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The Brentford Mercury

B-Line Carrier

A very short tale of terror

by Robert Rankin

 

B-Line Carrier

The doctor pulled off his rubber gloves and flung them into the enamel basin “I’m sorry” he said “there is nothing more I can do for this man”.

Jim Willis looked up warily from the operating table.

“These idiots think I’m dead” he thought, “which is not the case”.

Jim Willis, a life long disbeliever in the hereafter had found that his worst fears were confirmed.

Out of the corner of his eye he could make out the ELECTROCARDIOGRAPH registering a single straight green line. The life support system had been switched off.

“So this is it” thought Jim, “A fine kettle of fish”.

Doctor Crayfoot pulled a sheet across the dead man’s face.

“Morgue” he said simply. “Blimey” thought Jim.

Jim Willis felt the trolley move off, bump through he swing doors of the theatre and rattle down the corridors. He could hear the sounds of people all about. “Sod this” he thought.

The morgue was still and quiet. At least they turned down his cover so that he could see. It was quite nippy and very dull. “They could have left my clothes on” thought Jim.

Later two attendants came in whistling.

“What’s this one?” said Bill.

He twisted the label that some fool had tied onto Jim’s big toe.

“B. LINE CARRIER,” said Rag. “AN INCINERATOR JOB”.

“GOOD GRIEF” thought Jim, but he said nothing.

Bill prised off Jim’s wedding ring with a penknife.

“He won’t be needing this then,” he said.

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