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The buildings of the great city of Placeholder sprawled either side of the dark crack of the river like boils on buttocks. There hadn't been a war or rebellion involving this city for hundreds of years. Not because things were perfect; for the majority of its inhabitants things were far from ideal. It was just that in general, people had better things to do. Like work, or steal (sometimes these were the same thing), or gamble, or drink (often these were done at the same time), or maybe fall in love, get married and have children (these three things are generally unrelated). The people were not what you would call happy, they were more resigned. The human spirit always finds a way of cutting a path through the thorny bushes of life.
Take Albert Finnius Bulber for instance. He hadn't had many choices in life, his father had forced him into the family business from the standard placeholder working age of five. This was somewhat more traumatic than for many Holderians, as Bulber's father was the city mortician. His father had taken him into the large, square building in which he worked and had led him through dark, maze like tunnels until arriving at a gleaming room, entirely covered in brushed metal.
“I need a hand son,” his father had said looking serious, pointing to a metal drawer in the wall. The young Albert had approached it slowly and grasped its ice cold handle. It slid out easily in one smooth movement, Albert stood on his tip toes to look down into the deep drawer and screamed, falling back onto the hard floor. His father was laughing now, pulling the ghastly white, severed hand from the drawer and waggling it at Albert.
”I need a hand! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Despite this rather upsetting beginning to his career, Albert had grown up as a skilled and dedicated mortician. His father's rather unusual sense of humour had though, had a great influence on him.
~~~~
The mortuary sat at the top of a hill at the end of wide, tree lined street which seemed to house various official organisations. Spencer studied the brass signs which adorned each of the large buildings. The Royal Board of Cheese and Wine, The Department of Facial Hair Length Regulations for Placeholder City Employees, The Royal Association of Associations, The Royal Society for Cruelty to Wild Animals.
“Shouldn't that be 'against cruelty to animals'?” Becky glanced up at the sign Spencer was pointing at.
“Sadly, no. Here they think the earth was made for humans, and they don't see why they should share it with anything else. They farm animals. All animals. But anything else they try and eradicate. You wouldn't believe the meat you can get here, have you ever tried sea turtle? It's incredible.”
Spencer gave her a sideways glance. He couldn't tell if she was joking or not.
“That's terrible.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Life as a wild animal is pretty grim. Constantly starving, always scared. At home sea turtles are an endangered species, here there are thousands and thousands of them. They live short, but pretty nice lives in artificial salt water lakes until they're ready to be harvested. It could be worse.” They reached the worn stone steps which led to the door of the mortuary.
“Right, let me do the talking. Just stand behind me and look solemn.”
“Solemn," Spencer replied, "I can do solemn.” He pulled a face at Becky in order to show off his acting skills.
She frowned at him. ‘'You look like you're straining on the toilet.”
“Maybe, but I'm doing it solemnly.” Spencer countered to the back of Becky as she turned and entered the wide doors.
The entrance hall had a 'doctor's waiting room' feel to it. A small area of seating on the right gave way to a counter with frosted glass panes rising from its surface to the ceiling. The central section was clear glass and behind this, a woman sat reading a magazine and twirling her hair.
Becky approached and Spencer was surprised to hear sniffling noises coming from her.
“Excuse me, I, er, I think my sister is here. She... She... was... brought here yesterday, she was hit by a carriage.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose loudly. Spencer was staring at her, caught off guard until he remembered his solemn constipation face and gave it everything he had.
The lady behind the glass picked up a brass tube which had a funnel at one end and spoke into it without looking up.
“Mr Bulber, I have two people to see the girl who fell in front of the carriage.” She continued to flick through her magazine until a voice appeared from the tube in reply.
“Send them through Miss Pague, to the Blue Wing if you would be so kind.”
Without averting her eyes from the magazine she reached below her desk and passed them a large umbrella.
“Go through the double doors, turn right and follow the corridor round until you reach a staircase, go down the stairs and open the umbrella before you go through the double doors at the bottom. Then it's your second left.”
They exchanged a look which communicated that neither of them had a clue what was going on here, but they may as well get on with it.
They followed the disinterested receptionist's instructions until they reached the doors at the bottom of the stairs where Spencer stopped Becky as she began to open the umbrella.
“Hold on, isn't it bad luck to open an umbrella indoors?”
“I think that's only if you believe it is.” Becky shrugged and opened the umbrella fully and held it above her head as she entered through the double doors. As soon as she crossed the threshold a huge crack of thunder rang out and what seemed to be lightning flickered around the pitch black room, suddenly, rain began to fall steadily as the thunder now became a low rumble which was building in the pit of her stomach. Wind had also joined the scene and was blowing her hair everywhere, including over her eyes. She turned to see if Spencer was still with her and managed to hit him in the face with the umbrella.
“What the hell is going on?!” she shouted at him over the roar of the weather.
“It's all just effects,” he shouted back, “keep going!” They huddled under the umbrella and pushed on through the squall until they reached the second door. They burst through, closing the door behind them, into complete calm and serenity compared to the hall they had just left. A man stood in front of them holding two cups of steaming tea with a beaming grin on his face.
“Welcome! I see that you ha...oh.” He looked at the umbrella Becky was holding, as she collapsed it, his smile folded in with it.
“I do wish Miss Pague wouldn't spoil my little games with umbrellas you know, it's really not on.” He rallied quickly and the smile was back.
“Would you like some tea?” Becky took the mug from his hand, it was in the shape of a coffin.
”What the hell was that?!”
“Oh just my little joke! Isn't it marvellous?!”
“Hilarious,” answered Becky sarcastically before noticing Spencer waggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. She suddenly realised she was meant to be in character. her voice took on an immediately, suitably saddened tone.
“I believe my sister was brought here last night?” Albert's expression suddenly changed to one more befitting his position. Spencer looked on in admiration. Now that was solemn.
“I doubt it. Please have a seat.” He waved at two leather backed chairs which sat facing what they assumed was a desk hidden somewhere under the mountains of paper. He sat the other side in a large leather office chair which slowly rocked as he sipped his tea. The room looked like the office of an academic rather than a mortician. Books lined every wall and each surface was covered in books and illustrations of the human body. There were no windows set in the blue walls, just shelf upon shelf. Spencer assumed they were below street level, presumably the bodies were down here too. Becky had brought out the handkerchief again.
“I'm sorry I don't understand, I was told she was here?”
“No, I'm afraid I don't understand Miss?”
“Mrs Baker, this is my husband Tom.” Spencer stifled a giddy laugh at being referred to as her husband by burying his face into his mug of tea which was in the shape of a toe tag.
“I see... The thing is Mrs Baker, that I was assured that the young woman I was brought last night had no living family. I was also told that if anyone came here claiming to be family I should call this number.” He held up a business card which glinted with silver in the light from the gas lamps dotted around the room.
“And if you did call, who would be on the other end?” Spencer asked. Albert smiled again.
“I think the more pertinent question is what would they do with the information that you were here once they had got it? Why do you want to see this woman, who I'm fairly sure isn't your sister?” Spencer looked at Becky, he wasn't going to answer this one, to be honest he wasn't sure himself.
“Ok Mr Bulber, I'll be straight with you. We work for an organisation that investigates suspicious and unusual deaths which we think may be related to our special area of expertise... which is classified. If the person who gave you that card told you to contact them, then you can if you wish, but I don't think you do, or you would have done it by now.” Bulber stood up and smiled.
“You're very perceptive Mrs Baker, follow me.” He walked to the door and flicked a small lever next to it.
“I think I'll turn off my little storm for now don't you?” He moved into the corridor with what they now realised was a strange gait. His legs seemed to swing out wider than was strictly necessary, making him look like he'd sat on a horse for too long.
Now lit normally by more gas lamps that had fired into existence the corridor didn't look any less strange. Theatrical cobwebs lined every corner, occasionally a fake skeleton leered down from the ceiling where it had been pinned. Spencer hit his head on a particularly low hanging one.
“Nice decor, kind of a haunted house theme is it?”
“Yes, it is amusing isn't it? You should see people's faces when they have to come down here! Quite marvellous.”
Spencer and Becky exchanged a look that if vocalised, would have certainly said something along the lines of, “This man, who is leading us to a dark room underground, which contains bodies, is clearly one dried raisin away from being an entire fruit cake.”
They arrived at a very solid looking metal door. Why it needed to be so solid and foreboding was anyone's guess, but it was. Albert hefted it open, a tongue of incredibly cool air shot out and lapped at their faces, turning their breath into cloud forms.
A dark slate floor led to three long walls to the sides and front of them, each lined with metal drawer fronts, each about big enough to fit a human body. In the middle of the room was a metal table, on top of which was clearly a body covered by a white sheet. Implements that made Spencer's stomach turn a little, were scattered across another small table pulled up alongside. Blades, tongs and pliers all shone in the glow of the bank of oil lamps which hung on a wooden beam above the table. Albert moved to the other side of the table and looked at them with a solemn frown.
“I've seen a lot of cart accidents, and a lot of injuries from them, but I have never seen anything like this.” He swept back the sheet and uncovered the woman's face. Or at least, where her face should have been. Spencer felt his stomach lurch and he turned away before the bacon sandwiches reappeared in an unpleasant manner. The woman's face had been completely destroyed, there was almost nothing remaining of her features, just a pulpy mess.
“This cart,” Becky asked, “did it happen to reverse over her a few times after it hit her?”
Albert smiled.
“Ah, I see you feel, like me, that these injuries are somewhat unlikely from a road traffic accident. I'll be blunt. I knew that something fishy was going on the second this young women came across my table. The people who then turned up almost immediately and told me to log this as a normal accident and call if anyone came asking about, were not... pleasant. So what I propose is that you memorise these details. Then I think you should leave as soon as possible and do not mention that you were here.” Becky took the business card he offered her and looked at it for a few seconds.
“Thank you Mr Bulber.”
Spencer wasn’t listening. He was staring wide eyed and open mouthed at the side of the bench where the woman's body lay. Her hand had fallen off the side and was hanging down below the sheet which covered her. In the center of the back of her hand was a small birthmark in what looked like the shape of a small, smudged crown. It couldn’t be.
“Spencer?" He snapped out of whatever was holding his attention and turned to her.
“Sorry, it's nothing, let's go.”