{"id":72,"date":"2018-05-20T21:02:35","date_gmt":"2018-05-20T20:02:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/217.199.187.195\/jpdelaney.co.uk\/?page_id=72"},"modified":"2018-06-07T22:36:35","modified_gmt":"2018-06-07T21:36:35","slug":"believe-me","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.jpdelaney.co.uk\/?page_id=72","title":{"rendered":"BELIEVE ME"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><div class=\"fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling\"  style='background-color: #242424;background-position: center center;background-repeat: no-repeat;padding-top:0px;padding-right:0px;padding-bottom:0px;padding-left:0px;'><div class=\"fusion-builder-row fusion-row \"><div  class=\"fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion_builder_column_1_1  fusion-one-full fusion-column-first fusion-column-last 1_1\"  style='margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:20px;'>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-column-wrapper\" style=\"padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px;background-position:left top;background-repeat:no-repeat;-webkit-background-size:cover;-moz-background-size:cover;-o-background-size:cover;background-size:cover;\"  data-bg-url=\"\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-widget-area fusion-widget-area-1 fusion-content-widget-area\"><style type=\"text\/css\" scoped=\"scoped\">.fusion-widget-area-1 {padding:0px 0px 0px 0px;}.fusion-widget-area-1 .widget h4 {color:#ffffff;}.fusion-widget-area-1 .widget .heading h4 {color:#ffffff;}<\/style><section id=\"menu-widget-2\" class=\"fusion-slidingbar-widget-column widget menu\"><style type=\"text\/css\">#menu-widget-2{text-align:center;}#menu-widget-2 > .fusion-widget-menu li{display: inline-block;}#menu-widget-2 ul li a{display: inline-block;padding:0;border:0;color:#ccc;font-size:14px;}#menu-widget-2 ul li a:after{content:'|';color:#ccc;padding-right:25px;padding-left:25px;font-size:14px;}#menu-widget-2 ul li a:hover, #menu-widget-2 ul .menu-item.current-menu-item a {color:#fff;}#menu-widget-2 ul li:last-child a:after{display: none}#menu-widget-2 ul li .fusion-widget-cart-number{margin:0 7px;background-color:#fff;color:#ccc;}#menu-widget-2 ul li.fusion-active-cart-icon .fusion-widget-cart-icon:after{color:#fff;}<\/style><nav class=\"fusion-widget-menu\"><ul id=\"menu-believe-me-menu\" class=\"menu\"><li id=\"menu-item-131\" class=\"menu-item menu-item-type-custom menu-item-object-custom menu-item-131\"><a href=\"#Decoy\">Extract from The Decoy<\/a><\/li><li id=\"menu-item-132\" class=\"menu-item menu-item-type-custom menu-item-object-custom menu-item-132\"><a href=\"#Baudelaire\">Historical Background: Charles Baudelaire<\/a><\/li><\/ul><\/nav><div style=\"clear:both;\"><\/div><\/section><div class=\"fusion-additional-widget-content\"><\/div><\/div><div class=\"fusion-clearfix\"><\/div>\r\n\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t<\/div><\/div><\/div><div class=\"fusion-fullwidth fullwidth-box nonhundred-percent-fullwidth non-hundred-percent-height-scrolling\"  style='background-color: #242424;background-position: center center;background-repeat: no-repeat;padding-top:0px;padding-right:0px;padding-bottom:0px;padding-left:0px;'><div class=\"fusion-builder-row fusion-row \"><div  class=\"fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion_builder_column_1_6  fusion-one-sixth fusion-column-first 1_6\"  style='margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:20px;width:16.66%;width:calc(16.66% - ( ( 4% + 4% ) * 0.1666 ) );margin-right: 4%;'>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-column-wrapper\" style=\"padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px;background-position:left top;background-repeat:no-repeat;-webkit-background-size:cover;-moz-background-size:cover;-o-background-size:cover;background-size:cover;\"  data-bg-url=\"\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-clearfix\"><\/div>\r\n\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t<\/div><div  class=\"fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion_builder_column_2_3  fusion-two-third 2_3\"  style='margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:20px;width:66.66%;width:calc(66.66% - ( ( 4% + 4% ) * 0.6666 ) );margin-right: 4%;'>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-column-wrapper\" style=\"padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px;background-position:left top;background-repeat:no-repeat;-webkit-background-size:cover;-moz-background-size:cover;-o-background-size:cover;background-size:cover;\"  data-bg-url=\"\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-menu-anchor\" id=\"Baudelaire\"><\/div><div class=\"fusion-text\"><h2><strong>Historical Background: Charles Baudelaire<\/strong><\/h2>\n<p>Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) was a French poet, essayist and translator who introduced to France the work of Edgar Allen Poe.<\/p>\n<p>His most famous work, Les Fleurs du Mal (The Flowers of Evil), was praised by friends and denounced by critics for its ground-breaking decadence. The newspaper Le Figaro said of it: \u2018Everything which is not hideous is incomprehensible, everything one understands is putrid.\u2019<\/p>\n<p>The book was seized by the authorities, and Baudelaire, his publisher and his printer were all found guilty of an offence against public morals. Six of the poems remained censored for almost a century.<\/p>\n<p>Many of the poems were inspired by his relationships with women, particularly with his on- off half-Creole mistress, Jeanne Duval, and with Apollonie Sabatier, a female acquaintance to whom he sent a number of his poems anonymously. They have been dubbed the V\u00e9nus Noire and the V\u00e9nus Blanche.<\/p>\n<p>I have made my own translations of half a dozen of Baudelaire\u2019s poems, extracts of which are used in BELIEVE ME. The longer versions are below.<\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong>Souvenirs<\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<em>I have more memories than if I had lived a thousand years.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>An old desk full of dead ideas \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Abandoned poems, old receipts and bills,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Dusty locks of hair and long-forgotten wills \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Is not more full of secrets than my aching head.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>I\u2019m a necropolis; a mass grave where the dead \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Those bodies I once loved \u2013 are tumbled willy-nilly,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Prodded and nudged incessantly<\/em><br \/>\n<em>By morbid reveries, like worms.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>I\u2019m a cemetery shunned by the moon,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A bedroom filled with withered bloom,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Where cupboards full of wedding clothes<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Are slowly chewed to dust by moths.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The days go on forever. Boredom and ennui<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Are in themselves a kind of immortality.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Slowly, I become the opposite of flesh:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Antimatter, darkness, life\u2019s antithesis,<br \/>\n<\/em><\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><em>Like some old statue of a half-forgotten god,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Abandoned in the desert, starved of blood,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Whose enigmatic, weather-beaten frown<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Lights up, just for a moment, as the sun goes down.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong><em>To One Who Is Too Cheerful<\/em><\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<em>Your face, your gestures, and your manner<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Are as pretty as the countryside.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Laughter blows across your face<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Like a breeze across a sky.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Every passer-by, however glum,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Can\u2019t but be charmed by the glow of health<\/em><br \/>\n<em>That radiates like sunlight<\/em><br \/>\n<em>From your bare shoulders and your arms.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The dazzling riot of colours<\/em><br \/>\n<em>You favour for your dresses<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Would make a poet think<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Of a chorus-line of flowers.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Those vibrant, crazy dresses are the emblem<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Of your multi-coloured nature.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Mad woman who I\u2019m mad about!<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I love and hate you all at once.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Sometimes in a pretty garden<\/em><br \/>\n<em>To which I\u2019ve dragged my apathy,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I\u2019ve felt the sunshine like a pain,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>As though its brilliance mocked me.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Springtime and renewal<\/em><br \/>\n<em>So mortify my savage heart<\/em><br \/>\n<em>That sometimes I punish flowers<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Simply for daring to bloom.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>So, too, I should like \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Some dark, pleasurable night \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>To creep like a thief<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Towards the treasures of your flesh;<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>To strike and whip your joyous limbs<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And bruise your yielding breasts;<br \/>\n<\/em><em>To slice, quick and sudden, down your flank<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A savage, gaping wound,<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>And \u2013 vertiginous sweetness! \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Through those new lips,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>So bright and glistening,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Infuse my venom, oh my sister!<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong>The Martyr<\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<strong><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><em>Drawing of an unknown master<\/em><\/span><\/strong><br \/>\n<em>The girl lies naked, sensuously sprawled,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Her limbs spread wide to curious eyes;<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Her secret places shamelessly exposed,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A glimpse of pink between her amber thighs.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Only a candle, burning bright,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Its still flame undisturbed by breath,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Betrays that she is not asleep:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The cold compliancy of death.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Only a crimson swathe of blood,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Encircling the severed head,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Reveals that she is perfect now,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>As all are perfect who are dead.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Tell me, cold beauty, did your intimate in death \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Whose lusts you could not, living, sate \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>On your inert, voluptuous corpse<\/em><br \/>\n<em>His monstrous passions consummate?<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And did he, all his passions spent,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Take in his hands your icy head,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And press his warm and breathing mouth<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Against those lips no longer red?<br \/>\n<\/em><em><br \/>\nNo matter where that man goes now,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>He cannot hope to hide or flee,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>For he has tasted death\u2019s sweet fruit,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And loves for all eternity.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong>Tranquility<\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<em>Let us now be tranquil, O my sad and restless soul.<br \/>\n<\/em><em>You wanted evening; see, now it is here.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Dusk has engulfed us in its dark embrace,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Which brings some people peace, but others, fear.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Now, as the vile multitude strip bare<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And squeal as Pleasure\u2019s whips strike home \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Numbing their feelings of sorrow or despair \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Come, take my hand; let us stand back and watch.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Let us stand back: above us in the sky,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Ghosts will watch with us in the fading light,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Dressed in the costumes of a time gone by.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Let us stand back, and watch day lose its fight.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>The weakened sun slips out of sight:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Death, triumphant, sweeps in from the sea.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Listen, my love, listen to the sweet approach of night.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong>The Death of Lovers<\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<em>There is a bed, with pale sweet-smelling sheets,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Cushions soft as earth within a tomb,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Exotic flowers on the window ledge<\/em><br \/>\n<em>That block the daylight from this quiet room.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And \u2013 like two logs that smoulder in a grate,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Which, knocked together, suddenly relight,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Catching and roaring in a burst of flame \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>So our hearts, pressed together now, ignite.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A cold mysterious fire engulfs us both,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A sudden flash of incandescent white;<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A heat that burns and does not burn,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>But fills the mirrors with its ghostly light.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>When, in some future age, these doors are broached,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>They shall find only this: an empty bed,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Some charred and blackened bones, a film of ash,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The mirrors broken, and the fire long dead.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong>Jewels<\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<em>My darling was naked, and knowing my desires,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Had kept on only her tinkling jewels.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>They gave her the air of a conqueror\u2019s favourite;<br \/>\n<\/em><em>The plaything of some Moorish khan.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>With every gesture they rattled and chimed,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A blazing shimmer of metal and stone<\/em><br \/>\n<em>That bore me away to another world;<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Sound and light ecstatically joined.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Lying down, she let herself be loved,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Watching with contented eyes<\/em><br \/>\n<em>As I rocked inside her with an ocean\u2019s beat:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A rising tide that battered her like a cliff.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Now a tigress, now languid, now offering new positions \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>But always lubricious, always without shame \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>She reinvents herself moment by moment,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Giving new meaning to love\u2019s old metamorphoses.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>She\u2019s like some new, undiscovered creature,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Whose swivelling, gyrating pelvis<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Yokes a boy\u2019s slim torso to an Amazon\u2019s rump.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>On her dark skin her adornments are superb.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Her arm and her leg, her thighs and her sex,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Shining with oil, sinuous as a swan,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Pass dizzily before my eyes:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Belly and breasts, fruits of my vine \u2013<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Like an evil angel, I shall never escape you.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>My soul with you shall never know peace.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The lamp is dead, and the fire soon dying.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The quiet hissing of the last few logs<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Floods her amber skin with blood.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong>To a Passer-by<\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<em>The noisy street around me howled,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And in that din a woman passed \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Magnificent, slim, with sorrow in her eyes,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Dressed in mourning, hurrying on. But her hand<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Flicked up her hem to show, just<\/em><br \/>\n<em>For a moment, her shapely foot\u2026<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I stopped, and caught her eye.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A kind of shock went through me,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A glance in which a hurricane might be born.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Elusive beauty, whose look brought me alive,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Shall I ever see you again?<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I know nothing of you, nor you of me,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And yet, on another occasion, we might have met,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Perhaps for all eternity\u2026<\/em><br \/>\n<em>O you who I would have loved; O you who sensed it too.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong>L\u00e9th\u00e9<\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<em>Come lie with me, you cruel unfeeling soul;<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Adored tigress, monster with the lazy air,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>So I can rake my trembling fingers<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Through the thickness of your mane,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Or bury my aching, fevered head<\/em><br \/>\n<em>In the aromas of your skirts,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Inhaling, as if from some dried flower,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The musty sweetness of our lovemaking.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I want to sleep! \u2013 To sleep instead of live;<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And in a slumber soft as death<\/em><br \/>\n<em>To lavish a thousand ruthless kisses<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Upon your glowing, copper skin.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>No ocean, no abyss can match<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The oblivion of your bed:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I taste Lethe\u2019s waters on your lips,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Stupefied with every kiss.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>This is my fate \u2013 in which I glory,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Knowing I never had a choice;<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Like some docile, naive martyr,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Whose piety inflames a torturer even more:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Thus will I suck, to ease my pain,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Hemlock and opium<\/em><br \/>\n<em>From the tips of these beautiful breasts<\/em><br \/>\n<em>That have never imprisoned a heart.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><em><strong>The Ghost<\/strong><\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<em>Like an angel with bright monstrous eyes,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I shall come to where you sleep,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Gliding towards you silently<\/em><br \/>\n<em>In the shadows of the night.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>And I will give you, my dark beauty<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Kisses cold as moonbeams,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Caresses soft as the touch of snakes<\/em><br \/>\n<em>That crawl around a grave.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>When morning comes, as livid as a bruise,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>They will find nothing here:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Just a cold and empty bed.<br \/>\n<\/em><em><br \/>\nAs some might woo with tenderness<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Your vivacity and youth,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I mean to reign over you with fear.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><strong>To the Reader (extract)<\/strong><\/span><br \/>\n<em>Some men like to bite and kiss<\/em><br \/>\n<em>The sucked-out breasts of anorexic whores,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Extracting every drop of bliss<\/em><br \/>\n<em>As if they squeezed an orange of its juice.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>For others, it\u2019s like maggots in the brain:<\/em><br \/>\n<em>They\u2019re eaten through with unfulfilled desires,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>While others still pump death into a vein,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Or suck it deep into their poisoned lungs.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And if you\u2019re one of those moralising snobs<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Who claim destruction, porn and rape<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Only appeal to self-indulgent yobs,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>I say: you simply haven\u2019t got the guts.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>And yet, in this menagerie of the perverse \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Libertines, addicts, fantasists and prudes \u2013<\/em><br \/>\n<em>There\u2019s one exhibit even worse,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>A creature more depraved than any of these.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>He does not have the loudest cry;<\/em><br \/>\n<em>His cage is often quiet and still.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Yet he\u2019d destroy creation with a sigh,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Or crunch up in his yawning jaws the world.<br \/>\n<\/em><br \/>\n<em>He weeps with boredom \u2013 and dreams of death.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>He smokes his hookah \u2013 and kills with every breath.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Who is this monster? My friend, you know him too.<\/em><br \/>\n<em>My twin, my double \u2013 hypocrite reader! \u2013 It is you.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div><div class=\"fusion-menu-anchor\" id=\"Decoy\"><\/div><div class=\"fusion-text\"><h1>More about this book: Believe Me<\/h1>\n<p><strong>Extract from The Decoy<\/strong><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><em>Believe Me is based on an earlier book of mine, The Decoy. Rather than republish it as it was first written, I took the opportunity to tell the story from a completely new perspective. Inevitably, that meant throwing out whole sections that didn\u2019t fit into the new plan, but which I was sometimes sorry to see go all the same. This is an extract from a lengthy section in which we meet Glenn, a character who appears in Believe Me only briefly.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p>Harold J. Hopkins, proprietor and director of the Crossways Funeral Parlor, looks at the young man in front of him and says, \u201cWhere else have you worked, Glenn?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Glenn Furmann says politely, \u201cWell sir, you\u2019ll see from my resume that since I qualified as a licensed mortuary technician I\u2019ve worked in Houston, San Antonio and New York City. I\u2019ve also worked in several establishments in Europe. I didn\u2019t put them on the resume because I figured that wasn\u2019t relevant professional experience.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey do things different over there, I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIn the mainly Protestant countries, yes they do sir. They don\u2019t have a tradition of embalming, or indeed of cosmetology. As you\u2019ll see from my resume, cosmetology is my major area of professional interest.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cRight,\u201d Harold says. He likes this young man. He likes the way he speaks seriously, in a low voice. He likes the way he\u2019s worn his funeral suit to this interview. He likes the way he calls Harold \u2018sir\u2019. In Harold\u2019s view a young man who shows the proper respect for an employer will probably show the proper respect for the deceased.<\/p>\n<p>Harold thinks briefly of his own son, not much older than the young man in front of him. Showing respect had not been Mervyn\u2019s forte. In retrospect, it might have been a good thing that Mervyn had refused to follow his father into the family business. It might only have been storing up trouble for the future.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSir?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He drags his attention back to the young man.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019d be happy to work a trial period, sir, if that would help you decide between myself and the other applicants.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOh, well. Matter of fact, there aren\u2019t any other applicants. I just posted that job notice last Friday, and you\u2019re the first person to reply. So I guess the early bird catches the worm. How soon could you begin?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The young man allows a brief smile to touch his lips. \u201cI just need a couple of days to sort out somewhere to live. And thank you, Mr Hopkins, sir. You won\u2019t regret this decision. I believe that I will be useful to you and I hope to learn a great deal from watching an experienced professional like yourself at work, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Harold Hopkins waves away the compliments, faintly embarrassed. \u201cNonsense. It\u2019s you who\u2019ll be teaching an old practitioner like me the latest ways of doing things. And there\u2019s no need to call me sir, either. \u2018Harold\u2019 will do just fine.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Two days after his interview, Glenn Furmann reports to the Crossways funeral parlour. Harold gives him a tour of the facilities, and introduces him to Joel, Harold\u2019s business partner, as well as to Harold\u2019s wife Ellen, and their daughter Alicia, who also works for the business. On all of them he makes a good impression. But it\u2019s in the prep room that he and Harold linger the longest.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAdjustable cot, aspirator pump, embalming machine,\u201d Harold says, indicating the room\u2019s various features. \u201cVentilation in the table. The hearse can back right up to those doors.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Glenn compliments him on the efficient set-up and Harold makes a self-deprecating gesture. \u201cWe may look like a hokey operation, Glenn, but that\u2019s an impression we work hard to foster. Folks prefer it that way. We actually have over a dozen clients a week pass through here.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Glenn nods, clearly impressed. \u201cWhich embalming solution do you use?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cFormalin. Low index, usually, to keep down the odour. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cA lot of people are switching to Sorbent. We used it in Houston. It\u2019s less toxic than Formalin.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSorbent. I think I read something about that.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI could get some in, if you liked,\u201d the young man suggests.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThat\u2019s a good idea. Why don\u2019t you do that?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNot that I meant to imply there\u2019s anything wrong with formaldehyde-based solutions, you understand. The last thing you want is some young hothead coming in here and telling you to change everything.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNo, Glenn, don\u2019t apologise.\u201d Harold Hopkins looks kindly on his new employee. \u201cThere\u2019s going to be a lot of stuff I need to catch up on. You see anything round here could do with updating, I\u2019d like to know what you think.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>That afternoon Harold and his new assistant ride out to a local retirement home to pick up the body of one of the residents. Retirement home calls are one of the hardest duties a mortician has to perform, and Harold keeps a close eye on his new employee to see how he handles this one.<\/p>\n<p>He\u2019s glad to note that Glenn doesn\u2019t say much on the ride out. Harold knows many morticians like to laugh and joke on the drive over and then suddenly switch on the serious faces when they get to work. He\u2019s even heard it said that a mortician needs to be light-hearted sometimes around cadavers, as a way of letting off steam. But he doesn\u2019t agree with that, and he\u2019s glad Glenn Furmann doesn\u2019t seem to operate that way either. That was why Harold had gotten so mad at Mervyn, for taking the hearse into the McDonalds drive-thru that time. That the vehicle was empty wasn\u2019t the point. The point was that people expect the highest standards from those who handle them after they\u2019ve departed.<\/p>\n<p>He\u2019s glad to note, too, that Glenn doesn\u2019t immediately turn the hearse around and back it into the retirement home gates when they arrive. As Harold used to say to Mervyn, morticians aren\u2019t refuse collectors. Drive in frontways, and we\u2019ll see about loading the client when the time comes.<\/p>\n<p>The retirement home\u2019s Director, a capable lady called Margot Wingate, is waiting for them by the front door. Harold introduces Glenn to her, then the two men follow her to the room of the deceased resident. This was the main reason retirement home calls were hard. You basically had a lot of elderly people who all knew why you were here \u2013 those that still had their faculties \u2013 and were probably wondering if they\u2019d be next to go. Harold always likes to find time to talk to any of the elderly folks who want to come and chat as he makes his way to the deceased\u2019s room. Sometimes they\u2019ll just want to make a joke about it not being their turn yet, but sometimes they want to be serious and talk about the deceased, particularly if he or she was a friend. You had to strike a balance between getting to the room quickly, without making a big fuss about your presence, and being polite. Once again he\u2019s pleased to see that Glenn Furmann has been well trained, and talks to the residents in the same polite but solemn manner that Harold does himself.<\/p>\n<p>The client is an old lady, still lying peacefully in the bed where she passed away. \u201cI\u2019ve taken off her catheter,\u201d Margot says. \u201cShe\u2019s ready to go.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Harold looks at the space between the bed and the door. \u201cI think there should be ample room for our cot in here, Glenn.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>While Glenn goes back to the hearse for the trolley Margot says: \u201cHe\u2019s new, isn\u2019t he?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cToday is his first day. But he\u2019s had a great deal of experience. And he seems to me to have the correct attitude.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHow\u2019d you find him?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOn the internet, as a matter of fact. There\u2019s a sort of bulletin board just started, for vacant jobs. I thought I\u2019d give it a try.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHe\u2019ll do well,\u201d Margot says. \u201cThe old folks like him, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes.\u201d Harold smiles at her. \u201cSo many outsiders don\u2019t realise. Being a mortician is a people business.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The young man returns with the cot, and together the two men lift the body of the old lady into the zippered sleeve. Glenn starts to do it up but Harold stops him.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNow this is perhaps an instance where I might give <em>you<\/em> some advice, Glenn. Although we\u2019d normally remove a body with the zipper done up, in a retirement home we sometimes do it a little differently. You see, some of these old folks may be too infirm to come to the funeral, so we like to give those that want it the opportunity to come and say their goodbyes as we proceed to the hearse.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Glenn nods thoughtfully. \u201cThat\u2019s a wonderful thought, Mr Hopkins, and I sure am glad you shared that with me.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHarold, please,\u201d Harold says, arranging the zippered bag so that it frames the old lady\u2019s face attractively.<\/p>\n<\/div><div class=\"fusion-clearfix\"><\/div>\r\n\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t<\/div><div  class=\"fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion_builder_column_1_6  fusion-one-sixth fusion-column-last 1_6\"  style='margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:20px;width:16.66%;width:calc(16.66% - ( ( 4% + 4% ) * 0.1666 ) );'>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-column-wrapper\" style=\"padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px;background-position:left top;background-repeat:no-repeat;-webkit-background-size:cover;-moz-background-size:cover;-o-background-size:cover;background-size:cover;\"  data-bg-url=\"\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-clearfix\"><\/div>\r\n\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t<\/div><div  class=\"fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion_builder_column_1_6  fusion-one-sixth fusion-column-first 1_6\"  style='margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:20px;width:16.66%;width:calc(16.66% - ( ( 4% ) * 0.1666 ) );margin-right: 4%;'>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-column-wrapper\" style=\"padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px;background-position:left top;background-repeat:no-repeat;-webkit-background-size:cover;-moz-background-size:cover;-o-background-size:cover;background-size:cover;\"  data-bg-url=\"\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-clearfix\"><\/div>\r\n\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t\t<\/div><div  class=\"fusion-layout-column fusion_builder_column fusion_builder_column_1_6  fusion-one-sixth fusion-column-last 1_6\"  style='margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:20px;width:16.66%;width:calc(16.66% - ( ( 4% ) * 0.1666 ) );'>\r\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-column-wrapper\" style=\"padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px;background-position:left top;background-repeat:no-repeat;-webkit-background-size:cover;-moz-background-size:cover;-o-background-size:cover;background-size:cover;\"  data-bg-url=\"\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"fusion-button-wrapper\"><style type=\"text\/css\" scoped=\"scoped\">.fusion-button.button-1{width:100%;}<\/style><a class=\"fusion-button button-flat fusion-button-round button-medium button-blue button-1\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\" href=\"https:\/\/www.amazon.co.uk\/Believe-Me-psychological-thriller-bestselling-ebook\/dp\/B0763SL75B\/ref=sr_1_3_twi_kin_1?ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1528142676&amp;sr=8-3&amp;keywords=jp+delaney\"><span class=\"fusion-button-text\">BUY NOW &#8211; 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