Trembling With Fear 10/06/2019

Whitened Sepulchre

I take my job very seriously.

The way I see it, people trust their bodies to me, and it’s my duty to honour that trust as long as they’re in my keeping. It doesn’t matter that in a day or two they’ll be incinerated or dumped in the ground to rot. That part’s nothing to do with me. My role is to keep them safe and cared for, from the moment they enter the mortuary until they leave it.

My newest resident was thirty when she died, hit by a car and injured beyond recovery. There’s a soft patch on the back of her head where her skull was shattered, and the bruises under her eyes make her look in need of a good night’s sleep. The nurses did their best, of course, but her long, dark hair was matted with congealed blood when she arrived. It took me two hours to wash and comb it out last night, but it’s worth it to see it lying smooth and glossy over her shoulders.

She donated her organs, this girl. I love the ones who do that. They understand the meaning of life after death – how their sacrifice sustains those they leave behind. It makes what I’m about to do even more difficult. I’m not proud of it – but the job doesn’t pay me what I need to live, and I’ve had to find other ways of putting food on the table.

The mortuary bell rings perfectly on schedule. Four a.m. is the correct time for this kind of business. Even hospitals grow quiet around then. The trickle of drunks and walking wounded dries up, the nurses keep their quiet vigil over tea and toast, and the dead-eyed spectres of junior doctors curl up until morning like dry leaves. There’s no one to notice the man at the door.

I take my time. He’s waiting with his hat pulled down and his collar up, a caricature of a man seeking anonymity.

“I brought the money,” he says, with a nervous laugh. “Gloomy old place, isn’t it?”

I take the envelope and count the contents – brought, as instructed, in ten-pound notes. It wouldn’t be the first time it had come up short, but tonight it’s correct. I like that. It shows he’s approaching the transaction with respect.

I show him into the cold room, where I’ve laid her out on the table, completely covered with a white hospital sheet. I try to accommodate their individual wishes when I can, but in all honesty, usually their requests follow a predictable pattern.

He runs his tongue over dry lips. I can see a flush of colour rising to his cheeks. “May I…?”

I nod permission. He reaches a hand and draws back the sheet. I once had a customer who wanted the body dressed in clothes he provided, including a curly grey wig. I tried my best, but it all ended up messy and on balance I wouldn’t call it a success. Now I give them the choice of a hospital gown or a sheet, and that seems to hit the spot nine times out of ten.

Her skin is yellow-white on top, shading to a mottled purple down her flanks where the blood has pooled. White adhesive dressings cover the long wound from sternal notch to pubis. He looks at me, hesitant. I almost feel sorry for him.

“Do I just…?” He waves a hand towards the body. “Do you wait next door?”

I shake my head. I don’t enjoy watching, but I don’t have the luxury of looking away. If I take my eyes off him, I don’t know what he might do. I heard about another mortuary where the client carved his initials into the body, and that’s the sort of thing that risks bringing the whole enterprise crashing down.

Usually, though, they’re discreet. My customers are all too aware of how society views their particular perversion. Some of them have partners, children and jobs. The ones who make it this far have a keen sense of just how delicately matters need to be handled, and those that don’t, I turn away in the early stages. I don’t know how I’d have managed before the internet made vetting applications almost effortless. I suppose it was all word of mouth back then, or discreet messages in the personal adverts of newspapers. Now I have clients from all over the world, far from anyone who could recognise them even if they were spotted – and that suits me just fine.

He still hasn’t laid a hand on her. “They used to call it a Rose Cottage,” he says, as if we were friends. “A mortuary, I mean. So you can talk about it in front of dying people without upsetting them. Sounds kind of romantic.” I stare at him, and he wilts. “Sorry. I’m nervous, that’s all. Never done this before.”

I shrug. It’s his time. He’s paid for it.

He scowls, upset, I think, by my indifference. “I know what you are,“ he says abruptly.

I feel my muscles tighten. This happened once before, early on, before I knew how to set the proper ground rules. Behind my back, my hands ball into fists. I calculate the distance between him and the door.

“You like to watch, don’t you? That’s what gets you off. I mean, you can join in if you like, I don’t mind.”

The cool tiles of the wall press into my spine.

“Fine. Whatever,” he says.

He undoes his belt and kicks his way out of his trousers. I feel a stab of revulsion, but that has its advantages. He puts a knee onto the table, his intention so focused on the cold alabaster body that he doesn’t notice me behind him.

I’m quick. He’s dead before he realises it, windpipe and carotid arteries severed, six seconds of wide-eyed bewilderment before he falls to the ground and goes still. I do hate leaving it so close to the wire, but it’s important to make sure he’s properly distracted first. Otherwise, things can get untidy, and I don’t enjoy that at all.

By a stroke of luck most of the blood is on him, the sheet and the floor. There’s a tiny splash on the roof, and a delicate diagonal arc across the woman’s bare legs. I fetch a wet-wipe to clean her up. The rest can wait, but I’ve already sacrificed enough of her dignity for my survival.

Once she’s safely back in her locker, I lay him out, savouring the anticipation. In an hour’s time, he’ll be jointed and bagged up ready for the freezer, and everything will be neat and tidy again. When I go through his clothes, I find an organ donation card in his wallet. That pleases me. I like to think this is what he would have wanted.

I should wait, but I can’t resist a snack before I start. It’s silly, I know, but I don’t like the idea of him watching me while I work. Besides, the eyes never freeze well.