CYRIL had lived most of his life in the hinterland. He got married and lived with his family there until his father died in the city and left all his property to his only child, Cyril. The man and his family moved to the city. The life there was hectic and soon it began to tell on his family. As a consequence, he sent them back home and they saw each other on regular visits.

Then Cyril died and, as was his request in his will, his body had to return to the hinterland to be buried. Arrangements were made and the journey commenced. A hearse from Welcome Funeral Home drove the corpse the 60 miles to the Sandy Banks River. From there, it was transferred to a boat with a dense engine (2 hp) that slowly chugged up the long and lonely river. This journey would take more than three days.
At the first pit stop, the captain purchased ice and packed it on the body which lay in the bow of the craft. It was a medium-sized vessel with a shed. The casket was covered with blue tarpaulin. The captain and his assistant went to get a few drinks before retiring for the night. They would resume their journey the following day
Malcom had been drinking all day. He was higher than a satellite and felt better each passing sip. When he had enough for that night he bought a half for his company on the river and staggered towards his boat. When Malcom moved his boat, the tide was very low, this meant that his craft had shifted position. He saw the blue side of the boat in front of him and scrambled clumsily aboard. After making his way to the back of the boat, he started the small engine and steered for home. He would get there by morning.
Sputter, sputter, put, put
The engine died and the boat drifted slowly with the tide. Malcom opened his eyes and looked around him. The rum had sunk in well. He raised himself into a sitting position and broke the seal of the half high wine. He took a sip and closed the bottle. He put it into his pocket and tried to focus. Something was up, oh yes, the engine. He reached the engine and tried to restart it. It was dead. He checked the gasoline, empty. He cursed silently to himself. How did he forget this? He was sure he had at least half tank. He reached for the extra gas bottle, none.
As he stared around him, he began to realise that everything about the craft seemed unfamiliar. The engine had a four hp. His boat had exterior blue and interior green. This craft had exterior blue (dark) and interior blue (sky). Although it was night, he could see clearly because of the moonlight. It was then he noticed a painted sign of the boat “Welcome Home Funeral Parlour”
Malcom was beside himself with anger. He had drunk so much that he had driven away with the wrong boat. What an embarrassing thing. His alcohol dulled brain tried to understand the problems this could cause. He gave up. The effort was causing him to get a splitting headache. He took another drink.
Out of the corner of his bloodshot eyes, he detected movement in the bow. Someone else was there. What would he tell them? He must have been asleep when Malcom took off. What to do? He would just have to tell them the truth. He made his way to the front of the boat cracking his ankle against the seat when he tried to step over. He howled and cursed in pain. He sat on the seat for a moment and rubbed his throbbing foot.
There was a strange rustle like bricks then the movement again. He tried to focus.
“Excuse me. Hello,” He offered
No response.
“Sir! Hello!
Silence
“Wake up and listen please,” Malcom implored
“Wake up fowat?”
The voice was flat and low – almost a growl.
“Sorry to disturb you friend.” Malcom tried again
“You gon sorry fo true,” the reply sounded ravenous.
“I mek a mistake and pick up the wrong boat”
From the front of the craft came the sound of a deep rasping laugh
Malcom became uneasy. This was not going well. He was too drunk to make any complicated calculations so he continued with uncertainty.
“I would turn back but the engine run out of gas.”
“Turn back.”
Now there was anger and threat in the stranger’s voice.
“A … a… mean take this boat and get gwine”
“ Yo done start moving me. No turning back!”
Malcom began to sweat.
“Moving you?” he stuttered.
“Yes! I going home to rest. A not turning back yo hear!”
The figure had now moved the tarpaulin and had begun tossing out pieces of ice. Malcom watched this mild shock. As the man emerged from the box the full significance hit him. It was a casket! The boat belonged to a funeral home that could only mean that the man sitting up in the bow was… he could not complete the thought. It was too terrifying even for his drunken mind. He looked wildly around for escape. There was only one, the river. Malcom slowly retreated to the back of the boat and sat there trying to stay still.
Start paddling! The voice rang with authority, Malcom did not budge.
“Yo hear me?”
Silence
“Ok! I gon teach you a lesson before they bury me!” Malcom’s trembling body could not move even if he wanted to obey. The man rose from the casket and moonlight struck his body. His face was set in an evil snarl and his eyes were locked onto Malcom.

I gon bruck yo neck!
The corpse began a slow menacing advance. Malcom looked at the river and contemplated but only for a second. He was not sure where he was and which direction was on land but that did not stop his next move as the cadaver closed in on him. He rose on trembling knees, made a swift sign of the cross and jumped overboard. As he surfaced some distance from the drifting vessel he could hear the corpse, haunting laughter as if taunting him.
“He! He! He! He! Yo lucky yo jump. We gon catch up again sometime.”

Malcom started to swim hard. He wanted to make sure that that ‘sometime’ would be later, much later rather than sooner. Last thing I heard of Malcom was that he was heading for the river mouth doing his famous dog paddle. Occasionally, he would turn over onto his back, float for a while and take a sip of high wine. Viva DDL,Banks.