Arnold’s brow tried to furrow.
What the hell are you on about?
Roger hadn’t heard the question but answered it anyway.
“You’re going to be a porn star.”
Now Arnold was worried. He was a happily married man. He had no intention of being in a porn movie.
“I will NOT be exploited like this. I’m leaving.”
He summoned up all his strength to hoist himself off the gurney and leave the room. But nothing happened. He could think of moving, but that’s all it was – a thought.
Roger enjoyed his conversations with the dead. The dead never stared at his throat – not with seeing eyes anyway.
“You’re probably wondering what your family will say. Well, don’t worry. They’ll get to bury you – at least, they’ll bury someone they think is you. Your family will never know – unless they’re connoisseurs of commercial coitus. Do they watch porn, Arnold?”
No, they do not. And nor do I. And I absolutely refuse to take part in this spectacle.
“I imagine the movie people will get rid of your body after filming is finished. To be honest, I don’t really care what happens to you, as long as they don’t bring you back here. It’d mess up my accounting.”
Well, I care what happens to me. I demand a second opinion. I’m still here, you know. I’m still alive.
A knock on the door interrupted Roger’s one-way dialogue with the body on the gurney. He unlocked the external door and two men wearing matching black cable knit sweaters entered the room.
Roger looked at his wristwatch.
“You’re early.”
One of the men handed Roger a wad of notes.
“It happens. Deal with it. You got the goods?”
Roger led the two men to where Arnold was lying.
“Voila. One male, aged about thirty-five. Well, Arnold here is actually forty but I doubt it’ll make much difference.”
The second man stared at Arnold’s face.
“He don’t look well.”
Roger rolled his eyes.
“Of course he doesn’t look well. He’s bloody dead. What d’you expect him to look like?”
“Dunno. A bit more alive, I suppose.”
Roger felt he really was dealing with a couple of idiots.
“This is a morgue. This is where the hospital brings dead people. The living ones are upstairs, in wards. The dead ones are down here. In drawers. You want living actors–“
The first man cut in.
“Props.”
Roger sighed.
“If you want living props, I suggest you go upstairs and find someone else.”
Arnold really didn’t want to go with these two men.
There’s been a terrible mistake. I’m not dead you see. It’s all a misunderstanding.
His protestations didn’t make any difference.
The taller of the two men took hold of his legs and the shorter hooked his forearms under Arnold’s armpits. Together, they carried Arnold out of the morgue. The taller man called out as he pushed the exterior door open with his foot.
“Pleasure doing business with you Roger.”
Roger nodded.
“Anytime, Pete. Anytime.”
Arnold had no say in the matter as he was thrown haphazardly into the back of a ten-year-old Ford Transit van. He landed roughly but, surprisingly, didn’t feel the pain of the impact.
“I guess I’m going with you then.”
3
The noisy diesel van rattled along country roads, its suspension being tested every few yards by the numerous potholes it was forced to negotiate. Inside the van, Arnold bounced about and slid around. He wished he could hold on to something or at least put out an arm occasionally to cushion the impact of hitting the side of the van, but his body still wouldn’t do his brain’s bidding. All he could do was watch helplessly as the side panels threw themselves at him.
Finally, the vehicle stopped and Arnold was able to settle in one place. But he wasn’t left in peace for long; the back doors of the van opened and the morning sun streamed in. Pete and his mate, Barry, looked inside the van. Pete was not happy.
“I thought I told you to tie him down, Barry. He’s been bouncing around all over the shop.”
Arnold agreed.
Not the most comfortable journey I’ve ever taken.
Barry went on the defensive.
“I didn’t think it would matter. It’s not like he could get hurt. He’s dead.”
Pete shook his head.
“He can’t be damaged. We’re lucky his head didn’t split open or something.”
“Sorry, Pete.”
A third figure joined them and peered inside the back of the van.
“So this is him, yeah?”
Pete jumped into the van, grabbed Arnold’s arms, and pulled him nearer the opening so that the newcomer could get a better look. The man stared directly into Arnold’s eyes, an experience which Arnold found decidedly unsettling.
Not so close, mate. Personal space, you know. Personal space.
The man pointed at Arnold’s eyes.
“Don’t stiffs usually have their eyes closed?”
Pete shrugged.
“I tried shutting his eyes but the lids just didn’t want to stay down.”
The third man, who liked to be addressed as Monsieur Pierre (whose real name was Bert Muggins, and the closest he’d been to France was the ferry port at Dover), didn’t see it as a problem.
“Not to worry. It might work even better with his eyes open.”
Pete could never understand why his boss insisted on being called by a French name but still spoke in a broad East London accent. Perhaps it was down to the film director’s creative temperament. Or perhaps he was just a poser.
“So where do you want him, boss?”
Monsieur Pierre thought for a moment.
“On the slab. Face up.”
The studio wasn’t so much a studio as a small warehouse that had been difficult to rent out because of its location off the beaten track. Not that that made much difference to Arnold; the only view he got was of whatever his eyes were pointing at. So he was treated to the visual feast of a pile of empty boxes, a lighting rig, a bald fat man with a Steadicam, the rafters of the warehouse, and the surface of a large metal table.
Monsieur Pierre clapped his hands to attract the attention of his crew.
“Ok, everyone. This is the dance scene. The mortician—”
He pointed at a busty blonde woman, who was wearing spectacles, a white lab coat, and very little else; a living breathing trope.
“—that’s you, love.”
He returned to his train of thought.
“The mortician is filing her nails. She’s feeling lonely. The only company she has is a body that’s on the table.”
The actress, whose working name was Chantelle, had a question.
“Monsieur Pierre. How can I dance with him if he’s on the table? I don’t think I’ll be able to pick him up.”
Pete nudged Barry.
“She’s got a point there. He’s a dead weight.”
He waited for a reaction that didn’t come.
“Didn’t you see what I did there? He’s a dead weight. ‘Cos he’s dead, see?”
Barry did see; he just thought the joke was too corny to acknowledge.
Arnold was bored with his view of the ceiling.
Can someone give me something more interesting to look at?
Monsieur Pierre put his index finger against his chin, trying to look artistically intelligent.
“Yes, my dear. Good point.”
He clapped his hands.
“Pete. Barry. Lean our guest up against the wall, please.”