Matter of Life and Death

Paul Carroll

Description

When advertising maverick Farren Mortimer sets up AMOLAD to bring the funeral business into the 21st century his ideas capture the public's attention as he cashes in on the new zeitgeist of conspicuous public mourning. Appointed as the government's 'bereavement czar' it looks as if Mortimer can't put a foot wrong as he single-handedly puts the 'fun' into funerals. But commercialising death isn't without its problems; not everybody gives 'Mr Eulogy' and his slick marketing techniques their blessing. But who wants to bury Mortimer the most? Is it the anarchist graffiti street artist who has made AMOLAD a particular target for his ire? The self-seeking road safety campaigner with designs on Mortimer as well as his money? The award-seeking journalist who smells a BAFTA? Or someone much closer to home? As the government's inaugural 'People's Remembrance Day' bank holiday date approaches, will it be redemption or requiem for Mortimer? A Matter of Life and Death is an intelligent, humorous and fast-moving exploration of values and motives in today's reality TV age: society's 'mourning sickness', the power of marketing, media cynicism, anonymity as fame and the influence of Twitter.A Matter of Life and Death, where each chapter is headed with a song that could be played at a funeral, will appeal to adult fiction readers and fans of satire and black comedy - it picks up where Evelyn Waugh's The Loved One left off.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 12 février 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781780887951
• Langue: English

Extrait

A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
PAUL CARROLL
Copyright © 2012 Paul Carroll
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1780887 95 1
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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Nathalie
CONTENTS
An Ending
Chapter one: Instant Karma
Chapter Two: ’Til I Die
Chapter Three: Soul on Fire
Chapter Four: You Gotta Move
Chapter Five: Angel
Chapter Six: Here Comes The Knight
Chapter Seven: Movin’ On Up
Chapter Eight: This Woman’s Work
Chapter Nine: I Am The Resurrection
Chapter Ten: Box Of Rain
Chapter Eleven: I Shall Be Released
Chapter Twelve: Enough To Be On Your Way
Chapter Thirteen: I Am Stretched On Your Grave
Chapter Fourteen: Who Knows Where the Time Goes?
Chapter Fifteen: The End
Chapter Sixteen: If It Be Your Will
Chapter Seventeen: Hurt
Chapter Eighteen: Father and Son
Chapter Nineteen: Late For The Sky
Chapter Twenty: Free Bird
Chapter Twenty-One: It’s The Same Old Song
Chapter Twenty-Two: Death Of A Disco Dancer
Chapter Twenty-Three: Hey Hey, My My (Into The Black)
Chapter Twenty-Four: Grace
Chapter Twenty-Five: Where To Now St Peter?
Chapter Twenty-Six: In My Hour Of Darkness
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Come Home
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Sound Of Silence
Chapter Twenty-Nine: One
Chapter Thirty: All Things Must Pass
AN ENDING
There was no point at which she thought her journey was taking a dramatically different course. Sure, she felt on the edge of death, but that’s what every high was like.
The sonic boom as the heroin alerted her mu receptors to the pleasure and peace ahead seemed familiar. The seductive warmth kindled in the pit of her stomach spread through her somatosensory cortex ushering in an intense euphoria. The dragon chased; the dragon caught.
Her limbs heavy, her mouth dry, she lay down on the concrete floor and coiled into a foetal position, subconsciously strapping herself in for her voyage across the sea of tranquility. A welcome, nodding descent into dreamy and relaxed contentment. It felt… good.
As her central nervous system went out of its way to cater for the needs of its VIP guest she abandoned herself to the growing drowsiness, only momentarily breaking free of her torpor to register the reality of her surroundings.
She felt no alarm; she experienced no pain. There was no excessive sweating, panting or flailing to act as a warning. No panic. It felt… as before.
As her heartbeat and breathing slowed, she slipped out of consciousness. She felt… nothing. Out of the blue and into the black.
It was a squalid end. An overdose, pure and simple; her final moments of existence spent in a scruffy Manchester city centre car park running alongside the Rochdale canal. Her death caused some consternation, but not an excessive amount. The police officer who attended the early morning call, just about to knock off his shift, barely managed to suppress his irritation at the poor timing of it all. The workers in the office block above the car park where she was found tut-tutted at the inconvenience as they were temporarily barred entry to their workplaces as the scene was secured. The car park attendant who discovered her body would be sent on a counselling course by his employer to help cope with the shock.
Who was she? That, they’d never find out. Just a poor, young, homeless junkie with no means of identification. No one to report her missing, or to claim her. There being no suspicion of foul play, equally there was little imperative to spend time on an exhaustive investigation.
Few appeared interested in her fate other than those whose mornings had suffered a temporary diversion because of it, and even then the story quickly faded from their minds. Nobody was ever to determine where she’d come from, her family background, or what circumstances had brought her life to this lonely and intemperate close. She wouldn’t be mourned, nor would she be missed.
It was a life of scant consequence.
Or was it?
CHAPTER ONE
Instant Karma
The press conference started dead on eleven o’clock. As Farren Mortimer peered over the heads of the assembled media he could see through the windows of the conference room to the carefully manicured gardens of The National Archives in Kew beyond. The rain was teeming down into the ornamental lake; the skies were suitably lachrymose on this cold, grey and miserable All Saints’ Day.
Farren launched into his carefully prepared sound bite: ‘In creating this new landmark date in the UK annual calendar, our intention is that everyone should have the opportunity to celebrate the life of a loved one, to remember and cherish the memory of family members and friends who are no longer with us.’
Farren Mortimer, the head of AMOLAD and the government’s ‘bereavement czar’, was marking the one-year countdown to the inaugural People’s Remembrance Day, the new autumn bank holiday date for England and Wales. Not everyone was happy with this decision. When, the previous year, the People’s Remembrance Day – or PRD for short – was first announced a number of employers, large and small, had complained about the cost of another day off for their workforces. Tourism chiefs had derided the ‘boost to tourism’ the government assured them the new bank holiday would provide. ‘In November?’ they trilled.
Right-leaning newspapers had campaigned for the new bank holiday to be linked to Trafalgar Day at the end of October when the country could celebrate Horatio Nelson’s, and the nation’s, triumph over European adversaries some two centuries before. While this idea had garnered considerable support within the Cabinet, accusations of overt jingoism finally led to the decision to unfreeze, if only fractionally, the collective stiff upper lip with which the English and Welsh, if not the Scots, embraced the taboo subject of death.
To most people though, it was just another day off.
Farren delivered the rest of his party piece, and invited questions from the media throng. This was the bit he liked best. Any fool could be coached to deliver a statement, but for Farren the Q and A was where it really came alive, where he could dazzle with charm, sincerity, fortitude or wit depending on the requirements. His days spent pitching campaigns as an advertising executive provided an ideal training ground.
‘Who has the first question?’ said Farren, eager to engage.
From the floor, the warm up enquiry: ‘A number of religious groups, not to mention leading agnostics, have voiced concerns over the essentially Christian theme chosen for the new bank holiday, being so clearly anchored to the dates of All Saints’ and All Souls’ days. What relevance does PRD really have in a multi-cultural Britain?’
‘A banker to start with,’ thought Farren before sharing his message of reassurance and inclusivity, and delivering a brief history lesson taking in the Day of The Dead and the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain.
‘The British Legion is up in arms that, being so close to Remembrance Sunday, PRD will confuse people and impact on their fund raising. What do you have to say about that?’
‘Look. I think that PRD will actually complement and reinforce the British Legion’s own sterling efforts, for which the entire country is extremely grateful,’ replied Farren. ‘I have every confidence in the public’s ability to differentiate between what are essentially personal and national commemorations. Next?’
Farren could keep this up all day if he needed to, but he still had the obligatory photo shoot to fit in before the lunchtime broadcast deadline. Fifteen minutes later Farren was posing in front of a giant herb garden where, spelled out in regimentally arranged rosemary, the legend of ‘People’s Remembrance Day’ could be clearly captured by the photographers who had been ushered to the first floor balcony above the atrium. ‘There’s Rosemary, best for remembrance’ as all Shakespeare students, and googling PRs, well knew.
Darren Smith took five steps back, screwed his eyes up into a squint, and peered at the four A1 cardboard panels taped to the studio wall. He had just spent two hours cutting, slicing and fashioning the boards with his Stanley knife. ‘ Mint,’ he laughed to himself as he stepped forward to make a few final adjustments to his new stencil.
Not that anybody had ever heard of non-conformist street artist Darren Smith; his alter ego, Smudger, on the other hand, was an altogether different proposition. Darren had used the pseudonym Smudger to tag his graffiti executions from the very beginning of his street art career across London. Obviously, as an illegal street artist, it was de rigueur to work under an alias but as Smudger developed his art and became bolder he also recognised that there were a number of benefits to be gained from concealing his true identity under the mantle of an anonymous anti-hero.
As his notoriety grew, and people expressed an interest in actually owning his works, Smudger installed an agent and his course was set: the more clever, outrageous and anti-establishment he could be, the more he would appeal – and sell – to the burgeoning brigade of middle class art collec