Human Remains

by Elizabeth Haynes

  He had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He looked thoughtful, as though he were trying to come up with some conclusive argument that would put an end to the difference of opinion.

  I stopped at the corner. “I need to go this way,” I said, in a tone that suggested a firm good-bye. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Was that it? After all that pushing, he’d given up, then, so easily?

  “Good-bye, Annabel.” He held out his hand and it was warm, his grip firm.

  “Good-bye. Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  I watched Sam walk away, and then I turned and pressed the button for the crossing, waiting for the traffic to stop so I could cross and go in to work.

  The only one in the office was Kate.

  “I thought you were off sick?” she said. “What are you doing coming in?”

  “I had a headache,” I said, taking off my coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “But it’s worn off now.”

  I sat down and turned on the screen at my workstation, put in my user number and password and waited for it to go through the checks before I could start working. As usual it took ages. “I’m just going to go and see someone,” I said to Kate, who was now gazing out of the window, deep in thought.

  “Right,” she said.

  Frosty was in his office, the door half-open. I knocked and pushed it a little. “Are you crazy busy?” I asked.

  He looked up from the screen. “Never too busy to see you,” he said. “Come and sit down.”

  I slid into the chair opposite his desk.

  “I just met a friend of yours,” I said.

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Sam Everett.”

  Frosty laughed. “I’ve known Sam since he was tiny.”

  “You know he’s interested in the bodies,” I said. “He’s trying to get his editor to make a bigger story out of it.”

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “There’s nothing I can tell him, is there? Shouldn’t he be talking to Media Services, not me?”

  “It’s the same old problem, though, I’m afraid. Media Services have their own agenda, and I’m sorry to say that our bodies aren’t on it.”

  Our bodies? Was he starting to take an interest in this now? A serious interest?

  “Did you know I found the latest one?”

  He sat forward then. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “It was next door to my house. It was what got me started on all this.”

  “Oh, Annabel. That’s rough. Are you OK?”

  He meant it. “Yes,” I said. “I think so. The smell—it stays with you, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” he said. “My first body—I was eighteen, two weeks into my initial stint on patrol as a probationer. Been trying to prepare for it, but you can never do that, not really. I went to this house and the neighbors said they’d not seen this old lady for three weeks. I could smell it before I got to the back door. When I went in—well, it was bad. She was lying on her bed, and when they finally moved the body her scalp was stuck to the headboard and came away from the skull. I threw up in the backyard.”

  “I didn’t throw up. Maybe it would have been better if I had. I just took lots of showers. And I had to bathe the cat. She’d been rolling in it.”

  “Yuck.”

  “Look,” I said. “Do you think they are going to start taking this seriously? That’s the twenty-fourth. The next one will be along soon. There are lots of people out there, waiting for us to find them. You know that, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said. “There’s nothing to indicate that we’re going to find any more.”

  I bit my lip. This was so frustrating; just a moment ago I’d thought he was on my side, more than any of them. The others didn’t get it, but I thought he did. He knew that this was a problem that wouldn’t go away.

  “You know that’s not right,” I said. “Don’t you?”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “If I get a chance today I’ll try talking to someone upstairs again. OK?”

  By “someone upstairs” he meant someone in management—the area commander or one of the chief inspectors. They’d all seen my presentation, though, at the tactical meeting. They all had the data. If that hadn’t convinced them, nothing would.

  “Leave it with me,” he said, in a tone that suggested dismissal.

  “All right,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I got up to leave. He was already back at his computer and I wondered if he would even remember in five minutes’ time that I’d visited.

  On the bus going home I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the cold window. I’d stayed at work longer than usual, trying to make up for my missing hours this morning. The tactical assessment was behind schedule but that wasn’t completely my fault; a systems failure at headquarters had left the main database interrogation software temporarily unavailable.

  It had been a long, shattering day and my headache was coming back. To make it even worse, I’d just been getting on the bus, rummaging around in my bag for the Park and Ride ticket that I seemed to have inexplicably mislaid, when my cell phone rang. For a moment I thought that it might be Sam Everett again and I was preparing the words to make it clear that I wasn’t interested—but it was my mum, of course, providing me with a list of shopping that she needed, which I wrote on my hand with a black pen that I hoped would not turn out to be permanent. Sugar, milk, frozen peas, potatoes, lemonade, double cream, teabags.

  “You sound all tinny. Why do you sound all tinny?”

  “I’m on the bus, Mum. I only just left work.”

  “Why are you so late?”

  “I had a headache this morning; I didn’t feel well. I went in late.”

  “You went in late? What’s wrong with a couple of painkillers and a bit of stiff upper lip? You’ve got no staying power. And you don’t eat properly either. Too much sugar and fat. That’s your trouble.”

  “Yes, Mum,” I said. It was easier to agree. “Can I get this stuff for you tomorrow? You don’t need it urgently, do you?”

  “I’d like a nice bottle of white as well. You got me one last week; it was very nice.”

  “I’ll get it on the way back from work tomorrow, all right? I’ll find you one in the fridge at the Co-op.”

  “You need to take on board a bit of personal responsibility. What are you going to be like when the clocks go back in a couple of weeks, eh? You’ll be no good to anyone.”

  I could have told her that I’d been getting up in the dark since September, but it would have done no good. She wasn’t listening anyway.

  “You don’t need the shopping tonight, though, do you?”

  “Yes, I do. And I can’t get to the kitchen; my knee’s been acting up today. I haven’t had any lunch. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since last night. You know I need to eat with these tablets, or else I feel sick.”

  She wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol with the tablets either, but that rule seemed to have passed her by. I told her I’d be with her in an hour or so, and at last that did the trick and she hung up.

  I felt the headache starting to pound, exhaustion making it worse. I felt for the angel I kept in the pocket of my coat, feeling the contours of those beautiful wings. Surely there was some reason why all this was happening? Surely someone somewhere had a plan, and eventually this was all going to make sense?

  The bus pulled in to the parking lot and I heaved myself wearily to my feet. My back was killing me. I would have a nice bath when I finally got home—a drop of eucalyptus oil in it, something to soothe the aches away.

  I could see my car, a lonely silver shape just about visible in the gloom. The orange streetlights glowed in the mist. Other people would be afraid to walk back to their cars in the dark I thought. Other women would feel vulnerable. I didn’t feel afraid. Just tired.

  The car was cold and damp and didn’t want to start. After two
or three turns of the key it shuddered to life and I drove to the supermarket to get the shopping for Mum.

  Colin

  I spent Monday night trying to study but I was too distracted. Having thrown away the soiled copy of the Briarstone Chronicle in the kitchen wastebasket at work, I purchased a fresh copy on the way home. Even seeing the folded cover of the newspaper with the top half of Rachelle’s head on the counter was enough to make me hard again. Despite my self-imposed abstention rule, having started on the whiskey early in the evening, I found it difficult to stop myself from spending most of the night masturbating. It was the newspaper article that did it—and the spark of an idea that would not ignite, no matter which angle I took as my approach.

  This evening, I stopped at the supermarket after work to buy some bread, milk, olives, and chorizo. As my items were gliding along on the conveyor belt at the checkout, I looked up and my eyes chanced upon a woman waiting at the next checkout. Overweight—fat, even—her hair tied back in an unkempt ponytail that had neither substance nor style. She was graying at the temples but, like Janice, she was probably not as old as she looked. No wedding ring, nothing in the items on the conveyor that suggested she was shopping for a family at home. As well as her general demeanor, she had that look that so many of them do—the look of defeat. She looked tired out, as though the day had been merciless to her, as though it had picked her up in the morning and left her at the end of the day wrung out like a dirty dishcloth, draped gray and wrinkled over the taps to dry.

  She managed a smile for the cashier, and, as with Janice, it lit up her face—too briefly. And, like Leah, she isn’t ready for me, whoever she is. But it might only be a matter of time. I hope I will see her again. She looked as though she needs my help.

  The sudden appearance of this new prospect, even if she wasn’t quite ripe, gave me a startling idea. I had been trying to work out how I could contact the newspaper and yet manage to remain completely anonymous. Of course, I could send them an old-fashioned letter—impossible to trace—but then I would miss out on the excitement of hearing their reaction. The only way to do that was to be there in person, or to speak to them on the phone.

  And then I realized how I could do it. Nietzsche said, “The true man wants two things: danger and play.” I played with them whenever I felt like it, but this was no longer enough. Now, it seemed, I wanted danger, too.

  I had three of them at the moment, all at different stages of readiness—awaiting their agonal moment and the start of the transformation. The one who was furthest along that path, readiest, also happened to be the closest to the supermarket. I parked in the street behind the house and cut through the alleyway at the back. Nobody was around; the streets were deserted. I saw a cat twisting its skinny body around the garbage cans. Besides that, nothing moved.

  I made the phone call: no reply. I wondered if this meant I was too late, but as I was so close to the house I went anyway. The back door was open when I got to it, and I went inside without knocking or calling out.

  She was asleep, lying on her bed, the sound of her breathing raspy, dry. I said her name, then again, louder.

  “Can you open your eyes?”

  At first there was no response. Her breaths came regularly, faltered, and then changed—a few deep ones, with pauses in between. She was too far gone.

  I debated what to do, whether I could manage it by myself. After all, it was the location that was important, and potentially I could take the tone of my voice up to a falsetto in the name of entertainment. It was disappointing, though. From the moment I’d had the idea the excitement had been building inside me, and now that I was here, so close to it, I felt almost feverish with anticipation.

  But then—to my surprise—she stirred. Lifted her head slowly. “Can you sit?” I asked, helping her, my hand under her arm. She was hot, her skin papery.

  It took a while to get her ready, but I only needed her concentration for a short while. Her eyes were shining, the only moist thing about her: her lips were dry; her hair hung in dry shreds around her face.

  “Here,” I said. “Take this paper. Can you read it do you think?”

  She looked at the sheet of paper, confused. Her eyes clouded over. “I don’t understand.”

  I’d expected this. She was past the point of sense.

  “Have you had anything to drink today?”

  She looked at me, baffled. “I don’t understand.”

  Oh, lord, I thought. It was the downside to this process, of taking away whatever left of the desire to strive, their effort, their activity. Everything you needed them to do after that had to be specifically instructed, moving from one model that required vague language, metaphor, using gentle anecdotes to make a point, to one that relied on direct instruction.

  I went to the kitchen and ran the tap. The water clattered into the sink with a tinny, metallic noise. Already the noise of an empty house, and she was still here. She hadn’t even left, but already her presence was fading. I found a cup and half filled it—too much and it would make her ill, would jeopardize the process—and brought it back to her.

  “Now,” I said. “Drink this.”

  I gave her the cup and helped her steady it. She drank a few sips obediently but messily, water spilling out of the corner of her mouth and down the front of her dress. Then she turned her face away. She’s had enough, I thought. She must be close to the transition. I took the cup gently out of her hands, putting it out of her line of sight on the floor.

  “Now,” I said, touching her arm. “Look at the paper. Can you read it?”

  “ ‘I have something important to say . . .’ ” she recited.

  “That’s good,” I said. “Stop now. I will phone the number, and then, when someone answers, I want you to read out what it says on the paper. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t answer at first. I touched her arm again and she flinched. Then she said, uncertainly, “Yes.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Do it now.”

  I dialed the number for her, and held the phone up close to her face. I’d wanted it to be on loudspeaker, so I could hear their reaction, but the house was so quiet I could hear the noise of the ringing tone at the other end. Whatever they said, I would hear it.

  “Hello, news desk.”

  I touched her arm as a prompt, but I don’t think she even needed it.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice beautifully measured and even. “I want to speak to Sam Everett.”

  “Speaking. How can I help?”

  “I have something important to say. There are more bodies,” she said, as though she were announcing the arrival of a train on platform seven. “There is one at—”

  “Hold on,” said Sam Everett, on the other end of the phone. “Wait. Just wait a sec. Let me write this down.”

  She paused for a few seconds, and then said, in a voice unexcited by the subject matter, “There are more bodies. There is one at 36 Hawthorn Crescent, Carnhurst. There are others.”

  I could hear nothing from the other end of the phone, and leaned closer to her. He was writing, scribbling it all down. I pointed to the next line on the script and she read it out dutifully. “Do you need me to repeat that.” It was technically a question but her voice was flat.

  “Where are the others? And who is this, please? What’s your name?”

  “Do you need me to repeat that.”

  “No, no—I just want to know who I’m talking to. What’s your name?”

  I pressed the button on the phone to disconnect the call. Sam Everett would be the last person, other than me, whom she would speak to. She had no concept of this at all. No problem with it. If I had told her, if I had explained it to her, she would have been no more concerned than she was right now.

  “Well done,” I said, replacing the phone handset on its charging unit. “You did well.”

  She looked at me. In another time and place she might even have smiled, but now she was tired, exhausted beyond belief at the exertion of
concentrating and following those few instructions. She fell back onto the bed.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “My head hurts.”

  “I know,” I said. “You can sleep, if you want to.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She was beautiful on the verge of death, rooted in it, alive with it. She knew no anger, no fear. She was approaching it as everyone should, accepting, graceful, perfectly at peace. The water she’d sipped did not seem to have slowed the process as I thought it might. She was too far down the path.

  “Now,” I said, touching her arm. “You’re ready. You know what you have to do.”

  “Go to sleep,” she said.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You go to sleep now. It’s time.”

  Before I left the house I wiped any of the surfaces I might have touched, even though I’d worn latex gloves all the way through. She hadn’t noticed them, hadn’t even looked upon them with curiosity. I don’t really know why I bothered wearing them, since technically she’d invited me in and would not have objected to me being there. Even at a time such as this.

  At the back door I paused and looked back at the house. The next person through the door would be the one to find her. They would trace the call, without doubt, and, when they did, they would come here looking for her. They would find her fresh, this one, if they had any sense. It did cross my mind that they could find her too quickly, before she died. It was a risk. But it was likely they would initially go to the address she had given them, and she only had a few hours left. Whatever happened, they would find these human remains before she had the chance to transform as the others had. It is her misfortune, and it is a shame considering how she has served me so well today. And I will miss out on watching this one, too, observing and documenting the transformation. But it had to be done, and, after all, I will be enjoying other benefits this time.