Edith

She’s been dead useful around the house – preserving fish, garnishing the margaritas. In winter, when the driveway gets licked with ice, I slip out back with a chisel and a bucket.

People tell me, ‘Lot, perhaps it’s time to move on.’ They don’t understand. I carry her with me, always and wherever I go.

Jonah

Jonah opens a nightclub in the belly of the fish. It gets rave reviews, to start: bouncers stand sentry at the gullet; disco balls are installed periodically along the intestines. Customers board from all over – Port au Prince, Hong Kong, Cape Town.

But then things get rowdy. Fights break out. Instigators have to be duly ejected by blowhole. Empties are left scattered around the gums. A low, sonorous moan starts to kill the vibe.

Forty days in, hungover outside Nineveh, Jonah has had enough. He reaches up with both hands, grasps the uvula – heavy, pendulous – and yanks.