'The Uses of an Empty Pet Coffin' by David X. Lewis

There are perks in being a grave digger.

Most people don’t want to hear about corpses in the pub. And the pay isn’t good. So if you have a wife and layabout son, you need a lucrative side hustle. 

Which is what I found three years ago. 

After a funeral attended by dodgy-looking men in sharp suits and women in big hair, one of the spivs came looking for me. I was sitting next to my hut, enjoying the sun.

"Tidy hole you dug for the boss, mate!" he said, proffering a gold-ringed hand. "I’m Dino." 

Dino asked if I could bury special things for him. "Just now and then, for a few months. Don’t ask me what. That way you won’t have to tell no lies."

"What’s in it for me?"

"A share of the pickings if we get them back when the fuzz stop looking."

I quite fancied taking the missus and heir for a holiday somewhere fancy. "You’re on," I said. It was the start of a great little relationship. 

Every month or so, Dino would bring me a miniature coffin, the kind daft women buy for dead cats or those rat-like dogs they carry around in bags. I’d bury it in a recent grave where the earth was still soft. Every month or so, I’d dig up the box and hand it back.

The boxes never contained a dead cat or dog. When I opened one out of curiosity I found bags of white powder.

I said nothing about what I’d seen to Dino or anyone.

We’ve lived the high life the past three years. And I’ve stood more than my share of rounds in Wetherspoon’s.

There are perks in being a grave-digger.