Colm Brady

The Scourge

The Scourge opened the double door onto the street and took in the view. The convent across the road was bustling with nuns imposing their will on the young girls as they went to class. The Scourge approved of organised religion, after all it was intrinsic to his business, but he knew the nuns didn’t like him. It was difficult for a man like him to reconcile what other people thought of him and how he saw himself. He saw himself as having gravitas, which is essential in the undertaking profession. He had even looked up the word in the Readers Digest and was satisfied with the definition; dignity or solemnity of manner. He had inherited the business and was keen for it to prosper. His father had been fond of a joke and used to say there were people dying to get into his premises. He always howled with mirth when he said this, while making sure that there were no customers around, of course.
The etched glass door of McWeeney and Sons, Funeral Directors, closed behind him as Tommy the Trooper sped by. He was on his way to O’Gara’s daily opening ceremony and the Scourge idly measured him up. Five foot five and ten stone, probable sclerosis of the liver and poor financial status. Tommy would be a plain pine box, the basic model without even the purple velvet around the handles but it all counted. The Scourge was proud of his diagnostic skills and performed the same calculation on everyone he met. He had a mental dossier on the population of Dogtown and a fair idea of how and when they would die. He didn’t like that word “die”, it was so final, he preferred to use “pass away” to his clients. He often found discarded medical journals in the hospital on his rounds and had built himself a useful library at home. The doctor that the journals had been addressed to had an interest in tropical medicine and so the Scourge was an expert on Giardia and Bilharzia and other ailments of limited use in a place like Dogtown.
He cast his gaze in the other direction and saw Mrs. Lynch striding up the road with her tartan shopping trolley. Five foot ten and no sign of ill health; badness gave her the ability to avoid death and she would probably outlive him by a good few years. The town was covered by a blanket of bituminous coal smoke and this warmed his heart. Not literally but the incidence of Emphysema and Asthma was always up at this time of year. A good dose of Asthma could finish off an old person and then it was time for the old McWeeney shuffle. He would hold the fingers of the bereaved in both hands and whisper advice and commiseration. The face was essential, the fixed line of the jaw and the wounded look in the eyes, eyes that had seen too much. It would all be perfect if it wasn’t for him, he ruined it all and he had no Gravitas, none at all.
Maurice came through with a mug of tea for his employer. The mug was another keepsake from the hospital and advertised a drug for treating post-natal depression. Maurice was small and hunched with massive eyebrows like the protruding antennae of a beetle. He had worked for the Scourge’s father in his day and took pride in the running of the business. The children in the school called him Igor but he didn’t care. Embalming was his life and he spent hours in the back with vats of formaldehyde and arcane lotions. If you love your job then you will probably be good at it, was his motto.
“The widow Hughes is coming in to pick a memorial card.”
“Oh good, get the samples out of the back Maurice.”
As Maurice disappeared into his lair the double doors opened and a woman came in clutching a handbag. The Scourge lifted his head in mock surprise and stepped forward.
“Ah Mrs. Hughes, did you have a chance to look at the memorial cards?”
“Yes I did and I narrowed it down to two.”
Her husband had died of blood poisoning from a cut on a rusty fence. Septicaemia had set in and he had his arm amputated but to no avail. The Scourge would be paid the full fee even though he had not buried the whole cadaver. Some would have mentioned it but not him with his Gravitas. The competition was known to crack jokes, that would be just like him.
“I like the verse on that one.” He said pointing at a card.
“….He knew you had to rest….God only takes the best.”
The Scourge tried to look soulful as the widow agreed.
“I will let the printers know and, ahem, I don’t want to add to your burden…”
The widow looked at him blankly then understanding dawned on her. She reached for a cheque book from her bag and filled out the amount.
“Thank you so much Mr. McWeeney, you have been a great help.”
The widow turned for the door and the Scourge made his assessment to Maurice who had been hovering in the back.
“She won’t last a year and those children of hers would probably give the job to the opposition. True, he is cheaper and has a newer hearse but he doesn’t have the ….”
“Credibility,” said Maurice in what he hoped was a supportive voice.
“You wouldn’t see him picking memorial cards, the dirty miscreant.”
Maurice just nodded, he knew better than to get between his employer and his pet subject.
“He wears skinny ties and hugs all the women, even the old ones. There were rumours that he was getting the widows to sign over property to him. Disgusting.”
Maurice reckoned the Scourge would be over the counter in a second if he thought there was a few quid in it but said nothing. Working here was often an exercise in biting one’s lip. The job involved a certain amount of heavy lifting and a lot of standing around looking sombre. Outside three men dragged Tommy the Trooper out of O’Gara’s pub. He had exhausted most of his disability money by now and his sons had been ordered to get him home.
The phone rang and the Scourge answered it.
“Good Afternoon, McWeeney’s funeral directors. Yes, this is he. Oh I am sorry for your loss…yes…yes of course.” He hung up and addressed Maurice.
“A job on Pollard Street, Josie Murphy.”
“The Bullock Murphy?”
“The very one. Five foot Six and thirteen stone. Alzheimer’s. If anyone asks you, say it was a blessed release for him.”
“Blessed release.”
“Bang on. Now Josie hadn’t an arse in his trousers but his son did well in America. This could be a nice little job for us.”
“The deluxe treatment?”
“I reckon so. We just have to show Gravitas, show that we are still number one in this town.”
“Gravitas.”
“That’s the spirit. We will show Clint Duffy how to do this job. Am I right?”
“Dead right, Mr. McWeeney.”

posted by Colm Brady @ 2:23 PM