A Well-Timed Death (Booker Shield Book 1)

by Karl Bourdiec

  ‘We want to help.’ Rob popped into the conversation, from the corner of their shrinking world, a world Hollie and Booker had created filled with nothing but Hollie and Booker except a single dot saying he wanted to help.

  ‘We want to help, this woman probably had a family, she may have been old.’ Rob said.

  ‘She was in her mid-twenties, at the latest.’ Corrected Booker through the corner of his mouth.

  ‘She may have just been young, but you can’t write off a young girl like that, her family will ask why she had a heart attack at such a young age, staying up at night asking how is this possible? They need to know, and we want to help them find out.’ Rob faded off.

  ‘You’re sidekick’s good.’ Hollie finally spoke, turning on her heels she headed back to her desk to rifle through files.

  ‘Ah ha, I knew you’d come in handy.’ Booker grabbed Rob under his arm, messing up his hair with the hand of the other one.

  ‘I’m not your sidekick.’ Rob struggled from Booker's arm, the mess which he considered his hair spiked up in thin strands, every balloon in a forty-mile radius bent slightly towards Rob due to the huge build-up of static Booker had given him. He pushed his hair down as best he could, but each time Rob moved one piece down, a new piece of hair would raise up to the roof.

  Rob was going to ask about Hollie and Booker's odd relationship, the thought had passed him a few times as the spoke and now seemed to be sat at the front of his mind squatting. It was too late now, she was on her way back with a small yellowed file like Booker had piled in his office.

  ‘Balls.’ Rob said to himself.

  ‘What?’ Booker replied.

  ‘Nothing.’ He didn’t intend anything to speak out loud but his head was so full of stuff right now it didn’t have room to stay in.

  H. Bennett stood inches away from Booker, she carried the file still but held it in a way to say that Booker wasn’t allowed it yet.

  ‘This is the last time.’ She said softly. ‘And I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for him.’ Hollie nodded at Rob.

  ‘If you believe either of those lines you’re kidding yourself.’ Booker plucked the file from Hollie and walked past her, Rob smiled and tried to catch up.

  White tiles covered each square of the floor, they looked cold to Rob, he was glad he was wearing shoes. The tiled hallway seemed to stretch on for miles, strobe lights flickered on as the two moved forward through the hall, passing door after door, each door had a window and behind each window was a room, all of which had their lights switched off.

  The chill of each room poured from the cracks of the door, a breeze ran up and down Rob's ankles. Booker didn’t seem bothered by it.

  At the end of the hall a grey door sat, it glinted as Rob walked closer and closer to it, Booker walked in front, the small file in hand which he’d buried himself into. He seemed to have read each line of the notes multiple times by now and simply kept reading. The grey door glinted again, turning brown and pink as Booker got close to it. It’s chrome, Rob thought to himself as Booker pushed the door open it squeaked softly.

  If you keep enough dead people in a room the room will become naturally creepy, even if this was a room which is designed to hold dead people, the fact the room is filled with vessels which once held human emotions or souls or whatever you think makes a person a living breathing thing. To fix this a lot of morgues are now fitted with huge person sized draws to hide the vessels which once held human emotions or souls or whatever you think makes a person a living breathing thing, in. This did not help; these rooms are still creepy. This was the type of room Booker and Rob now found themselves in. Booker seemed at home in this situation, which was a little worrying to Rob, although based on Booker's office Rob came to the conclusion that was more like his home and this may have been more like his kitchen, which was a little more of a chilling thought.

  ‘C7.’ Said Booker out of nowhere as if he was playing battleships.

  ‘What?’ Rob asked.

  ‘C7, Mrs S Brixton. The woman we’re looking for, she’s in C7.’ Booker pulled out his phone, thumbed around with it a little and put it back in his pocket. His pocket made a whooping sound.

  Rob wasn’t paying much attention to Booker at this point, he was too busy looking for C7, giving things names like C7 or B42 made it seem as if this place was well organised, this was not the case as C7 was next to a draw which was labelled with a sticker from a banana stating it was grown in a fair-trade manner.

  ‘It’s over here.’ Rob spoke up, pointing at but never touching the draw or its handle.

  ‘Give it a tug then.’ Booker never turned but the flat layout of the building meant his voice travelled with ease.

  With light fingers, Rob gave the tiny handle on the draw a very small pull, with little effort the draw began moving under its own weight.

  ‘Booooo.’ A small man with a patchy beard yelled from inside the draw. He began sniggering halfway through what he had planned to be a long Boo but was cut short by laughter. Booker hid his laughter behind his back which Rob only knew of because of how well audio travelled here.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t help myself.’ Booker pulled a drop of water from his eye with a single finger. The small man continued to laugh, Rob did not.

  ‘That was so worth it.’ Booker laughed to himself, his hand laying where his chest met the little podge he called a belly.

  ‘Help me up then.’ The little man in the draw said holding out a hand to receive help. Rob did, the little man stumbled a little around before finding his feet.

  ‘Meet Marty, he’s the pathologist here, Marty this is Rob, my new sidekick.’ Booker paced as he spoke.

  ‘I’m not his sidekick.’ Rob said to Marty, who ignored him.

  ‘You’ve never had a sidekick before.’

  ‘First time for everything Marty.’ Booker put down the file, it spun a little on the desk Martin kept his sandwiches in and nothing else.

  Martin or Marty to Booker, nobody else called him Marty, was short as has already been discussed, he wore all blue, although this wasn’t his choice as it was part of his uniform, unlike Hollie, who got to wear business wear, Marty got the grubby job of poking dead people to see what left them in such a way. Sometimes when he poked he poked too hard so scrubs were useful to him. Martin worked under Hollie, she was the head pathologist here, although this wasn’t the only way he’d like to be under her. He had short scrappy hair and little other noticeable features, Booker thought he may be descended from China but never found the right time to ask. How would you?

  ‘Let’s meet Mrs Brixton.’ Booker demanded like a game show host, he held back from saying Mrs Brixton come on down.

  From the desk, Marty grabbed the small file Booker had just thrown there, thumbed through it with speed and pulled out a single sheet, with a fridge magnet he’d pulled from his pocket he stuck the sheet to a seemingly random draw and pulled at it, with the weight of itself it rumbled open.

  ‘Mrs Brixton, twenty-six, bit young to be married, according to the onsite notes SD, cardiac arrest. Fit as a fiddle though.’ Marty glanced at the body, glanced back into the file for a second, then back at the woman.

  ‘People don’t have heart attacks with gaping holes in their chest. When they have heart attacks the heart normally stays inside.’ Marty had started to poke around with his pencil.

  ‘And the blood, right?’ Booker asked.

  ‘Yeah, that too.’ Answered Marty, Booker drew a sigh of relief.

  ‘No CAD, history of it in the family, and the hole in the chest is something I can’t get over.’

  ‘Do you hide in draws all the time waiting or did Booker tell you we were on the way.’ Rob asked as the thought of the prank had marinated in his head.

  ‘The wound is clean of shrapnel or dirt, small bits of cloth, but more like fluff than entrance shrapnel. Booker text me.’ Marty kept analysing as he spoke. Rob looked at Booker and Booker just shrugged in a playful manner.

  ‘It�
��s very boring hanging out with the dead. According to evidence other than blood on her blouse and coat, her clothing was perfectly intact. Next of kin.’ Marty was cut off.

  ‘Mr Brixton?’ Booker asked he knew how this went. It was almost always the spouse, a married person dies, it was always the other half, that was one of the reasons he never got married. So, he told himself. ‘So, the verdict?’ Booker asked.

  ‘Not a heart attack, couldn’t say what it was though, want to come have a look?’ Asked Marty knowing Booker wouldn’t.

  ‘I’m fine here.’ He was fine there, a good ten feet from that particular body.

  ‘I really think I need a second opinion.’ Marty coaxed.

  ‘I really don’t think you’re getting one. Not in your life am I getting closer to that woman.’ Booker stamped his foot like a little kid, the fear of being pushed towards her drove him further away.

  ‘You wouldn’t be saying that if she was living.’ Rob chimed in.

  ‘I don’t think I’d get this close if she was living, neither of us would be in this room if she was living, but she's not and I am.’ Booker punctuated with a smug grin.

  ‘Does she look like a trophy wife to you?’ Asked Martin, Rob had gotten close enough to the corpse that he was able to ask questions with little effort.

  ‘Yeah, I’d say so.’ Rob played along, Booker paced two steps forward craning his neck to see the girl.

  ‘Just come over now.’ Marty said with authority, he’d have used his hand to gesture if they weren’t poking around in the poor girl’s chest.

  Booker paced a few steps more, he was almost on Rob's shoulders, using the lad as a shield.

  ‘Ugh, that’s gruesome.’ He stated, turning his face up at the woman, his lips crawled into his face, eyes bulged to the point Marty thought Bookers eyes may pop out of his head. Booker did not look as if he was enjoying looking at the dead woman.

  Mrs Brixton, Sara to her friends had beautiful long flowing hair which looked well cared for and seemed to stream past her shoulders, Booker noticed the hole in her chest. A small roundish nose, people would consider it a sharp noticeable feature. Booker looked at the hole in her chest. Perfect cheekbones, covered in small perfectly symmetrical freckles. Booker glared at the hole in her chest. A thin, swan-like neck which showed off necklaces as if they were all made to measure for her. Booker glared at the hole in her chest. Booker closed his eyes and moved away, that was enough dead woman for one day.

  ‘I don’t feel great.’ Booker held down a burp, at least he hoped it was a burp, he wished it was a burp.‘I don’t think this is a burp.’ Booker said aloud.

  ‘Huh?’ Rob asked he’d not gotten a pencil and began poking at Mrs Brixton.

  ‘I’m not feeling great.’ Booker stepped away from a little.

  ‘Yeah, you don’t look it. Maybe you should sit down?’ said Marty, pointing towards a chair which was too far away from his desk to be useful.

  ‘That’s too far away.’ The room had begun to spin, Booker felt light headed as if he could float away at any second.

  ‘I’m not going to make that.’ Booker shook his head, his brain rattled around, he felt hungover, he’d never been hungover since he was nineteen, ten years did not make it any nicer, if anything it had gotten worse.

  ‘Then pull one of the draws and sit on that.’ Instructed Martin.

  ‘They can take his weight?’ Rob asked intrigued by his new-found fondness for the dead.

  ‘They are designed to hold dead bodies, living ones aren’t much different.’ Explained Marty. Booker screamed and closed a draw.

  ‘I think he must have got MS. Filch. Cats ate her face. That’ll be a closed casket.’ Marty told Rob who nodded along.

  Another draw slid open, this one held nobody so Booker sat, the draw slid more open as he settled into place.

  ‘Oh, I feel like somebody shit in my mouth, you’re enjoying that a little too much Rob.’ Booker had gotten a little bit of control back, from his chest pocket he pulled a small, shined flask which he popped the lid of and pulled a sip from.

  Rob looked over to Booker, his face all blotchy and red, a pale glint in his eyes, he looked as if he was going to faint.

  ‘Can you stop doing that?’ Booker directed at Rob who wasn’t looking where his pencil was going and hit something which was filled with liquid. It squirted a thin stream of puss, Booker watched it spray in slow motion it didn’t hit anybody but simply trickled back into the poor girl.

  ‘Oh, fuck I’m going to be.’ Booker ran out, the swinging door rocked back and forward.

  ‘Maybe you should go after him.’ Marty said to Rob placing a rubber-gloved hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, you not coming with me?’ Asked Rob.

  ‘I can never leave here.’ Marty replied with a haunting voice which sent goose bumps up and down Robs back.

  ‘Until my shifts up, or at least lunchtime.’

  Rob left following Booker, at least the way he thought Booker had gone.

  Booker was bent over, slime dripped from his lips and the base of his back hurt. Booker panted thick, deep breaths like a dog trapped in a car on a hot day.

  He pulled the flask from his pocket again, give it a shake, finishing off its content. He did not turn it upside down and give it a shake as that would waste whatever still remained in the container.

  Rob caught up after trying to leave through a fire exit which set an alarm off and have to explain to Hollie that he couldn’t find Booker.

  Booker kept burping, this was his bodies rejection noise.

  ‘Maybe we should go talk to Mr Brixton?’ Rob asked placing a hand on Bookers back and giving him, a glass of water Hollie had filled up.

  ‘Where are people getting this idea, I drink water.’ Booker pulled the glass from Rob's hand and drank the glass in one long gulp.

  ‘It’s just what people drink when they’ve been sick.’

  ‘His wives just died, he won’t want to speak to us.’ Booker corrected.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Brixton, people don’t like to talk about the dead, it’s just the done thing, we’re not the police, we can’t pretend it’s just part of a case to get the juicy details.’ Booker poured the final drops of the liquid over the plants he’d just been sick into.

  ‘And even if we could, we don’t know where he lives, it’s not in the coroner report.’ Finishing off the glass he passed it back to Rob who held onto it like a maid.

  ‘Ah.’ Rob wanted to be part of the conversation just didn’t know how to be.

  ‘I say we call it a heart attack and call it quits man.’ Booker straightened himself up and plodded back to the Morgue.

  ‘Give Hollie the glass, say thanks and we’ll go to the pub.’ Booker opened the door for Rob, even though Rob had known Booker for a few hours, he knew this was out of character.

  ‘You know that wasn’t a heart attack, Marty said it wasn’t. I even know it wasn’t a heart attack. We can’t just pretend nothing is happening with this girl.’ Rob stepped into the morgue, explained how he felt, how he knew Booker was lying to himself.

  ‘You’re a terrible liar, you’re not giving up on this are you.

  ‘We’re going to the pub.’ And to the pub is where they went after Rob had given the glass back and thanked Hollie for her help.

  6

  He woke, this was something he was sure of. Stuff like his name? He wasn’t sure. Why was it so dark? he wasn’t sure about that either, but in his head, he was sure he was awake. He thought so at least. If he was honest with himself he wasn’t even sure if he had woken. This could all be a dream, what’s a dream? he didn’t know.

  A grog filled his head like thick soup, his thoughts wading through it to come to the surface of his mind. He blinked his eyes which gave little change to circumstance.

  “normally blinking helps.” He thought to himself, he didn’t know what it helped, he wasn’t even sure what blinking was. Just something at the back of his mind told him that blink
ing did something which was going to help.

  His brain had a routine scribed into it, a set of steps to help him remove the fog which surrounded his mind. The blinking had failed him, the next step was to try drawing a huge gulp of breath in with a fully open mouth. Something muffled his breathing, the air he pulled in seemed in short supply, he filled his lungs anyway, taken a little longer than normal, although he wasn’t sure what normal was. He tried blinking again, in the hopes he was just doing it wrong the last time. Still nothing, no matter how many times he blinked and at which speed, nothing helped.

  He tried to move, sitting up from the position he presumed was laying down, up could have been down, for all he knew, he could have been hanging from his feet, he was pretty sure he wasn’t though. Sitting failed spectacularly as something pulled tight around him like a boa constrictor or a belt on to tight. There's was a rough scraping noise as he moved around trying to lean more forward, after a few seconds he relented and fell back. It splashed, something around his head splashed, wetting the top of his hair, seeping into his scalp. Now lying flat the snake that held him tight fell loose.

  ‘Help!’ he yelled but it was muffled by his coffin, even he could tell from the inside. Coffins don't commonly let you sit up. This one did a little.

  ‘Help.’ he screeched again wobbling around as he did so. There was give to his left, he could tell. The squeeze loosened as he moved that way. I really should give myself a name, he thought to himself before rolling full power to his left. The whole world above him spun and spun until the world was no longer just above him in a small circle of light but now engulfed him in full. His eyes pulled in light with such speed he was blinded by white for a few seconds, but this faded in time.

  Still blinded he could now feel the world around him, which was a good start. The sun tickled his arms making the hairs on them stand on end, the hair on his head moved around without care as the wind caught it and the sun dried it. He pushed his hand through it and felt the long strands get caught between his fingers, pulling it back it fell into position as if it was always a neat bouffant, few strands fell forward which tickled his forehead. This made him softly giggle, he looked like a madman, maybe he was a madman.