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Overview
A sociopath's work is never done.
Dyson Devereux is a busy man, with a challenging new job in the council's Burials and Cemeteries department and a young son. Life should be fine.
But amid the mindless minutiae of his workplace, Dyson is fast losing patience with his crass colleagues and their contemptible clothes. Something's got to give, and it's not going to be Dyson.
Because unbeknown to those around him, beneath Dyson's charming, Italian-delicacy-consuming veneer lurks something sinister. As his personal and professional lives threaten to spiral out of control, how long can Dyson keep his true nature under wraps?
Sepultura is a darkly humorous crime novel exposing the banality of public-sector bureaucracy.
"A satirical gem" - Adam Riley, Comedian
<800+ Ratings for the Necropolis Trilogy on Goodreads>
'...a character you can't help but like no matter how outrageous he is' - avid reader (Top 500 Reviewer)
'...a gravely amusing distraction from other run-of-the-mill narrators' - Littlebooknesslane (Top 1000 Reviewer)
"Hysterical. Takes dark humour to a whole new level" - Martin Allen, Author of Weed
"My kind of black comedy. You'll either love Dyson, or love to hate him" - Sandra Seymour, Author of Breed: Slayer
Sepultura is the sequel to Necropolis, picking up the threads of Dyson's story and confronting him with a whole host of new problems. However, it's enjoyable as a standalone novel in its own right - a biting satire of the PC public sector in a post-Brexit world.
How does a sociopath go straight, when everyone deserves to die?
FOR LOVERS OF DARKLY HUMOROUS PSYCHOLOGICAL CRIME FICTION AND SATIRE EVERYWHERE
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF DYSON DEVEREUX - BRITAIN'S ANSWER TO PATRICK BATEMAN
'If you fancy something a little different, with an edginess to it, but still with that dark humour ... I can highly recommend you give this one a go. A really enjoyable read' - BookWookie
'...the perfect sequel' - lexlooksatbooks
This darkly humorous crime novel rich with satirical humour shows what happens when a British town council visits its European twin with a charming sociopathic serial killer in tow.
Can you resist Dyson Devereux, a man deadly in wit and deed? Read Sepultura to find out.
If you like dark humorous crime, you'll love Sepultura
Also by Guy Portman:
Golgotha
Tomorrow's World: Darkly Humorous Tales From The Future
Mangetout
The Gazebo
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781981942411 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | CreateSpace Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/08/2018 |
| Series: | Necropolis , #2 |
| Pages: | 254 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.58(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
MILAN-MALPENSA AIRPORT – I am standing in line at the rental car company, waiting to be served. At the front of the queue, a man, having slammed a car key on the counter, proceeds to complain about the slow service, loudly in Italian. The gesticulating male rental car company employee blames all and sundry, other than himself. Check-in for my flight closes soon. I am running out of time.
The shouting match has ceased, and the conflicting parties are now silent and sullen. Having filled out a carbonless copy paper form, the employee rips off the white top page and deposits it on the counter in front of the customer. Then, after tearing off the second purple page, he gets up, goes over to the other side of the room and places it in a filing cabinet. Having returned to his seat he extracts the third sheet of paper, which is yellow. This he places in an in-tray. Outside of Sub-Saharan Africa there are few places with more inefficient bureaucracy than Italy.
Further down the counter, behind a computer, is a fat female staff member. Someone in the queue enquires as to why it is not serving customers. Eyes fix on their accuser. A rebuke barked in Italian explains how it is far too busy to serve customers, chubby appendages reinforcing the words with impassioned gestures. Could it be that the obesity epidemic ravaging my own nation is spreading south?
The man at the front of the queue is walking away, uttering obscenities as he goes. The person in front of me, the next in line, looks up at the ceiling and mutters something inaudible.
I am running out of time, so I saunter along the counter towards the fat staff member, scouring my mind as I go for a compliment to throw its way, which is no easy task. I decide to go with the hair, which is long, silky looking, and would not look bad were it worn by another.
When I compliment it, it looks across the counter at me and smiles. In no time at all it announces that it has finished working on the computer and is ready to serve me. Soon after, a white piece of paper is being pressed into my hand. When it waddles off with the purple sheet, I twirl the ring in my trouser pocket in my fingertips, reliving as I do so the event that culminated in it being there. Out of the corner of my eye I see a pair of airport police heading this way. I turn my back to them and bow my head.
* * *
Three months earlier – A blaring television is audible as I walk up to the front door and press the bell. No one comes so I press it again, this time keeping it held down for several seconds. Footsteps are approaching. The door has only opened about an inch when the tirade begins.
'You take no interest at all. Where have you been?'
Having taken a step back I stand facing Rakesha – tall and slender in the doorway, her brown curly hair tied at the sides of her head, her hands placed on her hips, her hazel eyes fixed reproachfully on mine.
'How can you behave like this? You have not visited for ages.' This is a lie; I visited barely two weeks ago. 'You better change your ways.'
'Have you quite finished?'
Rakesha falls silent, steps to one side. I enter the house. In the living room a television blasts out a Pokémon cartoon. Toys are scattered across the floor like debris. In a clearing in the middle a girl twirls an LED, colour-changing hula hoop around her waist. A pig-tailed head swivels to face me. This is Rakesha's daughter. My name for her is Madam.
'Weirdo!' says Madam.
'Don't be rude,' says Rakesha.
I follow Rakesha through to the kitchen. Slouched against a counter, drinking from Coca-Cola cans, are two slim, youngish, mixed-race men. One of them is Free Lunch, Rakesha's jobless, live-in boyfriend. It got the moniker Free Lunch because it does not contribute to any bills. I say, 'Hello.'
Free Lunch says, 'Not you again.'
'This is Jeremiah's brother,' says Rakesha.
Free Lunch's brother raises his chin. He says nothing.
'Dyson and I need to talk,' says Rakesha. 'You two make yourselves scarce.'
'He'll be so pleased to see you,' says Rakesha when Free Lunch and his brother have departed. And then, having gone over to the door, she screeches, 'Horatio!'
From upstairs comes the patter of little feet. A moment later his face appears between two bannisters.
'Dada, Dada!'
Horatio clasps a bannister and then lowers himself down a step. He repeats the procedure again and again. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs he dashes into the kitchen and hugs my trouser-clad leg tightly with both arms.
Rakesha informs Horatio that I am taking him on an excursion to the playground. She then calls for her daughter, Horatio's half-sister. On entering the kitchen, Madam casts a derisive look in my direction. Madam takes Horatio by the hand and leads him away to get his things together for the trip – his coat and whatnot.
'How is his Latin coming along?'
'He's only just turned three,' says Rakesha. 'He's not learning no Latin.'
'Best get on it right away. Children are at their most receptive to language around his age. The longer he waits, the harder it is going to be.'
Rakesha's hands are on her hips again, which is usually a precursor to a tirade, but on this occasion she merely smiles and shakes her head. As we make our way through to the hallway she says, 'You look good.'
After waving goodbye to his mother and Madam, Horatio is off, scampering in great haste along the pavement in the direction of one of the vicinity's more pleasant playgrounds. There is a road ahead so I catch up with him and pick him up. Whilst he sucks fervently on his thumb, I note how similar Horatio looks to me, though he has a marginally darker complexion and somewhat curly hair. Rakesha's father's family hails from the West Indies.
'Doggie,' says Horatio, prodding in the direction of a dog on a leash. 'I love doggies.'
'Amo canes.'
CHAPTER 2THE FOLLOWING DAY – Monday – Paleham Council – As I ascend the stairs I take sips from my cup of caffè latte extra hot with soya milk. On reaching floor three I straighten my blue silk Salvatore Ferragamo flower-print tie. Let me make one thing clear. These flowers form a tasteful, intricate and understated design that bears no resemblance to the gaudy monstrosities festooning ties across the land, including here in this building.
I take a sip of coffee and then peer through the windowpane in the door. The place is remarkably full for such an early hour; there are still two minutes to go until nine. Could it be that job cuts and the promise of more has finally got local council office workers pulling their thumbs out of their proverbial backsides? Only time will tell.
After inhaling deeply I open the door and stride into the office, greeting council workers as I go.
'Morning ... Morning ... Great jumper. You cannot go wrong with blue ... Morning. What is that you are drinking ...? A mocha with cream on top ... No, this is a latte extra hot with soya milk. You should try one sometime.'
Up ahead on the left is building control's P-P-Priscilla. I cannot be certain so I omit the name and go with, 'Morning. How are you today?' 'I'm so, so tired. Liam kept me up half the night, again.'
Liam; who is Liam? P's sex-crazed partner? P, pointing at a framed photograph on her desk of a sprog, says, 'That's Liam.' Having turned her pale, drawn countenance to face me, she adds, 'I must look like death this morning.'
'No, I never would have guessed you were up half the night.' I continue onwards. 'Morning, morning ... Like the hair ... Yes, really ... How are you today ...? Morning ... Morning ... Hello team.'
Up ahead is a gluttonous carcass, slouched over its desk, gorging on a McDonald's McMuffin. I wonder how it survived the first wave of redundancies. Here's hoping that it gets swept away in the second wave. Or maybe it is immovable and here to stay. I will give it a wide berth.
So here we are in my department, Burials and Cemeteries. I just started here. This is my desk. I sit down in my revolving office chair, turn the computer on and commence workday number five. The telephone is ringing. I pick it up.
'Good morning, Burials and Cemeteries.'
'A-hhh, h, hhh, hh.'
'How can I be of assistance this morning, madam?'
'My, my a-hhh aunt died. And she a-hhh wants a, a ahhh.'
What is an a-hhh? 'My aunt a-hhh needs an a-hhh alternative ahhh eco-casket.'
I open the database and locate the details for EcoRest.
'Got a pen?'
'A-hhh yes.'
'0-2-0-8-7-4-3-6-5-8-7. I repeat 020-8743-6587 ... Which eco material did you have in mind for the casket ...? Cardboard ... Bamboo?'
'Hhh. Pineapple leaves.'
Once my nation ruled the waves, now its populace is reduced to pineapple-leaf death receptacles. Eco funerals are all the rage these days. My temp, Sullen Goth, has arrived.
'You are late.'
'Err sorry, the bus ...'
Having handed him an elastic band-bound wad of business cards, I say, 'Found these in the drawer. They are business cards for various local providers – florists, repast-caterers, morticians, and so forth. Enter the details into the database. Make sure there are no duplicates. Feel free to modify and/or add categories as you see fit. We will reconvene this afternoon to discuss a strategy for sorting the wheat from the chaff.'
Sullen Goth collapses into his chair and emits a lengthy sigh.
The office printer is playing host to an impromptu gathering of female council workers who, seemingly oblivious to the omnipresent threat of job cuts, chatter and giggle. One of their number, a woman in a skirt cut far too short for her age, advances towards Burials and Cemeteries, another following in her wake.
'You look good today,' calls out Inappropriate Short Skirt, the compliment evidently not directed at pale, scruffily dressed Sullen Goth. The two women converge on my desk. 'Nice tie! It contrasts with your white shirt really well.'
Her observation is correct. I say, 'Hello girls. You are very lively for so early in the morning. Been on the coffee?'
Giggling.
'Um yes, I, we have,' says Inappropriate Short Skirt's companion, a skeletal blonde.
'What type?' says I.
'I had a latte,' says the skeletal blonde.
'Great minds think alike,' says I.
Inappropriate Short Skirt says, 'It was a macchiato for me. I just love macchiatos.'
'Here in Burials and Cemeteries we do not.'
The smile evaporates from Inappropriate Short Skirt's face.
'Do you have a wife?' says the skeletal blonde.
'No.'
'In a relationship?' says Inappropriate Short Skirt, who is smiling once again.
'Nothing serious.'
'Kids?'
'What is this, twenty questions?'
A man approaches – early thirties, dark complexion. He says, 'You two finished your morning's work already?'
'No, Abdullah, not yet,' says the skeletal blonde.
'We were just going back to our desks,' says Inappropriate Short Skirt.
The women depart. The man leans towards me and whispers, 'You really fancy yourself as a ladies' man, don't you?'
Shortly thereafter I go over to the printer to retrieve a letter. On the return journey I see a paltry man with an oversized, bald head, leering over my assistant's desk. It is wearing a vomitus yellow tie and a bright-green shirt with frilly cuffs. If the purpose of its visit is not to be buried or cremated, it has no business being in Burials and Cemeteries.
'Oh, hi,' it says when I return to my desk. 'I was just reminding your assistant that listening to non-work-related stuff on headphones is not allowed. When I asked him, he said he was listening to music.'
This sartorial nightmare would be wise to get out of Burials and Cemeteries whilst it still can.
'I don't believe we've met yet,' it says, proffering a hand. 'My name is Bryan. I am acting strategic director.'
I do not want to touch it but it would no doubt be deemed unfriendly were I not to, so I take its hand, shake it once and release.
'It's Dyson, isn't it?'
'Indeed.'
When it walks away I wipe my hand on my trouser leg. Sullen Goth looks up at me from his chair, says, 'Err sorry, I didn't know Bryan doesn't want us listening to music at work.'
'Do not concern yourself with him. He is having a bad clothes day.'
Sullen Goth chuckles. Bryan is the temporary second in charge here at the council. I have seen it around the place.
* * *
Two days later – Wednesday – I am in Cressingham Park Cemetery, a ten-acre, multi-faith burial ground that slopes gently upwards from north to south. Over there on the right is the recently refurbished chapel. It has been deemed suitable for all faiths; this is not to say that all faiths have deemed it suitable for them. Capacity is forty-five, seating for thirty, standing room for fifteen. It is equipped with a hearing induction loop and music system.
As for the burial sites, all new graves here are dug for two interments. Leases are for sixty years. Full memorials are condoned up to a maximum size of 0.76 metres (two feet six inches) wide by 1.83 metres (six feet) long. For those desiring garden space for traditional graves, lawn-style headstones may be erected at the head of the grave, allowing for a garden space not to exceed 0.76 metres wide by 1.52 metres (five feet) long. Over there on the left is the cremated remains section. I permit garden spaces in the form of lawn-style headstones here too, on the condition that they do not exceed 1.22 metres (four feet) by 0.46 metres (eighteen inches). The remainder of the space is to be kept clear at all times. Yes, that goes for both the burial and cremation zones. I will not tolerate transgressors.
These garden areas are to be utilised for planting bedding flowers and/or small shrubs. Fencing, edging, gravel, solar lights, glass urns and glass chippings are prohibited. In my mind's ear I hear a deceased eco-warrior's relation say, Surely the rule does not apply to recycled enviro glass chippings? It applies double.
I am ambling along the path, inspecting the gravesites on either side. Drooping from urns are rain-sodden common lilacs. To my left a row of sombre, dark-coloured headstones is rudely interrupted by a red specimen, its garden area bedecked in pink and white posies. These Eastern European Orthodox Christian headstones on the right have portraits of the deceased inscribed on them – a smiling woman with an infant, a man posing beside a Mercedes. The indigenous population is now also embracing the practice, with mixed results. Note the blue pearl-coloured gravestone over there, complete with grinning, Millwall Football Club kit-bedecked lout, Trevor Scullion.
Up ahead is an ornamental, factory-produced Essex cherub, leaning against a pink heart. I approach the offending site hesitantly. The heart is inscribed with the words, Darling Laycee, Up In Heaven You Will Live Eternal. No. God will take one look at this cherub- and heart-adorned monstrosity and Laycee will be plunging in the opposite direction. With any luck this cherub–heart combo is in breach of size regulations. I take the measuring tape out of my pocket. Please, please ... Damn.
In this part of the cemetery the graves are for the most part tasteful. I crouch in front of a grave with a simple grey headstone, bearing the details of its incumbent, Jetta Ntsoni, circa 1940–March 5th 2016. Placed on the grave is a shell: a freshwater mollusc. It has a wide aperture and delicate yellow whirl. Taking this mollusc in conjunction with the incumbent's name, it seems likely that it was transported here all the way from Central Africa's Congo River. Its purpose is to serve as a nkisi for the spirit of the deceased.
Nkisi-adorned graves are prevalent throughout the Congo Basin. For the inhabitants of the region the concepts of life and death are not mutually exclusive. It is believed that a nkisi contains the soul's eternal presence. Personally, I want my dead, dead.
The majority of the basin's population have come to embrace Christianity, and they have imbibed their new faith with their traditional animist beliefs, hence the presence of this nkisi here in London. I pick up the shell and hold it to my ear.
'Aye aye.'
Who just said that?
'Haw ... haw daftie, doon.'
The voice is familiar, but where is it coming from?
'Doon, Dysan, doon!'
The top of a head is peeking out from between piles of freshly dug earth.
'Haur comes th' big man,' says Angus when I walk over.
There is a second person in the grave, spade in hand.
'Hou's aw wi ye?' says Angus.
'Not bad. You have new teeth.'
'Aye, nu wallies.' Angus removes his dentures with an earth-stained paw and holds them up towards me. A trail of drool is hanging from them. The dentures are edging closer to me.
'I am not going to touch them.'
'Aye aye min.'
He returns the dentures to his mouth. Years of grinding resulted in Glaswegian former amphetamine addict Angus wearing out his originals. Angus worked as a cemetery maintenance person at the borough I was previously employed at. I was of course aware that he was working here, but had not seen him until now.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Sepultura"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Guy Portman.
Excerpted by permission of CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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