“It is a very old graveyard, and we must respect both its customs and its modern problems. So you will share.”
The man who had introduced himself to myself and my brother in a forced-sounding Italian accent waved a sub-machine casually in our direction and Robert, my brother, ducked, trying to crouch behind me.
“Now,” he said.
Robert flinched as though he’d been struck, and then scuttered over to the coffin on its trestle and clambered inside.
“One of you has-a sens-a, I see-a” said the Godfather. I was pretty certain he was Parisian now, despite his accent. “Now, you get in too.”
Coffins are, by their nature, built for one. I tried to get in, but there was little room.
“Move over!” I said sharply to Rob, and he glared angrily back up at me.
“There’s no room!”
“Make room!”
With a lot of shuffling, bitching and pinching I ended up face down on Robert’s feet, with mine up at his shoulders. As we lay there, breathing heavily, the Godfather’s men laid the lid on top and started hammering the nails in.