by Scot Gardner
‘I thought I saw her toe move.’
John Barton nodded thoughtfully. He propped his buttocks on the urn opposite. He pointed towards the coolroom. ‘That’s the other ten per cent. The dark side of what we do. It can be a little . . . unhinging. Mess with your head. The suicides, the murders, the babies and the car crashes. Some of the things we see are truly horrible. There’s nothing —’
‘It wasn’t that,’ I interrupted.
John Barton blinked.
‘I didn’t sleep very well last night.’
‘I hope it’s not the work that—’
‘No. No, I . . . the work is satisfying. More than that. It’s what I want to do.’
John Barton exhaled. ‘If that’s the way you feel, then we’ll nut it out. We’ll do what we need to do until you find your feet. It may take a while.’
I nodded, thankful.
He guided the conversation back to practical things. ‘After an autopsy, bodies tend to decompose very quickly. If we were to open her up we’d find her guts in a plastic bag. They take a slice from the major organs for pathology and stuff the rest back in no particular order. Short of pickling her in embalming fluid there’s not much we can do to stem the natural breakdown going on.’
When I looked up, he was watching me again.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
I gave him my most convincing nod. Short of pickling my head in embalming fluid, there didn’t seem to be much we could do with the natural breakdown going on in there, either.
‘Now, I have to go and ring the Creens. Somebody has to try and convince them they don’t want to see their beautiful daughter one last time.’
Before he left, he drove the hearse onto the grass and left me with the hose and bucket of cleaning gear. It was exactly the mindless job I needed. It gave the day some sunshine and purpose. I entertained myself with the notion that I was scrubbing and polishing the shadows from my own mind. The dream couldn’t reach me in that sunshine. Mam was fending for herself and I’d pick up the pieces when I got home if I had to. What I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.
‘Aaron?’
I didn’t recognize the businessman until he removed his hat. It was the man from the beach.
‘It is you!’ he said.
I nodded. My defensive shields were down. This total stranger had seen me at my weakest. He’d also rescued me from my dream.
‘Twice in one day,’ he said, to fill the awkward gap. ‘How . . . extraordinary.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Your hearse?’
‘No, my boss’s.John Barton.’
‘Ah. Good man, John Barton. He’s lain to rest quite a few of our nearest and dearest. You’re a funeral director?’
‘In training.’
‘How . . . extraordinary.’
There were seagulls cawing overhead but they didn’t fill the hole I’d left in the conversation. I took words with my tongue and forced them out. ‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘Your help this morning.’
‘It was nothing,’ he said dismissively.
‘No, it was something. It was very kind.’
He shrugged.
‘I could have been anybody . . . a drug user, violent criminal. Anybody.’
He chuckled.
Blood stampeded to my cheeks. I bent to polish the wheel rim.
‘In one of my previous lives I was a paramedic,’ he said quietly. ‘You develop a capacity to read situations like the body on the beach. And I told you, my son was a sleepwalker too.’
Thinking about it drew me right back to the breathless edge of the dream.
‘You’re not a paramedic any more?’ I asked, desperate for distraction.
He scoffed. ‘No. That was thirty years ago. I teach emergency care to nursing students at the university.’
‘Mam used to work at the university,’ I said. It was out before I had time to think it through.
‘Mam? Dr Mam Rowe?’
Of course he’d know her.
‘Aaron Rowe! Are you related?’
‘No.’ I couldn’t keep the sharpness out of my voice. I couldn’t keep the syllable from sounding like the lie it was.
The man looked confused.
‘She’s a family friend,’ I said. ‘Known her for years. She taught me how to read and write.’
‘Seriously?’ he said. Then his face softened and he replaced his hat. ‘Couldn’t think of a better tutor. I bet she taught you a lot more than that.’
I nodded, forced a smile.
‘She’s one of the brightest people I’ve ever met,’ he said. ‘Do you keep in touch?’
‘Oh, I still see her now and again.’
‘How is she?’
I tossed my rag at the bucket but missed. ‘She’s okay. She’s good. Lively as ever.’
‘That’s good to hear. When you see her next, tell her I said hello.’
‘I will,’ I said, even though I didn’t know his name.
‘Better get to work,’ he said.
‘Me too.’
‘Ah, the day’s too good for working,’ he grumbled, but he walked up the hill towards the university anyway.
‘Thank you,’ I shouted at his back.
He touched the brim of his hat and waved. ‘Any time.’
14
I ASSEMBLED A COFFIN for Amanda Creen. A white Crenmore Seraphim. I inserted a mattress but John Barton told me not to bother stapling the silk lining over the plastic. Mercifully, he dressed her while I was working in the storeroom. I held my breath as we lowered her in and he screwed the lid on tight. The air quality in the coolroom improved instantly.
Except for the sealed box, the coolroom was empty for the first time since I’d begun working. John Barton had me scrub and disinfect the floor and the walls and the surface of every bench and trolley in the place. Like cleaning the hearse, the work had an easy tempo and tangible results.
John Barton shook his head. ‘You clean as if you’ve been doing it for years.’
I have, I thought.
‘Not just well, but as if you have pride in the outcome. That is a rare and admirable trait and I thank you. How are you with a vacuum cleaner?’
I laughed. It flew from my mouth like a bird and John Barton smiled.
I vacuumed the office, the chapel, the foyer and the entry to the public toilets. I found a mop and bucket in the storeroom and cleaned the toilets, too. I vacuumed the display room and the viewing room as well. I picked up a JKB Funerals business card from the counter and tucked it in my pocket.
‘You’re a whirlwind,’ John Barton said, and I jumped. ‘A hurricane of clean. Can you handle a lawnmower?’
I dropped my shoulders, which made him smile, just a little.
‘After lunch, perhaps.’
Skye was in front of the bawling TV. She was still in her pyjamas – a pair I’d seen on the floor of her bathroom on my first day. She looked my way and wrinkled her nose with displeasure.
Lunch was a huge plate of Mrs Barton’s crustless sandwiches. I picked out the egg ones until I realized John Barton was hunting through the pile for the same thing and I’d taken the last. I offered it to him. He took it and stuffed it into his mouth.
‘I have a pair of coveralls that might fit you,’ he garbled. ‘Save your suit from grass stains. They belonged to your predecessor, who wasn’t nearly as tall . . . or as handsome . . . as you are but they’ll fit you better than mine would, for certain.’
I felt my cheeks grow warm at the flattery.
*
The coveralls were a perfect fit if I tied the arms around my waist and wore the crotch halfway to my knees. Worn like that they almost concealed my ankles. I put on earplugs, and safety glasses from the coolroom.
The mower in the garage was a newish petrol-powered beast that looked as if it had been cleaned and serviced as regularly as the cars. It started first pull and I was hardly surprised. I mowed the grass where I’d washed the hearse. I m
owed the front lawn of the residence and – just as I thought I was finished – John Barton shouted that I should mow the backyard as well. It was bigger than it seemed. It stretched beyond the clothes line and around the side of the house near the lounge windows.
I became conscious of someone watching me and discovered Skye frowning from the lounge window. She was behind the curtain, holding the cat, and she brought a finger to her lips.
I pretended I didn’t understand.
She shushed through her finger again and I poked my tongue out at her. Her mouth formed an O, then she poked her tongue out, screwed up her face and shook it at me.
The next time I looked, she was gone. I only took my eyes off the grass for one second but still managed to hit something. The mower rattled and slapped and eventually died.
I found a skipping rope bound tight around the drive shaft. I popped my earplugs and lifted my green-spotted glasses onto the top of my head, then laid the mower on its side. The engine ticked and I knelt and touched the blades hesitantly.
Footfalls on the freshly mown grass. Skye’s bare toes.
‘They’re not even your coveralls, Robot,’ she whined.
‘Shouldn’t you be at school, dear Princess?’
She ignored me. ‘They’re Taylor’s. You have no right to wear them. Get them off and go and buy your own.’
‘Taylor doesn’t need them any more,’ I said.
She sighed and sat.
‘You’ll get grass on your pyjamas,’ I said.
‘So?’
The skipping rope had drawn incredibly tight around the shaft. There was a loose end, but pulling on it with all my strength had no result.
‘That’s my skipping rope you’ve destroyed.’
‘Terribly sorry.’
‘Taylor gave me that.’
‘Did he? Then I am doubly terribly sorry.’
She scoffed. ‘Doesn’t matter. I never used it anyway.’
She plucked grass and threw it at my shoes.
‘What happened to Taylor?’ I asked.
‘Dad caught him fondling a dead body,’ she said flatly.
I almost swallowed my tongue.
‘It wasn’t even a girl.’
I stood up. ‘I need to . . . I have to get a tool. To cut the rope.’
Skye stood up, too. ‘That’s pretty sick, isn’t it?’
‘Well I . . .’
She stared at me, her mouth crooked with disappointment.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That is quite sick.’
She followed me into the garage and stood beside me as I searched the sparsely populated shadow board for a suitable implement. Pliers. And a sturdy craft knife.
She followed me back to the mower and plonked on the grass.
‘I thought you said you were shy?’
‘I am. Sometimes. Most of the time.’
‘Not with me.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Why not with me?’
‘I’m not supposed to be talking with you,’ I whispered.
‘Why not?’ ‘Your mother said . . .’
She sneered. ‘Who cares what she says?’
‘I do. She’s my boss.’
‘I’m your boss,’ she said.
‘Right.’
‘Pick up that leaf,’ she ordered.
I handed her a leaf.
‘Thank you, slave.’
She spun it between two fingers. ‘Why aren’t you shy with me? Is it because I’m a kid?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Taylor used to give me money. No reason.’
I snickered.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean that you should give me money. You can if you want. I just mean that he was generous as well as being sick.’
‘It wasn’t that. Having a conversation with you is like watching television with a monkey when the monkey has the remote. You change channels so fast.’
She smiled at that. ‘I think you’re a bit slow, Robot. Batteries flat? Try to keep up.’
John Barton appeared from the garage, wiping his hands on paper towel. The hair stood up on the back of my neck and I dug at the skipping rope with renewed vigour.
‘What’s going on here?’ he said. ‘Robot ran over my favourite skipping rope with the lawnmower,’ Skye complained.
‘Robot?’
‘He sounds like a robot when he talks, don’t you, Robot? Say something, come on.’
‘This does not compute,’ I said, and John Barton laughed.
‘Yes, you’re right. He does sound a bit like a robot.’
‘Do it properly!’ she said.
‘Leave the poor guy alone,’ John Barton said. ‘When you can no longer tolerate this obnoxious child, Aaron, feel free to head home. You’ve done more than enough for one day. You can fix that next time.’
‘I’m nearly there,’ I lied. ‘Princess Skye isn’t bothering me at all.’
‘See,’ his daughter said. ‘I’m not bothering him and I’m a princess. You listening, Father?’
He lobbed the ball of paper towel at her. She ducked and it bounced off the side of her head. John Barton chortled, then picked it up on his way into the house.
‘What’s it like living in the caravan park?’ Skye asked. ‘Some days it’s okay. Quiet in the winter. In the summer there are lots of tourists. Young people from Europe, mostly. And retirees in huge vans.’
I’m not quite sure what happened then. It seemed as if I’d cracked open the next day’s ration of words.
‘Actually, there are bits about living at the park that are horrible. Like sitting on a toilet seat warmed by someone else’s posterior. Like hearing every detail of my neighbour’s domestic disagreements. Like metal music at three o’clock in the morning, not loud enough to disturb the managers on the other side of the park but loud enough to keep me awake. Like stepping over drug rubbish on my way to the toilet and listening to strangers vomit.’
An unsettling stillness came over Skye. Her chin rested on her knees as she hugged her folded legs.
‘Sorry. I . . .’
‘It must be hard to get any privacy,’ she said. Her voice had grown soft, contemplative.
I nodded.
‘Hearing people vomit makes me feel sick too.’
‘I think that’s fairly normal,’ I said.
‘You can use my bathroom,’ she offered.
‘That’s kind of you, Princess, but your bathroom is a pigsty.’
‘Hoh! Is not.’
I looked at her, eyebrows raised.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘It’s a pigsty. But it’s not syringes or spew, is it?’
‘True, and I thank you.’
She fell silent again.
‘What’s it like living next to a funeral parlour?’ I asked.
She huffed. ‘It’s great. It’s all dead people and crying people and flowers and sad music. I’ll swap you any day.’
‘Have you ever seen a dead person?’
‘Of course. I see them all the time.’
‘You’re allowed in the mortuary and so forth?’
She nodded.
‘How do you feel about death?’
‘What? Fine. I’m used to it.’
‘Has anyone close to you ever died?’
‘No. Not really. Not since I was little. When my grandfather died. I don’t remember much about that. You?’
‘I . . . Is it spooky at night?’
‘Has anyone close to you died?’
‘I think I’d get spooked at night.’
‘Have they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
A long time passed before I answered. Too long.
‘Skye?’ Mrs Barton hollered.
‘Get in here. Now!’
‘Who?’ she asked again.
‘I know about death.’
15
WE CRUISED THE AISLES at the supermarket, and it was a cruise. I’d lucked upon a fresh new trolley that hadn’t yet developed attitudinal pro
blems. Mam whistled the same tune.
‘What’s that you’re whistling?’ I asked.
She answered without hesitation. ‘It’s the opening phrase from Bach’s Fugue in D Major. Rosy little tune, isn’t it?’
Rosy? Vigorous, perhaps. A little military.
A large soft cube – twenty-four rolls – of toilet paper landed on top of the bags of fruit.
‘I think we’re okay for toilet paper, Mam.’
She shrugged. ‘It always gets used.’
‘We don’t need it.’
‘I think you’ll find we eventually will.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Never.’
‘Hah! How can you say that? Are you renouncing toilets?’
‘I will use the toilet. We live in a caravan park. The management supplies all the toilet paper we’ll ever need. We don’t need our own. Not a single roll.’
She grinned. ‘Yes, that’s correct. This is recycled paper. They’re on sale.’
‘Not a roll.’
She patted the slab.
I slowed and waited until she was out of sight in the next aisle, then propped the toilet paper atop a display of biscuit tins. Around the corner, she’d struck up a conversation with a hoary gent close to her own vintage.
‘I agree,’ the man said. ‘But what’s the alternative?’
‘Buy the spices and mix them yourself. There’s a whole rack of them here. Aisle six, I believe.’
She scurried around my trolley and towards the dairy refrigerator, scanning and touching the shelves as she passed.
The man watched her go and continued his shopping. He wouldn’t know, I thought.
He would see a lean older woman, dressed well and groomed – neat, but not ostentatiously wealthy or stylish. The tiny conversation they’d had would reveal no evidence of her frayed edges.
She came back with four bottles of dishwashing liquid.
I thanked her and stashed them back on the shelves in the tinned fruit section.
Our roles had changed and I felt it.
I knew, from my deepest self to the very skin of my teeth, that I would do whatever I needed to keep her safe from the world. If that harridan Nerida Long had to stick her nose in our affairs, I’d find a way to discreetly break it. If that lowlife Candy from 57 or any of her circus decided Mam was there for the taking, I’d take them out, one by one. Cleanly, without remorse.
Two men entered the toilets while I was locked in a cubicle that evening. They spoke quietly but I could understand every word.