EXCERPT:
Tim followed Mister Gallagher into his office. The man invited him to sit in a chair and he sat opposite of him, behind a huge desk. The room was small, rather cold, and poorly lit. It was sparingly furnished with wooden cabinets and small tables neatly placed against a faded green wall, so neatly placed in fact each piece looked like it had not been moved for over a decade, and the wall behind was darker in color, perhaps its original dark green. A few solitary chairs, neglectedly scattered around the room as to seat phantom guests, were covered with old velvet of the same faded green color, and the old carpet, the closed thick curtains, all were invariably green. Mister Gallagher’s eyes were also green. He grinned vaguely. In fact, his thin lips seemed unable to decide whether he should smile or not, nevertheless he did not seem unfriendly.
The tall and thin man brought his elbows to the dusty tabletop and wrung his hands as he examined the young man facing him. But more than the man, Tim’s attention remained focused on the dust. It covered everything in this room, including Mister Gallagher. It was on the shoulders of his black overcoat, in the folds of his black tie, and it even seemed to have found its way onto his pale skin and the long greasy curls of his unkempt black hair. He seemed more of a revenant than a man of flesh and bone. And yet he had those lively and piercing emerald green eyes, cat’s eyes, that were the only living part of him. Tim felt as though he might like him. Men and women who lived in a whirlwind of colors, following the trends and seasons, talking and laughing loudly in the streets about the big and small concerns of a mundane life, all belonged to a world he neither knew nor wanted to know. His world was one that existed only behind closed curtains, a world in which the disturbing sunlight could not enter, in which the passing of time was forgotten. A world like this room and like Mister Gallagher. He felt relaxed as the protective atmosphere of the dark green room closed upon him. But he was there for business, and business only.
“Mister Gallagher…” he started.
“Call me Humphrey.” the tall man said in his deep voice.
“As you please.”
“Would you introduce yourself to me?”
“Tim Thompson, twenty-five.” Tim said.
“What brought you here?”
“I read your advertisement in the London Times. I need work.”
“Very well.” Humphrey said. “Let me then ask you a few questions. First of all, are you familiar with death?”
“I should think so. I have lost all my family.” Tim said, unemotional.
“Lost to what? Disease?”
“Yes, disease.”
“Tuberculosis?”
“No. An unknown illness. I will most likely also die from it.” said Tim. “No one will give me a job because of it, they think my lineage is cursed.”
“So, are you afraid of dying?” Humphrey asked him with sudden interest.
“If death wants me, it can come for me. I have nothing left to lose.” Tim replied simply.
“It might not come for you.” Humphrey retorted with a faint smile.
Tim shrugged.
“Why do you want to work for us?” the tall man continued, leaning forward on his elbows. As he saw the puzzled look on the young man’s face, he suggested an answer: “Is it for the pay?”
“I… don’t really know.” Tim finally said. He was a reserved man and usually had little to say, and it was all the more true since his younger sister, the very last of his relatives, had perished from the mysterious disease that cursed his family. If there were reasons to his actions before, now those reasons as well as any thought or opinion all just seemed to dance their way out of his mind playfully, and he watched them flee from him with as little emotion as he felt for the rest.
“Well it doesn’t matter that much.” Humphrey told him. His voice seemed suddenly warmer, as though the young man’s answers fully satisfied him. He rose and held out his pale hand to the young man and said: “Welcome to Undertakers Incorporated.”
JC Thompson
