The Dead I Know (3 page)

‘Come on, boys,’ the nurse growled. ‘Show a bit of stomach.’

John Barton nodded and let his mouth go. ‘Oh, it’s not the smell.’

The nurse lifted the sheet clear and arranged it on the floor beside the body. John Barton apologized to the dead man under his breath. He lowered the trolley almost to the floor.

‘Team lift?’ he said.

‘Great idea,’ the nurse whispered.

We rolled the late Mr Neville Cooper onto the sheet and with a Herculean, knee-shaking effort moved his legs and then his torso onto the trolley. The nurse was strong and resolute. I needed to wash my hands but discreetly wiped them on the sheet instead. With the three of us lifting again, we got the trolley back up to full height. John Barton’s brow was beaded with perspiration. He tugged
and pushed until the body held a dignified symmetry on the stretcher, drew the sheet over Mr Neville Cooper’s head and strapped him on. Tight.

‘We’ll take it easy. Just one step at a time,’ John Barton puffed. ‘Is the back of the van open?’

I nodded.

‘Get the door.’

I smoothed my tie, shook my non-existent hair off my face and opened the door.

One of the gurney wheels squeaked a mournful rhythm. I steered. John Barton pushed. The late Mr Neville Cooper buffed the doorjambs with his shoulders. The nurse slipped past and opened the screen door.

That single step looked like the Grand Canyon. Beside me, the nurse grabbed the trolley and we inched the wheels to the edge. John Barton used his entire weight to slow the descent – I heard his shoes rasping on the concrete. Suddenly, the gurney passed the point of no return and
thunked
to the paving. It landed unevenly and teetered. The nurse gasped. I heaved and the wheel came back to ground. The rear wheels followed with an excruciating crash and John Barton lost his footing. We were all dragged six metres by the quivering mass of the late Mr Neville Cooper until John Barton found his feet and applied them as brakes. We slowed, but the body on the gurney didn’t stop – merely continued its inexorable grind towards the van with us being towed behind. The nurse bailed and I gave one last shove as the wild thing banged into the bumper of the van. Dead on target. The legs and wheels folded with an indignant clatter and the late Mr Neville Cooper came to rest in the back of the van with a hollow
gong
.

John Barton didn’t let go immediately. He held tight as the rocking of the van eased. He relaxed his grip slowly but surely and dusted his hands a little theatrically.

The nurse smiled.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

She dipped her head.

‘Thank you both.’

I met his gaze.

He blew air at his fringe and grinned. ‘I’ll get some particulars. You can wait here if you like.’

The nurse chose to wait with me.

I closed the doors of the van and she leaned against them beside me.

‘I don’t envy you your job.’

‘I wouldn’t swap it for yours,’ I said.

She stared at me with that questioning look people often get when I open my mouth. She stuck out her hand. ‘Sarah French, by the way.’

‘Aaron Rowe,’ I said, and shook her fingers.

‘Been working with Mr Barton for long?’

‘My first day,’ I said.

Her jaw dropped. ‘How’s it going?’

My words dried up. I’d already used more than my daily quota and the dull ache in my head was a warning not to overdo it. I shrugged.

She waited for me to elaborate and when nothing was forthcoming, she crossed her arms.

‘He’s a good man, Mr Barton. He’s done all my family funerals. And a few friends. I wouldn’t go to that other crew even if . . . even if I was dead!’

She laughed at her own joke.

‘Selkirk Brothers is a factory. Pour dead bodies in one end; get ashes or a plot out the other. I see them all the time, rubbing their hands together over the dead and their loved ones. The more grief the better for them. Means a better sale. Vultures.’

She shivered.

‘Mr Barton isn’t like that. He didn’t even charge my aunty when my niece drowned. Beautiful service with flowers and everything and he didn’t charge her a cent.’

A minute passed. Sarah French watched the breeze lazily flipping the leaves on a tall poplar at the back of the yard.

‘Oh well, that’s me done. Better go and pack up my gear before the van gets here. Nice to meet you, Aaron. Good luck with your new job.’

I mouthed thank you and she was gone, up the back step and into the house. I climbed into the passenger seat and could smell the late Mr Neville Cooper – all swampy and unflushed – and almost climbed back out again, but Sarah French’s words were wafting around in there too: ‘Show a bit of stomach.’ It was no worse than the toilets at the caravan park, just complicated by the fact that the source of the smell was dead and it was never going to get any better. I wondered how bad the van would smell if the corpse to be collected was rotting. No amount of fake flowers would cover that.

5

T
HE ENGINE TICKED
as it cooled. John Barton stared at the windscreen until the smell was too much.

‘Time for your final bath, Mr Cooper,’ he said.

It was a smooth transition from the van to the coolroom. I held the side of the trolley and steered, but felt superfluous. The coolroom door gave a stagey creak as it opened. John Barton flicked a switch as we entered and banks of bright tubes blinked to life, illuminating two corpses – an old man dressed in a suit and the late Mrs Carmel Gray, covered to the neck with a deep-green sheet. There were three empty gurneys and a stainless-steel bench over a drain in the floor. The air was fridge-cool but not frozen, sharp with disinfectant and hard to breathe.

‘Thank you, Aaron. Might finally be time for that cup of tea,’ John Barton said, and I followed him into the house. The jabber of the TV came out to greet us.

*

Mrs Barton made tea the way her husband drove – all poise and practical efficiency.

‘Sugar, dear?’ she asked.

I shook my head.

‘Milk?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Ah, much better manners. I can’t hear your head rattle!’

John Barton ushered me into a seat at the round kitchen table. Mrs Barton slipped two cream-filled biscuits onto my saucer.

Something rubbed my leg. I pulled back but the rubbing continued. I slid my chair out and revealed Moggy, wiping her face on my shin.

Mrs Barton pressed her slippered foot into the animal’s rear. ‘Leave him alone, Moggy.’

The cat slunk into the lounge.

‘She’s an affectionate animal,’ Mrs Barton said. ‘There’s no doubting that. Just wish she could keep her fishy dribble to herself.’

I slid my chair back under the table.

‘So, how’s it all going then?’ Mrs Barton asked.

‘Very impressed,’ John Barton said, almost under his breath. ‘Young Aaron here is a natural. He keeps it up and he’ll make a fair funeral director one day.’

I heard what he was saying. I understood why he said it. Everything was new. They didn’t know me. Starting a new school had been the same – falsetto cheer and painted smiles for the first few days and then they’d realize I wasn’t being shy or reticent. I was being myself. Each new school was the beginning of a journey of sorts: from the shores
of polite enthusiasm, through the vast plains where I was blissfully ignored and eventually to the land of insults and contempt. It was safer to move than fight back. Five schools in as many years.

‘That
does
sound promising,’ Mrs Barton said.

The back door opened with a bang and the three of us jumped.

A girl entered. Her backpack hit the door, then the wall. She wore the yellow polo shirt and baggy navy shorts of the Catholic primary school, and was eleven or twelve at a guess. Her blonde hair, bound in two tight plaits, curved to touch her shoulders. She kicked off her black leather shoes and shed her bag.

‘Here she is,’ John Barton said. ‘Afternoon, Skye.’

She froze when she noticed me. Stared.

‘Hello, darling,’ Mrs Barton said. ‘How was your day?’

She didn’t answer. I stared back.

‘Skye,’ John Barton said. ‘This is Aaron Rowe.’

Still she stared. She appeared to be reading me like a bus
timetable.

‘Skye?’ Mrs Barton said. ‘That’s enough, dear. What would you like to eat?’

She showed no sign of having heard.

‘Skye!’ John Barton barked, and she jumped.

The spell was broken and we breathed again.

‘When’s Taylor coming back?’ Skye asked.

Mrs Barton tutted. ‘We’ve been through this a hundred times, Skye. He’s moved. Gone. He’s not coming back.’

But Skye wasn’t waiting for a response; she had found the remote and flumped on the couch. She turned the volume up further and skipped across channels until John
Barton growled and scraped his chair noisily on the floor.

Mrs Barton glanced at me and shrugged apologetically.

John Barton looked at his watch. ‘That will do for today, Aaron. You are free to go. Would you like a lift anywhere? Where’s home?’

‘Down by the water,’ Mrs Barton revealed.

‘I see,’ John Barton said. ‘I could drop you home if—’

‘No,’ I said.

John Barton smoothed his tie, nodded.

‘Thank you,’ I added. ‘I like to walk.’

6

M
AM WASN’T HOME
. I checked the laundry and listened from the men’s to make sure she wasn’t in the toilet either. Her purse was missing and I guessed she’d gone to the supermarket even though shopping day wasn’t until Wednesday. She wouldn’t have any money before then. I knew that for a fact.

I swapped my work shirt for a T-shirt and took the long way out of the park to avoid van
57
– they’d be waking up about now – then jogged and walked along the foreshore and into the supermarket.

Mam was at the checkout. She was digging in her purse. The checkout girl had called the manager and was standing beside the till with her arms crossed.

The manager had done this before. ‘Any more change in there, Mrs Rowe?’

I took the last twenty from my pocket and handed it to the manager.

‘Ah,’ the manager said. ‘Here’s your knight in shining armour.’

‘This is David,’ said Mam.

‘Aaron.’

‘This is Aaron,’ said Mam. ‘Give us a hand with the shopping, love.’

I gathered the bags and collected the change before taking Mam’s elbow and leading her into the street.

As soon as we were outside, she shook me off and stopped to investigate the notices on the community board.

I inspected the bags – two large containers of dishwashing detergent, more toilet paper and an orange. I thought about going back inside and making an exchange but thinking about it was as close as I got.

‘Washing machine,’ Mam said. ‘One hundred dollars.’

‘That’s a good price.’

‘Yes. Not bad. Not bad at all,’ Mam said, and continued walking down the street. ‘Better have a look at it first, though. Can’t trust them.’

I followed and contemplated how best to prepare our evening meal of dishwashing liquid and toilet paper. The orange would be halved for dessert, that much was obvious.

The pedestrian turnstile at the caravan park groaned as we entered. I steered Mam behind van
57
– they were shouting at each other over the metal music. The television in our annex was already on. She lowered herself into her armchair.

‘
Deal or no Deal
?
Deal or no Deal
?
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
?’ she asked.

‘Yes please,’ I said. Although hundredaire would be adequate.

Putting the dishwashing liquid away under the sink, I found two more full bottles. I put the orange in the fridge and found another half-empty bottle of detergent masquerading as a milk carton in the door. There was nowhere to put the toilet paper except the table.

Frozen chicken fillets thawed in the microwave. Pasta sauce of bacon, cream and parmesan cheese. Penne. We both had seconds. I washed the dishes with the chilled detergent while she was over in the shower.

‘Bedtime, David.’

‘Aaron.’

‘Bedtime, Aaron.’

‘Yes, Mam. Goodnight, Mam. Sleep well.’

She was snoring before nine. The noise rattled – familiar –
-
over the muted adverts as I left.

When sleep is not a sanctuary, darkness sometimes is. When the mess of human activity nags at you, the ocean can make you deaf with its rhythmic wash. I kept my T-shirt on but buried my jeans, socks and shoes in the warm sand. I waded into the water until the tide dragged at my shorts then I dove, swallowed at once by the ocean’s maw. I lay there on my back – heavens above, darkness below – feeling impossibly small and vulnerable.

I listened but all I could hear was bubbles and sea creatures clicking. I listened so hard I thought I could hear the sand moving, but it was only my breath. In time, the calm made it to my core and I swam to the beach. I carried my clothes and shoes, roughed myself with a towel in the annex and fell to my bed.

7

My head is ringing. My attention lands on a curve beside a snarl of dirty bedsheet. I stop breathing and I can’t stop staring. The curve is slight but in my dreamscape it seems monstrous. The curve is human, though the colour is wrong. Then I see it for what it is; an arc of toenail painted orange.

I woke, panting and ragged, on the floor of the annex. The green fibreglass panel in the ceiling bathed the scene in a surreal light. My palms were sweaty and in my right fist I held the broken handle of a hairbrush, one I’d never seen before. Where had it come from? Had I broken it? I shook it from my palm and lifted myself to my knees, staring.

‘Morning, Aaron,’ Mam said, startling me.

She stood in the door of the van with one hand on her hip.

‘Morning.’

‘What you doing down there?’

‘I . . . I was looking for the rest of my hairbrush,’ I said.

I collected the broken handle and my toiletries bag and made my way to the shower block. There were wrinkled feet in the second stall but the shower wasn’t running. I slipped the handle noiselessly into the rubbish bin, shaved and blasted my skin with the bleachy-smelling water. My hair, now so short, rebelled at my every attempt to calm it. In the end I let it have its own way and fled from the mirror.