Hoy! Agnes pokes him in the chest. Now you listen to me, Kamuzu Aziz, that poor girl can talk dirty with the rest of them. And she needs the money.
But-
But nothin. If you think. . . She stared into the cubicle: the Sexy Sadie hotline was ringing. Well, go on then, Tracy show him what youre made of!
She does, making a big show of the striptease and self fondling. The man on the other end moans and groans and grunts his way to fifteen minutes forty-nine seconds, Tracys longest romantic encounter all night by a long shot. She hangs up and beams. Agnes gives her a round of applause.
Mr Aziz shrugs. All right, all right. You can be Sexy Sadie for the rest of the night. Only put more moaning into it. The punters like a bit of moaning. Then he shuffles back to his copy of the Racing Post.
Tracy blinks back the tears. Thanks, Agnes.
Dont mention it. Now, if youll excuse me, Ive got some dodgy double glazin to sell.
Now shes learned the magic formula, theres no stopping her. The next call lasts twenty minutes and the one after that a full twenty-five. Do this every night and their money worries would be over. Well, not over, but theyd be able to pay off the funeral.
Maybe Mr Aziz could put her on full time? She could be Spanking Susan, or Horny Helen, or Lusty Laura, or something. Have explicit postcards of her very own plastered over every telephone box in Oldcastle. Not that shell pose for the photo herself itll be months before she loses the baby weight, and lets face it, she was hardly skinny to start with no shed do the same as all the other women and let Mr Aziz pick one of his nieces to model the thong and stilettos.
The next call is a funny one, and not funny ha, ha either. Its a woman with a growling, furious voice. I know what you are! I know what you are! A nut job, phoning up to cause trouble, too stupid to realize that shes getting charged for every second the call lasts, just like the men who want someone to talk filthy to them. And I know where you are!
Tracy blinks. Excuse me?
You heard! Ive got a friend in the police: they traced the number. I know where you are, whore! Youre a shit stain on the human race, you hear me WHORE? Theres more, but Tracy doesnt listen to it, just kills the line and sits back shaking.
The phone goes again and she jumps, letting out a little shriek. No one notices: shrieks and moans are par for the course around here.
Theres silence from the other end of the phone and then, Is that Sadie? A mans voice; not the mad harpy again. Thank God for that.
Maybe she should try out her new persona: Dirty Debbie?
No, better save it until shes got her own kinky postcards. Start to build a clientele.
You better believe it. She goes for deep and sultry, but it comes out sounding a bit blocked up instead. Do you like dirty girls?
You dont sound like Sadie. . . I want to speak to Sadie. Theres something familiar about his voice, but Tracy cant quite place it.
I told you: Im Sadie. If youre going to be naughty Ill have to spank you!
I dont. . . Another pause: hes thinking about it. He has to be one of Agness regulars, or he wouldnt know what the real Sadie sounds like. I suppose I have been naughty.
Hmmm, well I think well have to do something about that. Wont we? She launches into her routine, doing the undressing thing while he whimpers and groans on the other end of the phone.
Where the hell does she know his voice from? Its so bloody familiar. . .
Then he says, Naughty! Im a naughty boy! Spank me! and she knows. Oh God!
She punches the button and hangs up on him. The stopwatch has the call at a little under five minutes. She sits staring at the phone. It starts to ring again.
Go away, go away, go away!
Fifteen rings later, and Agnes is hanging over the side of the cubicle. Are you feeling all right, dear? The phone keeps ringing. Is it the baby? Have you got your contractions?
Tracy drags her eyes from the phone and looks up at her. No. . . Please, can. . . I cant . . . its. . . She pulls her headset off and backs away from the cubicle. Her stomach churns like morning sickness all over again.
Agnes hurries around and takes the call, telling the man on the other end what he wants to hear.
Its stupid. Shes imagining it. A lot of people sound the same over the phone especially when theyve got an Oldcastle accent.
Agnes moans and groans her way to a climax. Only takes ten minutes, she must be worried to end it so quickly. She disconnects the call. What is it Tracy? You can tell me: what is it?
She points at the phone and says, I . . . I thought it was. . . She blushes, picks at a button on her maternity dress. Never mind.
Agnes hurries around and takes the call, telling the man on the other end what he wants to hear.
Its stupid. Shes imagining it. A lot of people sound the same over the phone especially when theyve got an Oldcastle accent.
Agnes moans and groans her way to a climax. Only takes ten minutes, she must be worried to end it so quickly. She disconnects the call. What is it Tracy? You can tell me: what is it?
She points at the phone and says, I . . . I thought it was. . . She blushes, picks at a button on her maternity dress. Never mind.
Agnes grins. I know what you mean. First couple of months I was sure I was speaking to my neighbour, milkman, the boy who works at the bingo hall on Thursdays. . . In the end I just decided, so what? They dont know Im Sexy Sadie: doesnt matter if I recognize them, does it? Its all just make-believe. Agnes gets up, then pats the vacant seat. Come on. Sooner you get back on the horse, the sooner youre earning again.
Tracy nods. Its stupid.
She settles back into the seat.
Agnes hands her the headset. That was one of my biggest fans. Calls at least twice a week, poor soul. Wife wont let him touch her. If it wasnt for me, I dont know what hed do.
Tracy manages a sickly smile and doesnt tell Agnes why she thinks she knows the voice. Nor does she dial 1471 to find the number he phoned from. She just sits and stares at the phone, willing it to ring again and erase the last Caller ID record.
It was stupid. It wasnt him. Her dad wouldnt ring a sex line to masturbate down the phone at her, not while Mums lying in a coffin at the funeral directors.
The phone rings and she nearly screams. With trembling fingers she puts on the headset, takes three deep breaths, and picks up the call.
Maybe selling double glazing isnt such a bad job after all.
5: Gold Rings
There is never a good time to look upon the face of a dead loved one. This is something Mr Unwin understands all too well, because he sees it every day.
Mrs Riley is the latest addition to his world: the world of mahogany caskets and heavy velvet curtains: of subdued lighting and soothing classical music. And the calming smell of lavender, to cover anything unpleasant coming from the dearly departed.
Mrs Riley cries and cries and cries, while Mr Riley does his best to comfort his heavily pregnant wife. She is distraught: she has lost her mother. He is stoic: he has lost his mother-in-law, which is not the same thing at all. And little Chloe who has lost her grandmother seems completely unconcerned. She sits on the carpet by the casket, pulling the petals off a white carnation and sticking them up her nose.
And all the time Mr Unwin stands in silence by the door of the small room, hands folded in front of him, waiting for the family to finish. Patience is a virtue. The dead will not be rushed.
Finally Mrs Riley cries herself to a shuddering standstill and her husband leads her from the chapel of rest, taking little Chloe with them. Thanks. He places a hand on Mr Unwins shoulder. Youve done a wonderful job. She looks so. . . He casts a glance back at the open coffin. So peaceful.
Mr Unwin nods. Im glad we could help. And shows them to the door.
Well? Mr McNulty shifts his chair closer to the embalming table as Mr Unwin pushes back through into the preparation room. They gone? He runs a thick-fingered hand across his shiny scalp, stroking the liver spots.
Yes, Duncan, theyve gone. Mr Unwin takes off his black jacket and hangs it up, then dons the heavy rubber apron again. Im sorry it took so long, but Mrs Riley was quite distraught.
Mr McNulty shrugs, then takes another swig from his bottle of Glenfiddich, They say it?
Very peaceful? Yes, they said it. They always say it.
You going to make her look very peaceful? He points at the large, doughy, naked woman on the embalming table. You going to. . . Another drink. You going to. . .
Mr Unwin folds his hands, stands still as a headstone. Are you sure you want to be here while I prepare her?
But Mr McNulty doesnt reply, just stares at the pale, yellowy body.
Duncan, please, Ill take good care of her, I promise. Go home and get some rest.
No. No I want to be with her. To help. Its the least I can do. . . He wipes his nose on his sleeve. I. . . Oh God. . . And with that Mr McNulty dissolves into tears.
Mr Unwin waits until he has cried himself out, before escorting him to the back door. Dont worry, shes in good hands.
Mr McNulty nods, wipes his eyes, then slouches back up the stairs.
Mr Unwin closes and locks the back door. Then turns and smiles at the woman lying in the preparation room waiting for him to work his magic.
Mrs McNulty was, and still is, a big woman: eighteen stone of flesh, bone and fat. All those years she and Mr McNulty have lived in the small flat above the funeral home UNWIN AND MCNULTY, UNDERTAKERS EST. 1965 and this is the first time Mr Unwin has ever seen her naked.
He pats her pale belly. The skin is cold and greasy, like chicken taken from the refrigerator. But Mrs McNulty is no spring chicken. Then again, Mr McNulty isnt much of a catch either: short, chubby, bald and dour. But a good man for all that. . .
There is a particular smell that comes with embalming people. A mixture of raw meat and disinfectant, with a faint underlying taint of decay. Its an acquired taste, but Mr Unwin has had years to get used to it. Now it smells like home. Like a job well done. A chance to use his talents. To do what he was born to do. To make the dearly departed look peaceful.
And then, when Mrs McNultys body fluids have been swapped out for preservative, and all her personal orifices bunged up with gauze pads to make sure she doesnt leak in her casket, he pulls over his special toolkit and stares at her face. Studying the lines and wrinkles, the thread-veins in her cheeks, the mole on her chin with one long hair poking out, the freckles on her forehead. Then sets to work on her face.