‘Make sure you hit up the old people’s home!’ my aunt had yelled that morning, as I pulled my bike out from the bushes. ‘And the hospital! Don’t forget the hospital!’
I remember Mrs Turner and her husband. I remember Eric and his son. I glance up at the sign once more, then push off in the opposite direction. Screw that. Cerberus barks appreciatively and runs along beside me, occasionally stopping to assault a garden gnome. He’s not supposed to be out with me on the mainland, but it’s still early and no one’s out. We reach the water before sunrise, and I tie the remaining fliers to a stone. Cerberus looks at me, head tilted.
‘It’d break your teeth,’ I grin. ‘This one’s not for you.’
I pull my arm back, bend my knees, and throw it out into the lake.
It makes a satisfying plop. The edges of the fliers curl and sag, then disappear out of sight.
By the time I row back to the island, I have to sprint to get to our guests in time for the alarm. As I run, I take a moment to knock each doll head on the way, for luck; they swing from the willow branches, covered in dew.
‘Death makes a person hungry, Ankaa,’ Aunt Libby reminds me most mornings. ‘That’s why we charge extra for bacon and jam.’
Smoke is billowing out from the kitchen window, and I can hear her banging pots and pans. Occasionally, she swears at the microwave.
‘Cerberus!’ He bounds over and I pull his costume out of my bag. He sees it and snorts. ‘I know,’ I coax, pulling it over his head and slipping his legs through the holes. It’s not easy dressing an Irish Wolfhound.
‘You look … radiant,’ I trail off.
He scowls, knowing better.
‘Time to rise and shine, Mr Henderson’ I tap the top of his coffin and begin to pull out the nails. I have to stand on a chair to do it. ‘Wakey, wakey!’
Before I have the last nail out properly, Mr Henderson pushes the lid from the inside and I almost fall over backwards. He sits bolt upright, his suit dishevelled, clutching his chest and gasping for air.
‘Oh, I’m alive!’ he cries, blinking in the sudden light. ‘I’m alive! Yes? Really alive?’
He reaches over and yanks me into an embrace. The chair totters beneath me.
‘There, there, Mr Henderson.’ I gingerly pat his sweaty head. ‘Welcome back to the world.’
‘I saw her, you know.’ Mr Henderson lets go of me but his hands are still shaking. ‘I saw her, all of her. Blurry, she was, and there was a lot of light. They say that about the afterlife, don’t they? Lots of light. Like stars. Glowing, and stuff.’ He glances up at the light bulbs. ‘And she was talking about catching the 63 bus to the seaside, she was. We used to do that, sometimes, on our anniversary, I told you that. The 63 bus.’ He looks off into the distance, hair poking out in all directions. ‘I heard the bus, and the sea, too, I swear it.’
‘That’s great.’
There’s a muffled shout from a mahogany coffin across the room. ‘You know, some of us like a quiet start to the morning!’
‘Don’t mind Trevor, Mr Henderson.’ I help him climb out of his coffin. ‘Would you like to shower now, or after breakfast?’
He blinks, looking down at himself, as though surprised to see his body there. ‘Oh, afterwards, afterwards.’
‘Lovely. Breakfast is just through the double doors, down the corridor on the right.’
Mr Henderson tries and fails to walk in a straight line. After a few stumbling steps, he disappears out the door. Trevor starts banging furiously from inside his coffin.
‘All right, all right. I thought you said you like quiet in the mornings!’ I rush over to pull the nails out of the lid.
‘I do,’ he pouts, sitting up. He stretches his arms so high his shoulders click. ‘But I don’t want to bloody suffocate while I wait.’
‘I wasn’t that late.’
‘You were.’
‘I was not.’
‘I thought of thirty more ways I don’t want to die, just lying there, and it’s awfully difficult to write them down in the dark.’
‘I bet.’
‘You should put a light bulb inside. Add some accessories. Like when they used to put bells inside coffins, in case anyone was buried alive.’
‘Wouldn’t a light bulb ruin the ambience?’
‘It might be cosy.’
‘It might also set the coffin on fire.’
‘Oh, true!’ Trevor pulls a notebook from his breast pocket and scribbles down Way I Don’t Want to Die #1584: Trapped in blazing coffin. ‘I don’t want that, Ankaa; you’re quite right.’
‘Here’s your extra bacon, Mr Henderson.’
‘Thank you, Libitina.’
‘Please, call me Libby.’ She shimmies into her chair at the head of the table.
‘Well, thank you Libby.’ He raises his glass of orange juice to her, and then to me. ‘Last night was just a phenomenal experience.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘And I must ask.’ Mr Henderson squints, peering over at the frosted glass in the kitchen door. ‘Where did you find that three-headed dog?’
Cerberus whines, pawing at the glass.
‘Oh, it’s a fascinating story, Mr Henderson,’ Aunt Libby beams. ‘Do eat up, there’s plenty more where that came from. You see, at the end of every summer, Ankaa and I leave the Coffin Hotel for two weeks. Breaks my heart to do it, you understand, but it’s important to spread the word about us to people out there, like you, who truly need us.’
She pauses for a second to frown at Trevor, who is shovelling baked beans into his mouth as though he’s never seen food before.
‘We have a mobile version of the hotel, parked just round the back. It’s a converted RV, with ten coffins, quite comfortable. Plenty of choice between the wood, and linings, Mr Henderson. We didn’t want to cut any corners; just because we’re travelling doesn’t mean the customers should miss out on quality. We tend to set off at the end of September, just when the autumn’s coming. It’s a beautiful time of year to drive around the country, just beautiful.’
Mr Henderson nods in agreement, egg yolk caught in his moustache.
‘I knew you’d agree, a fine man like you.’ She sips her coffee. ‘So, we spend about two weeks driving around the neighbouring towns, telling everyone we meet about our dear little Ankaa and her extraordinary talents. We’re fully booked every night, with those who want to rent the coffins and experience a night of death. Those who do turn up when we have no room at the inn, so to speak, Mr Henderson, tend to visit our website, and often travel across to visit the hotel during the coming year.’
‘And, er, you found the dog during one of those trips, is that it?’
‘Very perceptive of you, very perceptive.’ She pours him another cup of tea. ‘You see, your sixth sense has been awakened after only one night in our hotel. We did find Cerberus while we were out travelling. Sometimes we team up with a company run by my second cousin, you see, perhaps you’ve heard of him, Mr Henderson? He runs Christopher’s Cabinet of Curiosities, not to be confused with Foley’s Freaks; Mr Foley is not a nice man, Mr Henderson, I’m sure you’ve seen the reviews. He displays people pretending that they are magical or mystical, sometimes well-known mythological creatures, but really, they’re all wearing costumes. Costumes! Can you imagine, Mr Henderson? It’s a disgrace!’