Page 108 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
‘I’m sure the great outdoors has heard worse,’ Mort pointed out, his voice hoarse.
‘I mean, I can do worse, if you’d like,’ said Lily, eyes sparkling. Her hand traced his hips, then his length, and Mort closed his eyes, remembering, anticipating.
‘I would love to see what your idea of “worse” is,’ he said, kissing her forehead in that gentle way he always did. The way that made her feel safe, and wanted, and loved.
‘Oh, your poor little heart couldn’t bear it,’ Lily teased. ‘We’ll have to work up to it.’
Mort chuckled. ‘I think I can manage that. Just so long as you give me a little time to recover.’
A banging noise woke Lily from her slumber. Wiping the dried drool from her cheek, she reached for her phone, but it was flat. That last eleven per cent of battery didn’t go far these days.
It was still dark, but there was a tinge of dawn to the edge of the world, and the stars were fading into the velvety sky. The moon had set sail, travelling from one end of the sunroof to the other, and was now making a beeline for the forest.
The banging sound again.
Lily prodded Mort, then upgraded her prodding into a solid elbowing. ‘Mort. Mort! There’s a serial killer outside. He’s mistaken me for Pickleball Candice! Please, I’m too young to die! I haven’t completed my pre-need! I don’t even know if I want a casket or a cremation!’
Mort blinked, groggily sitting up. ‘Don’t be silly. If he chops you up into a million pieces, you won’t have to worry about either. It’ll be a natural burial for you. Or a vat of acid.’
‘That actually doesn’t help me feel better. Oh crap, was that a chainsaw?’
A flashlight danced over the hearse, brightening the spaces where the window tint didn’t quite cover.
Lily pulled her shirt on. If a serial killer was going to pull her out of the car and drag her off into the woods, she was at least going to have the buffer of a thin layer of cotton. (When you were dealing with pine needles and rocks, every bit of protection counted.)
‘Hang on,’ said Lily. ‘Does the sky usually strobe red and blue like that?’
‘Only after an intense orgasm,’ said Mort. ‘Or …’
‘Aliens?’ suggested Lily, who had a solid collection of Roswell T-shirts she cycled through when she hit the jogging trails.
‘We’ll see. On the count of three,’ said Mort, hands on the hearse’s back doors. When Lily nodded that she was decent, he shoved the doors open.
Lily dug in her bag and brandished a wooden cross left over from Desdemona and Ambrose’s wedding.
‘Um, excuse me, folks, sorry to bother you.’ A cop so young that Lily suspected he still had a parental curfew stood there, nervously running a string of garlic between his fingers. All right, so probably not a serial killer. Well, maybe. Hopefully not.
‘We’re not vampires,’ Lily assured him. ‘We’re waiting for a tow truck.’
Mort lifted his collar, hiding the evidence her lips had left against his neck.
The cop tucked the garlic into his pocket. ‘Good to know. Can I help you folks out? I’ve got some jumper cables, and some extra oil in the back. Just saying, you’re causing a bit of a traffic delay here, what with the whole late-night funeral procession thing and all.’
The cop pointed down the road, where about a hundred cars idled patiently, pulled over to the side of the road, as was the norm when they encountered a hearse on its way to a funeral.
Mort, buttoning his shirt, swore softly.
‘How long have they been waiting?’ asked Lily curiously.
‘How long have you been here?’ countered the cop.
‘Um,’ said Lily.
‘I see.’ The cop cleared his throat. ‘Let me grab my tools and see if I can get you moving.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Lily, giving Mort a slap on the butt – and inspiring the car at the front of the queue to flash its high beams. ‘Come on, let’s get this peep show on the road.’
Gone to a Better Place
