In the middle of the empty room stood a pine coffin, open.

Iggy had invited no guests. His grandmother wouldn’t have wanted it, he told people. And anyway, what a ridiculous expense for a dead person.

He had no intention of staying sober himself, however. ‘Ah, dear Granny,’ he said each time he took a sip of whiskey. ‘Dear old Granny.’ He let out a laugh. He admired his youthful face in the mirror.

His rich youthful face.

Dear old Granny had done well. A shrewd lady. For two decades a cosmetics company had paid a large annual fee for her potions. And for a photo of her looking, in old age, like a woman of thirty.

Ma Sullivan’s Anti-Ageing Cream. It Works Like Magic.

‘It sure does,’ said Iggy, and he laughed again. He raised his glass. ‘What a clever old witch you were.’

And what a strong old witch, he’d thought when he held the pillow onto her face. Who’d imagine a person could take so long to die?

‘Some party this is,’ said a voice.

Iggy stared at the coffin.

'I said, some God-forsaken party this is.’

‘Granny?’ he said.

‘I've seen Presbyterians have more fun.’

He dropped the whiskey bottle.

‘Not only a murderer,’ said the voice, ‘but cheap.’

He looked into the coffin. On his grandmother’s face there was no movement. Only a silent, wide-eyed scream.

‘You user, you sponger. You cheap little prick,’ said the voice.

Iggy plugged fingers into his ears, to no avail.

‘Hey pretty boy! Go look in the mirror.’

What Iggy saw there made his heart stop mid-beat. His face rapidly fattened, then sagged. Then it wrinkled and shrank. It became the face of a bitter, sad man.

A man in his nineties.

'Call it inheritance tax,' said the voice.