Obituary

There are some people in town who think Hughie didn't do it.

A woman died. The right man is awaiting trial.

Ruby's death is a big titted hitch for this paper.

We are in the eye of the hurricane.

Oh, my car? Is my car mixed up in Ruby's murder?

Slippery of you that, the way you played it.

I guess she's smarter than I thought.

For a fee, Tom Quigley allows

local lonely bachelors to use his milking machines to...

To... ? Yeah, exactly.

Bathroom's over there. Pull the door behind you.

This is like a Filofax of awful people.

The worst of the worst.

Crime correspondent?

The real killer is out there, and I know who they are.

Oisín's attacker didn't kill Ruby.

They leave bodies behind, not people.

They're proud of what they do.

Will you get up!

Sister Redmond. They've kept the details sparse, Elvira.

So I'd like to hear your side of events.

You were in Home Ec, making an apple tart.

The same apple tart that I made at the start of the term,

which another student, who I won't name-- Mona Rosengrave!

.. said tasted like something I refuse to say out loud.

So anyway, then Miss Enright's glass eye popped out.

Again! It rolled across the class and stopped at my bag.

When she arrived at my desk I got flustered

and without thinking I said...

'Would you mind throwing your eye over this for me?'

That's when the laughter started.

They were laughing at Miss Enright?

They were laughing at me, they've been laughing for the last year.

It's been led by Mona.

And laughing you decided to do something about. Exactly.

I shoved my tart in Mona's face.

And then what happened?

Mona said something, something bad.

Well tell me what she said. The exact words?

To a T.

You shoved your tart in Mona's face, she laughed and said...?

'Change the recipe all you like,

it still tastes like Sister Redmond's cunt!'

I guess I'm not going back to Home Economics.

How about I spend the time in the library instead?

As an aspiring writer that would hardly be punishment.

No, you'll be joining the only other class at that time.

Electronics. What?

And do poorly, I'll be moving you to pass English,

where from what I hear, Mona Rosengrave is thriving.

Electronics it is.

I'll top the class.

You never know... it may even help with my writing.

Took a while...

. but it turns out it did.

'Mona, Mona, Mona...'

This will be my masterpiece.

Now to choose.

It must be the right one.

Mona, Mona margherita!

Mona, Mona's margherita!

Margherita for Mona!

Mona, Mona's margherita.

Mona, Mona's margherita-ta.

Ah, my spring rolls!

Oh, fuck!

Okay, okay! I hear ya! Now, shut the fuck up!

Fuck that. I'm getting a pizza.

Oh!

Fuckin' hell!

What the...

Oh, for fucks sake!

Her face, so bloated.

And that wig? It's like it's made of pubes.

Oh seriously, shoot me if I ever get cancer.

Her waist is what?!

Oh every cloud, I guess.

Ok hun. The telly is giving me the horn here.

Yeah, I'm gonna have an early night. Mhm.

Ah, come to Mona!

It's called a 'Hocus Poke.'

Paul Daniels would turn in his grave.

Older model, recalled a few years back.

Due to overuse the wires in the cord become exposed.

We're talking fireworks!

Can you imagine the face on Elvira Clancy?

Do you think she's mixed up in this too? No!

She'll have to do up the obituary.

I can see the headline now.

Yeah!

'Mona Dies Moaning.'

More of Clancy's handiwork.

This has to end.

Any tips there, Lily? Yeah.

Tie your laces.

'My understanding is that you have breast cancer,

which means… a choice must be made.

Which is a shame, considering what great tits I have.

Oh, no smoking, Lily.

Whatever happened to the customer is always right?

From what I can see, you're at a crossroads.

Surgery and radium buys me a few years,

meaning constant sickness and a total lifestyle change.

Or I can choose to live out my remaining time

on my terms, enjoying the life I have left.

Six months.

Tops.

The thing is...

I don't know what to do.

So I'm here to ask, what would you do?

I've never been faced with that choice.

Have you opened up to your family?

If you're asking if I've told my son..

.. the answer is...

.. nearly.

I was a terrible mother. I was a teenager.

More of a mad big sister than a parent.

If I told him I was dying,

he'd probably think it was a joke.

But you are...

.. dying.

Think about what you and your son could do with those extra years.

'Call him now. If you can't decide,

maybe he can.'

Hey Mam. You know I don't like when you call me that.

Sorry... Lily.

Wouldn't want to cramp your style.

Funny, I was just thinking of that time in school

that I told everybody that my dad was Michael Barrymore.

Oh yeah? Remember that?

You convinced me that that was true.

Hughie, listen...

I'm dying. Yeah right.

Pull the other one. It's in my breast.

Stage 4.

There must be something you can do.

There has to be another way.

The only possible way I can get you out would be

compassionate leave or something. (Hughie sighs)

Yeah. Right.

Right. Alright. Fine.

I heard a mortician needs a strong stomach and a good therapist.

I heard a newspaper man needs a good thesaurus and a thick skin.

Oh, please don't let my job put you off, Mr Eustace.

I dabble with the dead daily, Mr Stafford.

Nothing puts me off.

You here to enquire about Miss Rosengrave?

I never had the pleasure of meeting her but by all accounts,

it was a fitting end. I'm actually here about a body

that came in a couple of weeks ago, a James Doe?

Kilraven's mystery man. Yeah, I heard he had a couple of tattoos,

a chicken and a dog, one on each foot.

Rose Mulcahy told you that, yes? Can't say.

Well, as with many other matters, Rose and I disagree.

The chicken, yes, but a dog, no.

To my eyes, it's far more likely a pig.

Sure the skin was extremely lax, and the tattoo extremely faded

but I know what I saw. And, in my opinion,

my opinion trumps all others. And you told this to Rose?

Who told me I spend too long with the dead.

Like you...

.. I live for stories, and bodies,

they tell a thousand of them.

Always with an unhappy ending.

Endings people choose to ignore, but shouldn't.

What do you mean? Take our chicken wing man.

Jody Freeman, choked. Indeed, however,

his left armpit, the hair,

it was superficially charred.

Singed, it was singed, Mr Stafford.

So? He choked and yet he was burned.

What story does that tell us?

Hmm. I also told this to Rose.

Who no doubt told you to stick to what you're good at.

Being a glorified butcher working in the world's most boring abattoir.

Classic Rose.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Mona has a funeral to attend.

I doubt you'd want her to be late.

No.

Look at you, another dead patient.

They're saying the most cruel things about her.

Well people around here are hardly known for their sympathy.

Just this morning I heard a crowd of old crones saying

that Mona was a narcissist and a bully.

They said she used those traits as a cover up for her self-loathing

and that she'd never change.

They're pretty much the words she used to describe Mona in her file.

I take it you knew her too?

Oh, in a professional manner.

Must be awful to lose a patient.

Losing one is awful,

losing two in two weeks, it's just--

Clumsy.

The father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.

You remind me of her.

A narcissist and a bully?

Someone using a crutch.

Would that crutch be murder? Still not sleeping, are you?

Throwing yourself into your job, it didn't work did it?

A stopped clock is right twice a day.