple, like a big old bruise. Lividity marks can be real hard to cover up if they happen in the face as it makes it go all blotchy and swollen. I always say, if you want to leave a good-looking corpse, always sleep on your back. Like I do. Chances are you’ll die that way. That’s if you’re lucky, anyway.

To counter lividity you can use a chemical called Dryene, which is a kind of bleach that works on the tissue and removes some of the purple. But not all of it. After that regular cosmetics do the real work. Box of Tricks is full of concealing creams, foundations, cover up spray - all stuff you can get from the chemist - as well as powders in every colour you can imagine. They look so pretty when I lay them out next to each other, all there to make people’s loved ones look special on their final outing in the world. I apply make-up to every open casket job. Even men. Even really big scary-looking men. Without make-up dead bodies look too much like – well – dead bodies.

‘What the fuck is that on your face?’ I look up to see Robbie standing in the doorway shaking his head at me. ‘Seriously Mike, what do you think you look like?’

I don’t give him an answer because he’s not waiting for one. That’s what you call a rhetorical question. He only said it to try and hurt my feelings so I need to ignore him like Lubs and Ma say I should. What he’s talking about is my new beard design, modelled off Tony Stark’s in the Iron Man and Avengers movies. It took two hours to get perfect last night, and it wasn’t easy all back-to-front in the mirror, no it wasn’t. I was going to ask Ma to help, but she was too tired.

‘Is Cal in yet?’ Robbie asks.

I shake my head. I haven’t seen Callum since at least Thursday. Like I say, I prefer working alone, so I don’t ask questions.

‘I’ve got to pop out,’ Robbie says. ‘Tell him to text me if you see him. It’s important.’

I say I will and wait as he stares at me a while longer, laughing to himself, but in a way that has no fun or niceness to it. Just meanness.

‘I’m serious, you need to shave that fucking beard off. You look weird enough. It’s not good for business if the guy messing with the bodies looks like some freak.’

He laughs his nasty laugh again. With his shirt sleeves rolled up you can see all his tattoos and with his shaved-head and stubbly chin I’d say he’s the one who looks bad for business. But I don’t say that, it’s not worth it. Instead I turn my attention back to Mr Angelos, selecting a tube of foundation labelled Coffee Mirage and applying a little to his forehead for a tone match. It’s much easier to apply foundation to embalmed tissue. When it’s not embalmed the cream slides around.

‘Are you listening? We can’t have punters thinking you’re in the backroom doing weird shit to grandma. Get rid please.’

‘I like my beard.’

‘You what?’

‘I said I like my beard,’ I use my loudest voice.

‘Yeah well I don’t. And Callum won’t. You look like a poofter wizard, or something.’ He’s about to go through to the front office when he turns back around. ‘Hey, you’ll like this one. Did I ever tell you about the time I banged my fifth form English teacher, Mrs Beverly?’

I don’t answer him.

‘Amazing ride she was. Proper good shag.’ He looks at me wide-eyed, an evil grin spreading across his face. ‘So what if I had to wait twenty years and become a funeral director first?’ He bursts out laughing at this. There’s still no joy in it, but he slaps his thigh like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever head. ‘Do you get it? She was dead.’

I look away and imagine what Patrick Striker would do right now. He wouldn’t laugh, that’s for sure. He’d rise above this nonsense. Patrick Striker never concerns himself with nasty, negative people like Robbie. He’s strong and he’s calm and what everyone says about him is he’s goodness incarnate.

Robbie is still laughing to himself.

‘You don’t get it, do you? Oh my god you fucking virgin, you don’t get it.’

I don’t answer him, but I get it. He’s being dirty and I don’t like jokes like that. About doing bad stuff to the bodies in our care. If you ask me, that’s what make us look bad, not cool goatee beards like Tony Stark’s. Robbie is stupid. He’s the one who doesn’t get it.

I put my headphones on and turn my iPod to full volume. This is my favourite thing to do when I’m embalming or doing fix-up work because I can concentrate better when I shut off the rest of the world.

The first song that comes on today is Indian Summer Sky. Not one of my favourite U2 tracks, but the rule is: I’m not allowed to skip. Not even if the song has already been on twice that day.

I get to work on Mr Angelos, rubbing foundation cream over his face and neck, making sure I get it nice and even. In the end I go for Warm Olive foundation rather than Coffee Mirage as it matches his skin tone better. I’ve already put a little rose-pink dye in with the formaldehyde, which helps the overall look. Once it’s pumped round the arteries the colour shines out under the skin and gives the body a healthy glow. Healthy for a dead body anyway. Industry secrets.

Oftentimes I’ll have a photo to work from, but not always. Not with Mr Angelos. So I have to imagine what he looked like when he was alive and recreate that as near as possible. Some undertakers use too much make-up and their clients end up looking far too fancy, but my work is more subtle, and that’s a good thing, yes it is. I take pride in what I do.

I’m just starting with the powder when I feel a sharp pain in my arm and look around to see Robbie. He hits me again and then reaches up and pulls my earphones out.

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ he snarls. ‘The phone’s been ringing for the last five minutes.’

I didn’t hear.

‘Couldn’t you answer it?’

I turn back around and dust powder on Mr Angelos, making his skin all soft and healthy-looking.

‘I was with someone in the showroom, dickhead. Some bint who wouldn’t stop crying’

I tell him I’m sorry. I tell him I was lost in my work.

‘You were lost listening to that stupid music,’ he says. ‘That was an important call too. I answered it in time but if it rings again, answer it.’

‘Fine.’ I look at the floor. I don’t enjoy answering the telephone so much.

‘Anyway,’ Robbie says, smiling now as though he’s my friend. ‘Are you nearly done with Super Mario here?’

I put down my brush. ‘Mr Angelos. Yeah, he’s ready for his casket.’

‘Great. Cos I need you to do a pick-up for me this afternoon. A really important job. So we need our best man on it.’

I stare at him. He’s being weird. Too friendly. He keeps on staring at me, making his eyes go all big and his smile even bigger. Definitely weird.

‘Okay, I’ll do it.’ I say. ‘What’s the address?’

‘Nice one, Mike. I knew we could rely on you.’

Twenty-five minutes later I’m driving through the centre, heading for the north of the city. I can hear Fistar’s voice as I drive.

That Robbie is up to something Mikey. I can sense it.

I nod to myself. He’s right, and it’ll be something nasty and stupid, knowing my cousins. They’re always trying to get more by doing less. That’s what Ma says.

The sat-nav directs me into a quiet suburban street and I pull up outside number four. This is the place. I switch off the engine and get out, noticing a police lady stood at the front door of the house. There’s also an ambulance pulling up, but they’ve had a wasted trip. If I’m here, there’s no reason for them to be.

‘Can I help you sir?’ the police lady says as I get closer.

‘Powers Brothers Funerals,’ I say. ‘I’m here to collect the body.’

‘Not yet you aren’t,’ she says all cold-like. ‘Must have been a mix up. This is currently a crime scene.’

I try and look past her but she’s not moving a muscle. I’m not sure what to say now so I stand there and look at my feet for a little while. After a few minutes I ask the police lady what I should do.

‘The body will stay in the police morgue while we work out a cause of death. After that she’s out of our hands. If the family have hired you, we’ll hand the body over once we’re through.’

‘Okay,’ I say, confused. ‘So I don’t need to be here?’

‘That’s right.’

I sidestep to my left to try and see through the window. There are black scorch marks up the wall.

‘What happened to her?’ I ask.

‘I’m not at liberty. Once we sign it off you’ll get the paper work. Now, I suggest you leave the premises. Sir.’

She stares at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable, so I get back in the van and drive back to the funeral home as fast as I’m allowed. On the stereo Bono sings about not being able to find what he’s looking for. I want to tell him, I know how he feels.

Bono’s real name is Paul David Hewson but everyone calls him Bono and I think even his friends do. I was really excited when I was younger and first realised you could ask people to call you by a different name and they would. Same with The Edge. Real name: David Howell Evans. If you ask me it only adds to the goodness of U2 that the two best ones have cool nicknames. It’s like superheroes having secret identities.

I pull up outside the funeral home and head straight inside. I haven’t planned what I’m going to say yet, but the hair is standing up on my arms and I’m having trouble breathing. Robbie is in the office as I go through to front of house, legs up on the table. I stride over and shove the office door a little too hard. It crashes against the wall.

‘Did you do that on purpose?’ I say.

Robbie jumps. ‘Do what on purpose?’

‘Send me off knowing the body wasn’t even ready for a pick up.’

‘Hey, come on. Why would I do that? Must have been an admin error.’

‘Ah shit, what are you doing here?’

I turn around to see Callum striding across the shop floor carrying a large ornamental urn. One of our bestsellers. He places it down on the table.

‘Woah, what the fuck is that beard all about?’ He comes up real close to me and for a second I think about smashing him down like Fistar would, but instead I count to ten in my head, try and relax. ‘We’ll discuss that monstrosity later. Robbie said you were on a job all afternoon.’

‘There was no pick-up,’ I tell him.

Callum looks at Robbie. ‘Okay, fine. What are you doing now? Backroom stuff?’

I shake my head. All done for today. I sit down at the office desk.

‘Probably eat my sandwich. Do some writing.’

‘No. We need this room,’ Robbie shouts, then, speaking quieter, ‘We’ve got business to deal with…a meeting…an important business meeting. You can’t be here.’

‘Don’t I need to be in the meeting, if it’s about our business?’

‘No. You can’t,’ Callum snaps.

What my cousins don’t seem to realise is we’re equal partners here at Powers Brothers Funerals. Equal partners: Uncle Sean said those exact words when he sat the three of us down and announced he was retiring last year. Said seeing as him and my Dad started the business together I was just as much entitled to it as they were. Even if my Dad wasn’t around anymore.

‘It’s just we need you out front,’ Callum goes on. ‘Don’t we Rob? To meet some new clients.’

They both nod their heads and Callum gestures for me to stand up. Now I’m certain something’s wrong. Normal times they don’t like me meeting the public. Definitely not new clients. Even though I’ve been practising being more friendly and welcoming, yes I have.

Callum guides me out of the office to where a man and a woman are stood looking at our mid-price urns.

‘Mr and Mrs Barden,’ Callum whispers in my ear. ‘The client is her dad. Cancer. But they seem okay about it. I reckon they’ve got a bob or two as well, so go for it with the up-sells.’ He slaps me on the back and heads back to the office, saying, ‘Don’t forget: be professional.’

I shrug, whatever. And he thinks I’m the weird one. I’m about to tell him: I’m always professional, like a good funeral director should be, but before I get a chance Mr Barden turns and looks right at me.

‘Do you work here?’

‘Yes. Hello,’ I say, trying to focus my attention on him. ‘My name is Michael. I’m one of the directors here at Powers Brothers Funerals. I believe yourselves are looking to arrange a ceremony, with ourselves. For a loved one. Who has passed away.’

He steps back a little. ‘Erm, yes,’ he says. ‘It’s my wife’s father.’

I smile my best smile and force myself to look him right in the eyes. Strong eye contact means you’re showing interest and showing interest is a big step in making a good impression.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we sit down and we can talk through all your options?’

I take them over to the desk we have set up in the far corner. Normally we’d do this on the office computer but that’s out of bounds because of the stupid meeting, so I grab a pad of paper to take notes on, proud to be improvising so well. This is exactly what Patrick Striker would do if things weren’t going to plan.

‘May I please ask, where is the body is at the moment?’ I’m making sure I look from Mr Barden to Mrs Barden and back again. When speaking to more than one person it’s important to look at everyone as much as you can.

‘My father, is still at the hospital,’ Mrs Barden snaps and I realise I’ve done something wrong. Mrs Barden stares at me, her eyes bulging out of their sockets. I want to look away but I force myself to keep looking forward.

Keep it together, Mikey, Fistar says. You can do this.

If you find it difficult to look someone in the eyes it’s helpful to focus on something else on their face. Mrs Barden has a thick line in between her eyebrows that gets even thicker when she scowls like she is doing now. I focus on that.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell her, ‘let’s start again. And let me assure you, at Powers Brothers Funerals we ensure your loved one's transition is handled as compassionately as possible.’ I look up from the headed note paper, making sure they haven’t seen me reading off the tagline that’s in curly letters at the bottom of each page.

‘So, what are our options?’ Mr Barden asks.

I clear my throat and give them the full low down. I tell them the first thing that happens in cases like this is the body - your father - is brought here and either placed in a cremation container or embalmed and prepared for viewing. Mr Barden says they want to have father embalmed and they want an open coffin. Many people in England use the word coffin when they mean casket, so I show them some picture examples to make sure. The only real difference is the shape: straight up and down for a casket, diamond shaped for a coffin. That’s as much as you need to know anyway, if you aren’t in the business. Caskets are what you’ll see in most movies these days, unless it’s an old black and white kind of movie. Coffins are cheaper than caskets because they use less wood. Industry secrets.

‘And if we have an open casket on the day, Dad will look – okay – will he?’ Mrs Barden asks. ‘He’ll look like he did?’

‘Yes,’ I say to Mrs Barden, and give her my best smile. ‘I’ll make sure your father looks like he