'What the hell does Ashley see in you?' Josh said.
'My dick.'
'So it's not your money? Or your looks? Or your charm?'
'That too, Josh, but mostly my dick.'
The van lurched as it made the sharp right turn, rattling over a cattle grid, almost immediately followed by a second one, and onto the dirt track. Robbo, peering through the misted glass, picking out the deep ruts, swung the wheel. A rabbit sprinted ahead of them, then shot into some undergrowth. The headlights veered right then left, fleetingly colouring the dense conifers that lined the track, before they vanished into darkness in the rear-view mirror. As Robbo changed down a gear, Michael's voice changed, his bravado suddenly tinged, very faintly, with anxiety.
'Where we going?'
'To another pub.'
'OK. Great.' Then a moment later, 'Promished Ashley I shwouldn't - wouldn't - drink too much.'
'See,' Pete said, 'you're not even married and she's laying down rules. You're still a free man. For just three more days.'
'Three and a half,' Robbo added, helpfully.
'You haven't arranged any girls?' Michael said.
'Feeling horny?' Robbo asked.
'I'm staying faithful.'
'We're making sure of that.'
3
'Bastards!'
The van lurched to a halt, reversed a short distance, then made another right turn. Then it stopped again, and Robbo killed the engine - and Rod Stewart with it. 'Arrival' he said. 'Next watering hole! The Undertaker's Arms!'
'I'd prefer the Naked Thai Girl's Legs,' Michael said.
'She's here too.'
Someone opened the rear door of the van, Michael wasn't sure who. Invisible hands took hold of his ankles. Robbo took one of his arms, and Luke the other.
'Hey!'
'You're a heavy bastard!' Luke said.
Moments later Michael thumped down, in his favourite sports jacket and best jeans (not the wisest choice for your stag night, a dim voice in his head was telling him) onto sodden earth, in pitch darkness which was pricked only by the red tail lights of the van and the white beam of a flashlight. Hardening rain stung his eyes and matted his hair to his forehead.
'Mycloshes--'
Moments later, his arms yanked almost clear of their sockets, he was hoisted in the air, then dumped down into something dry and lined with white satin that pressed in on either side of him.
'Hey!' he said again.
Four drunken, grinning shadowy faces leered down at him. A magazine was pushed into his hands. In the beam of the flashlight he caught a blurry glimpse of a naked redhead with gargantuan breasts. A bottle of whisky, a small flashlight, switched on, and a walkie-talkie were placed on his stomach.
'What's--?'
A piece of foul-tasting rubber tubing was pushing into his mouth. As Michael spat it out, he heard a scraping sound, then suddenly something blotted the faces out. And blotted all the sound out. His nostrils filled with smells of wood, new cloth and glue. For an instant he felt warm and snug. Then a flash of panic.
'Hey, guys - what--'
Robbo picked up a screwdriver, as Pete shone the flashlight down on the oak coffin.
'You're not screwing it down?' Luke said.
'Absolutely!' Pete said. I 'Do you think we should?'
'He'll be fine,' Robbo said. 'He's got the breathing tube!'
'I really don't think we should screw it down!'
''Course we do - otherwise he'll be able to get out!' ; 'Hey--' Michael said.
But no one could hear him now. And he could hear nothing except a faint scratching sound above him.
Robbo worked on each of the four screws in turn. It was a top-oftherange hand-tooled teak coffin with embossed brass handles, borrowed from his uncle's funeral parlour, where, after a couple of career U-turns, he was now employed as an apprentice embalmer. Good, solid brass screws. They went in easily.
Michael looked upwards, his nose almost touching the lid. In the beam of the flashlight, ivory-white satin encased him. He kicked out with his legs, but they had nowhere to travel. He tried to push his arms out. But they had nowhere to go, either. Sobering for a few moments, he suddenly realized what he was lying in.
