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Rudyard Funn elbowed the lumpy, worn armchair once more. It creaked, but still refused to transform into anything near comfortable seating. With a “humph” of annoyance, he settled into it anyway. Shooting a glare at the swirling evening snow outside the draughty window, he raised a cup of warmed and slightly soured milk to his lips in absolute defiance of every other absent household member. Georgie, Antigone, and Madeleine had each warned him to throw the out-of-date stuff away before they had all left him alone.
The last time he’d been able to enjoy a quiet glass of milk had been a couple of weeks ago, when he’d snuck away from his own office holiday party. He’d protested the idea of having one, of course, arguing valiantly in the face of all this horrid proposed merriment that Funn Funerals was not an office, and they’d never had a party (not a successful one, anyway.) But it had been “Rudyard, even we mice know that Christmas is a time for good cheer,” and “oh, Rudyard, Georgie’s got a girl now, and she and Jen want a social event,” and “it’s okay if you don’t want to, sir; Chapman’s planning a rousing holiday party, and I’m on the extensive invite list.”
Rudyard, swayed by definitely only the first two counter-arguments, had eventually agreed to a get-together. He’d even tried to string extra holiday lights across the treacherous turrets of Funn Funerals at an angle that ensured anyone across the street could see them and derive that the Funns were having a much more festive time than anyone who had the great misfortune of being invited anywhere near Chapman.
Of course, that had led to nothing but a sprained ankle and some broken shingles. Antigone had glowered at him as she recorded the extra expenses in the ledger while Georgie and her girlfriend made a mockery of the somber, dim and dusty parlor by slow-dancing to sixties holiday music.
Christmas had gone about as well as usual, Rudyard grumped inwardly. As much as he hated the holiday, though, he found himself looking back on last week comparatively fondly to the austere, silent present. At least there had been others in the house then.
Now, New Year’s had come and gone, leaving Piffling Vale in the cold grip of early January. Somehow, this new year had brought change to Rudyard’s life. None of the change was good, in his opinion. For example, his own sister, Antigone, had taken to actually listening to her doctor and had booked a trip clean off the island to avoid what Dr. Edgware called “seasonal depression.” Rudyard tsked at the memory. He had, of course, told Antigone exactly what he thought of both pseudo-medical “depression” nonsense and the notion of Antigone travelling on her own, primed to end up mugged or dead or some such.
He shivered bitterly in his solitary chair at the memory of the disagreement. His sister had, as usual, ignored him, and now she was off somewhere warm and sunny, having fun, while he waited for death by himself in the dark. How dare Antigone experience new things and grow as a person? Unheard of. No reason for it. “Seasonal depression,” indeed.
Georgie had “requested” a longer vacation as well, to get to know Jennifer’s parents better. She hadn’t waited for permission, though; as Funn Funerals seldom paid Georgie, they couldn’t really stop her. She was probably snuggled in the recesses of the upstairs flat above Jennifer’s parents’ garage, cooing or tinkering or whatever constituted “spending time with one’s partner.” Rudyard hadn’t a clue, and attempting to imagine it made his stomach churn.
He took a bit more soured milk to combat the nausea, which was as counterproductive as it sounded. Clutching his stomach, Rudyard lurched to his feet. He paced back and forth before the barely smoldering fireplace, trying to walk the discomfort off.
He tucked the comforting thought that he could at least complain later to Madeleine, the one unfailingly constant household member, away. Then, he remembered.
Even Madeleine, flush with the success of another novel (apparently about his funeral home) that she recently rather sheepishly revealed she’d been writing, had traversed to the next building over to celebrate with her large extended mouse family. As it turned out, her latest installment about his life had experienced breakout sales, and Madeleine was beginning to be rich and well-known among the British rodent community.
“Only natural,” Rudyard griped aloud. “She’s grown successful because of me, and now she’s gone.”
The echo of his voice off the old stone walls was the only reply. Rudyard grunted, once more, to make a point. Leaning a hand on the dusty mantlepiece, he tried drawing deep breaths, since the pacing wasn’t really helping things. He inhaled a cloud of grime and old ashes, and had to put his hands on his knees and cough.
The ringing of the phone added to Rudyard’s rapidly declining inner peace. Piffling Vale had very little cellular service, but even Funn Funerals had a corded business phone. Rudyard ripped the phone from its cobweb-covered stand on a lone circular table, his irritation at the sound supplemented by the knowledge that without either Antigone or Georgie, he would have to deny service to any potential client. Of course, someone would call for a funeral on the week he couldn’t provide one.
“Now look here,” he hissed into the speaker. “Funn Funerals is closed, you know. This is very inconvenient!”
“Rudyard? Hello! I’m not calling for a funeral. This is about your reservation at the Airbnb for the weekend,” a warm, cheery, and altogether unwelcome, voice replied.
Eric. Bloody. Chapman. But what was he on about? Air-b-and what in Christ’s name? Rudyard’s mind raced for a moment, caught up with the man on the other end of the phone, and skidded to a screeching halt.
Oh. Right. A few months ago, Chapman had announced an Airbnb as an extension of his business, “just in time for the holidays,” to lure tourists onto the island. Rudyard, fueled by a particularly strong rush of spite one evening, had dashed across the street and put his name down for a reservation on the sign-up sheet in Chapman’s lobby. It had been all part of a scheme, of course; he’d been on several ounces of sour milk at the time then, too. He’d had a passing thought about trashing the space and, encouraged by the high of almost-spoiled milk, had run with it at the time.
He had also entirely forgotten about the plan since then. Well, that explained why he’d seen so many unfamiliar faces trailing into Chapman’s over the last few months. The whole stupid thing must have been a success.
Of course, it was. Bloody Chapman. Rudyard prepared to tell the man off.
“The reservation is tonight; in case you’ve forgotten. Several people did; I do wish we could use the app reliably here on the Vale. I had to warn so many out-of-towners, and the whole thing has been a bit of a hassle. Of course, the satisfaction of hosting is well worth the effort,” Eric went on before Rudyard could open his mouth.
“Now–”
“Anyway, I was surprised to see your name, and then I remembered that your sister and Georgie were both on vacation this week. I’m quite chuffed you want to spend a bit of your quiet time at Chapman’s,” Eric continued brightly. “Anyway, check-in is at four o’clock, and it’s five now. So, I’ll be seeing you soon, yes?”
“I–” Rudyard faltered, unsure what to do. Sometimes, Chapman’s dratted unflappableness still managed to throw him off. “Something’s come up–”
“Oh no!” Chapman had the gall to sound concerned and disappointed. “Sorry to hear that. Well, if you like, I can cancel the reservation–”
“Yes,” Rudyard replied through gritted teeth. He had no idea what he had been thinking that one evening. The milk must really have been getting the better of him that day. Hell would freeze over before he willingly spent any time alone in any space of Chapman’s.
“Right. I’m afraid there’s an extra fee for not showing up the day of without notice, especially since you signed up locally and thus haven’t paid anything down,” Chapman explained.
Silence prevailed over the phone lines.
“Rudyard?”
Rudyard sighed. Perhaps hell had reached the required temperature for this accursed occurrence. Piffling Vale certainly had been cold lately.
“Never mind, I’m coming over,” Rudyard half-groaned.
“Brilliant!”
Rudyard slammed the phone back into its holder.
He threw a few articles of clothing into a bag and trudged across the street as slowly as he could. The frigid temperatures made deliberately lingering outside difficult, though, and soon Rudyard was standing just inside Chapman’s lobby, shuffling snow off the trainers he’d hurriedly slipped into.
Chapman appeared, full of bustle and bluster, clad in his usual spotless suit. Rudyard, sour of stomach and face, eyed him with typical distaste.
“Delighted to see you, Rudyard! I’ve got the space all ready for you. It’s connected to the rest of Chapman’s by an indoor skylit walkway, so it’s separate from all the–you know–death, but still convenient to get to.” The man smiled with infuriating pride. “You’ll have to let me know what you think. I don’t believe you’ve seen it yet.”
“Yes, fine, Chapman, just pop me in there and leave me to expire,” Rudyard muttered, glowering at his rival from under his hair.
Chapman merely laughed. “I do so appreciate your funeral director-esque sense of humor, being one myself,” he replied. “This will be fun! Now, if you’ll follow me.”
Rudyard would have retorted that he wasn’t trying to be funny, but he doubted it would have done any good. Instead, he allowed Chapman to lead him through a side door and down a tiled and heated walkway, complete with a clear, domed ceiling frosted lightly with snow.
“Bloody extravagant,” he muttered to himself. Chapman heard him and, of course, took it as a compliment.
“Oh, cheers. Nothing too good for my guests, you know. Just wait until you see the space.” He beamed, throwing open an oaken door at the end of the walkway. “And here it is!”
Filled with overwhelming dread, Rudyard looked.
The room was cozy and spacious at the same time, with modern art scattered about the walls, double doors sectioning the bathroom off, a curtained-off closet, and a gas fireplace with a sofa in front of it at the near end. A king bed sat under a chandelier at the far end, covered in plushy blankets.
“It’s…big,” Rudyard said.
“Hopefully, you like it. There’s an open floor plan, a covered porch off the side, and a lot of reclaimed wood throughout.” Chapman smiled proudly.
“I’d like to reclaim my sanity,” Rudyard muttered under his breath.
“I printed out some photos for the sign-up sheet, but I’ve changed out a couple of rugs and added a floor lamp since then,” Chapman went on, failing to hear Rudyard’s aside. When Rudyard didn’t reply, Chapman swept his arm toward the interior.
“Well, enjoy yourself! I’d usually say please don’t touch the fireplace without assistance, but I trust you to know how.” He winked. Rudyard flinched. “You’re not the city apartment dwellers, after all. Should you require anything, please, feel free to pop down to the lobby and let me know,” he offered.
Rudyard crossed his arms and waited for him to go away. Chapman, for once, took a hint and departed, closing the door behind him and leaving Rudyard in comparative peace.
Dropping his bag, Rudyard turned in a circle a couple of times, still unsure how he’d managed this situation. Taking another look at the entirety of the room, he wrinkled his nose. The style of the place leant disgustingly toward bohemian, but the traditional element of the fireplace and the brick wall behind it was, at least, passable.
He slowly advanced upon the leather sofa and sat down, stretching his hands toward the warmth. He had to dig his heels firmly into the floor to keep from slipping off, but the rug under his feet was soft, and the light was soothingly low. Well. This could have been worse, he supposed. Of course, he hadn’t yet received the bill.
Rudyard begrudgingly wrapped himself in one of the many blankets and sat in front of the fireplace. He tried to ignore his luck and pretend he was back home, but the warmth and hominess of his surroundings prevented even that comfort. There was no way he could pretend this was Funn Funerals.
Rudyard amused himself by stuffing the remotes for the television under the couch cushions. He also cracked open a book or two that Chapman had left around the space. They were, of course, both fictional and far too happy. Damn the man’s inane taste in literature. Wasn’t there a treatise on grave digging around somewhere? Chapman was an undertaker, for god’s sake. Anyway, if all the books had to be fictional, they could at least be Wuthering Heights or War and Peace. But what was to be expected from Eric “Sunshine Personified” Chapman?
Rudyard retired early, hoping to spend most of his required time at Chapman’s unconscious. He put off trying the king bed until the last possible second. It proved to be luxuriously comfortable, the foam mattress (probably from Jennifer’s asinine radio commercials that Chapman did and he’d been forced into once or twice) sinking comfortably beneath him while offering perfect lumbar support.
Just as he had feared. Rudyard groaned and turned over. He pulled his nightcap over his ears, buried himself beneath a pile of blankets, and turned to his favorite before-bed daydream, which involved being buried alive, for solace.
He had almost succeeded in lulling himself to sleep when a loud clank echoed from somewhere else in Chapman’s bloody maze of a building. Rudyard jerked upright, brushing hair out of his face, and peered into the darkness.
Nothing else happened. Rudyard groaned and free-fell back into the mattress, pulling the blankets back around him and dimly making a mental note to complain like all get-out to Chapman next morning.
A tap on the door scattered the beginnings of Rudyard’s peaceful state. He ignored it, but a louder rapping that made him slide out of bed like molasses out of a jar followed. With a groan, he yanked the door open.
“Now-look-here. It’s the middle of the night.” Rudyard meant to snap the words, but they came out thickly and muddled by sleep.
“I am so sorry,” the figure in front of him replied, pitching his own voice soft. “This is really so unprofessional of me, Rudyard, but I’m afraid Chapman’s is experiencing major plumbing problems. The ground floor bathrooms entirely flooded the lobby, and well, I’m afraid the waterpark feature is doing much the same with my quarters upstairs. I came to check if this space had been affected, too.”
Rudyard switched on the light by the door and blinked unsympathetically at Eric Chapman. The man, for once, looked decidedly ruffled. His usually perfectly coiffed blond hair was falling in his face, and the maroon robe he’d wrapped around him was partially untied, revealing his gingham pajamas.
A memory of another plot hatched with Georgie, one that involved her expertise with a monkey wrench ability to slowly build up pressure along certain water lines, bobbed to the surface of Rudyard’s thoughts. He closed his eyes. She’d started work on that scheme before she left. Must have left the pressure slowly increasing on the blasted valves, or whatever it was. She’d tried to explain it to him, but all he’d cared about was that Chapman’s would, eventually, be flooded. Of course, it would happen now.
“I don’t think I’ve got a problem,” Rudyard murmured. Rubbing his eyes, he moved back from the door, intending to close it. Chapman, misinterpreting the action, walked briskly inside.
“Well, there’s no water coming from the bathroom, so it’s a sight better than the rest of the place,” Chapman called, sounding relieved. He turned and faced Rudyard, who had stomped after him, turning lights on as he went.
“I’m happy you were spared, Rudyard. I called an emergency plumber, of course, but they won’t be here until tomorrow morning, so I’ve had to turn the water off. Terribly sorry about all this.”
“Don’t be!” Rudyard perked up at the prospect of getting out of this bloody mess early. “I’ll just leave early, Chapman; you seem to have a lot to deal with here.” He gleefully threw his bag on the bed.
Chapman looked doubtful. “It’s very thoughtful of you, but I wouldn’t want you to go out in this blizzard, Rudyard,” he replied.
Rudyard paused his frenzied packing. Fear mounted within him as he cautiously drew back the blind.
The snow had, indeed, picked up in the middle of the night. It was coming down in sheets now, huge flecks of it audibly hitting the windows. The faint gleam of the streetlights barely prevailed through the darkness. Rudyard shivered as if the bone-chilling cold could reach him.
The cold. And the dark. His worst enemies, apart from…
“Perhaps we should stick it out together until tomorrow? There’s not much else for it.” Chapman swept a hand through his hair, shuffling in his house slippers. Rudyard stared between him and the great outdoors, transfixed in horror and beset with rage.
No. Never. The fabled Lake of Fire would cool and develop a frosty, thick rime before–
“Of course, with the imposition, I’ll gladly cancel the bill for your entire stay.”
Hell, Rudyard thought bitterly, needed a better related hyperbole.
He grunted an ungraceful acquiescence, crossing his arms as Chapman moved back toward him. Rudyard couldn’t recall the last time he’d had to share a room with someone other than Antigone when they were little. The overwhelming awkwardness of what exactly to do washed over him.
Chapman hovered in the middle of the room, picking absently at the sleeve of his robe. “Well,” he said, measured and polite, with an undertone of hesitance. “Shall we–”
“I’ll take the couch,” Rudyard interrupted. He tossed his bag to the floor and abandoned the bed.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re the guest here,” Chapman protested, taking a step toward him. “Besides, the sofa is Italian leather, and it’s very–”
Rudyard landed on his backside with a soft but pronounced thump. He popped up too quickly and was forced to yelp, bend over, and put his hand to his back.
“Slippery,” Chapman finished. “I can’t imagine managing a good night’s sleep on that.”
Rudyard growled to himself. “Naturally, Chapman,” he huffed sardonically. “Why would you equip a room with sensible furniture?”
Chapman sighed. “I admit, it a bit more stylish than functional,” he confessed. “Well, it’s my fault. I can stand a few hours on the floor, if you’re bothered.”
Rudyard simmered with annoyance. He was not bothered, he knew exactly how to conduct himself during this kind of social situation, and Chapman was not more magnanimous than him.
“I can take the floor, Chapman,” he snarled.
“Can your back, though?” Chapman ventured delicately.
“I’m not an old man, for god’s sake!” A vein manifested on Rudyard’s forehead as he removed his hand from his aching muscles. Chapman raised his hands in surrender.
“All right, all right. I didn’t mean it like that,” he soothed his companion. “Still, Rudyard, it’s a king bed. We should both be quite comfortable for a few hours. I won’t hear of you sleeping on the floor after all this.”
Rudyard, feeling increasingly both walled in and tired, gave up.
“Fine,” he seethed, in the same tone and cadence of a general surrendering a blood-soaked battlefield.
“Cracking,” Chapman murmured. And, stifling a yawn, he flipped a few lights off. Kicking off his slippers, he slipped into the less disturbed left side of the bed without another word.
Rudyard froze, studying the now-frightening right side. Chapman, at least, had his back to him, in the only proper position for people who have never shared a room, much less a bed, before. Rudyard tugged at his pajamas, cleared his throat, and finally sat gingerly on his side. Chapman didn’t move. Rudyard, determined to get it over with, turned off the bedside lamp and slipped beneath the covers.
The night was quiet, the kind of quiet that only wintry, snowy nights could be. Rudyard lay as still as the darkness around him for a while, acutely aware of the novelty of someone next to him. The bed was spacious, and Chapman must have been a foot at least away, facing the wall demurely. Rudyard wasn’t trying to listen to his breathing, but the near-silence amplified the light sound.
Rudyard buried his face under the covers to drown it out and was met with a faint but multi-dimensional scent, of wood chips and candle wax and a hint of light ale, drifting between the sheets. With a start, he realized that it was coming from Eric. He lay there for a second, staring at his companion’s back, honestly wondering how someone could manage to be so at-ease, so complacent, so sodding perfect.
Sleep bested Rudyard’s bewilderment at last. He floated to the surface of consciousness a few times during the night, vaguely aware of something or someone solid against him, a piece of driftwood in the midst of a murky sea of fitful dreams. He shifted, little by little, each time he half-woke, until he was flush against the firm warmth of it. At some hour of the night, he wrapped his arm around whatever it was and hung on.
Rudyard came to in the morning, a windowful of sun accosting his eyes. He muttered and ducked his head into what should have been a pillow. It turned out to be the back of Eric Chapman’s neck.
His rival grunted and turned around before Rudyard could launch himself out of bed. Chapman’s snub nose bumped against Rudyard’s large one. His intensely blue eyes opened into Rudyard’s. Stars and sparkles were all he could see for a moment. Heart racing, Rudyard shot back in absolute panic.
“Oh-hello,” Chapman murmured, sounding far-off and disoriented. Rudyard retorted, or meant to. Words pooled in his mouth, but all that came out was a halting, incoherent stammer. Chapman’s lips curved upward, even as his brow furrowed, at the arrested air. The moment stretched like a badly-done funeral.
“You snore something awful, Chapman,” Rudyard blurted out accusingly, breaking the strange silence. He sat upright and kicked at the sheets, avoiding Chapman’s blasted eyes, desperate for this limbo to end.
“Really? I rather think that was you,” Chapman returned. “Also, you kicked me at some point. And did you have nightmares?” He tilted his head, a healthy tinge of pink already dusting his cheekbones in the morning light. “I felt you holding onto me some of the night.”
“No!” Rudyard spat. He felt his face flush, the heat spreading down his neck. “I did not do that! Besides, I can assure you, Chapman, I didn’t mean to.” He checked a window, relieved to see that the snow had stopped. “I’m going home,” he added.
Chapman half-smiled in that enigmatic way Rudyard hated so much. “Of course,” he said sadly. “I’m very sorry you couldn’t stay the whole weekend as promised, but this mess might take a little while to sort out.”
“For god’s sake, Chapman,” Rudyard spluttered, the man’s brainlessness finally harping on his last nerve, “I was planning to trash this place anyway.”
This caught Chapman’s attention. “Really?” he questioned. Pure surprise colored his words. He slipped out of bed, suddenly averting his gaze to one of the bedside tables. “I thought that maybe, you just wanted a place to relax while your sister and Georgie were off on their own.”
“I’m not that lonely, or that desperate, Chapman,” Rudyard snapped.
Chapman drew himself up.
“Right. Well,” he crossed the room, his words suddenly short, “enjoy yourself, Rudyard. I’ve got the plumbers to see to in a while, anyway. Take your time leaving; you’re checking out well ahead of schedule.”
Time stretched out and slowed for Rudyard as he watched Chapman walk toward the door. Rudyard wouldn’t admit it for a stack of solid gold coffins, but a tinge of guilt, for some reason, poked him in the side. Much like Chapman.
He signed and called, “By the way,” after Chapman’s retreating back. He stopped, looking back. Something that Rudyard couldn’t place peeked out of his eyes. Hope? Gentleness? Rudyard wouldn’t know; these things were chiefly foreign to him.
“It is…nice, Chapman. Nice space, and all. A change of scene, and all that,” Rudyard offered lamely, knocking a fist against his navy pajamas.
A bright smile lit Chapman’s dratted face from ear to ear in response. Rudyard, miraculously, resisted the urge to say something to darken it.
“Thanks, Rudyard. Means a lot,” Chapman replied. He actually sounded sincere; the breezy, self-assured, impersonal quality to his voice had all but vanished. Rudyard counted the lines in the hardwood floors, unsure what to do with the softness in Chapman’s tone.
“Well, I’m off,” he said into the silence that followed. Chapman pursed his lips.
“You wouldn’t care to stay for a baked good, would you?” he asked offhandedly. “I have some downstairs at my patisserie.”
“No,” Rudyard returned stubbornly, “I would not. I made a vow when you put that blasted place in not to eat at it.”
“I see,” Chapman acknowledged, a tiny sigh following the words. Rudyard rolled his eyes, but the rest of his face didn’t quite match the annoyance of the action.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. See you, Rudyard.” Chapman gave him an uncharacteristically soft smile, and then was gone.
Rudyard listened to the door click shut and then turned, to pick up his things, dress, and cross the street, which was calf-deep in sparkling snow. He sniffed as he prepared for the outdoors.
“Now look here,” he said to no one in particular. “This was a debacle, and Chapman’s a sod.”
Before he left, Rudyard made up the side of the bed that still smelled of wood chips and wax, as well as the side that smelled of thistles and freshly-broken soil, just the same. The silken sheets slipped smoothly through his fingers, just like his mastery of whatever had happened last night and this morning. He resolved, before he left, to forget the whole affair.
Of course, he pondered as he shut the bedroom door for the final time, the memory of Chapman’s closeness dancing in his mind, one doesn’t often forget a change of scene.