The Dead I Know Read online

  ‘Mrs Gray won’t be needing the blanket any more, will you, dear?’ John Barton said. ‘Aaron will help you with that.’

  He caught my eye and nodded. Without thinking, I held Mrs Carmel Gray’s gelid fi ngers and lifted her arm so I could draw the covering away.

  ‘Leave the sheet,’ John Barton murmured.

  I folded the blanket and placed it on a chair.

  John Barton began untucking the sheet below Mrs Carmel Gray and I did the same on the other side. He drew the top sheet over Mrs Carmel Gray’s head without pause or apology, stood at the top of the bed and motioned for me to take my place at her feet.

  ‘Take the lower sheet,’ he said, and screwed a fistful of it with each hand.

  He counted, we lifted and the late Mrs Carmel Gray moaned a single drawn-out note. A mishandled accordion noise.

  My body chilled and I almost dropped her.

  ‘Hush, dear,’ John Barton admonished. ‘We’re taking you home.’

  Her legs landed heavily on the trolley and her body bent.

  ‘Lift again,’ John Barton said. ‘Straighten her up.’

  I did as I was told.

  John Barton tucked her arms under the top sheet and strapped her on – chest and thighs – for the ride.

  ‘Get the door.’

  I did as I was told.

  Nina Cartwright was waiting outside. She looked along the hall and ushered us out. There was nobody else there to witness our departure. Smoothly, almost without noise, we wheeled the trolley through the double doors and to the back of the van.

  ‘Stand clear,’ John Barton said.

  I let the trolley roll. The wheels and legs folded as the van swallowed the late Mrs Carmel Gray. John Barton closed the doors quietly and nodded goodbye to Nina.

  ‘Close the gate,’ he said to me.

  John Barton’s driving was even more composed on our way back to the office. The traffic hooted and bustled around us but the rush was lost on John Barton.

  ‘Ninety per cent of our work is like that,’ he said to the windscreen. ‘A quiet end to a long life well lived. They don’t put up much of a fight and we’re never in a hurry. Mostly, the families of our clients are both happy and sad to see us. Sometimes emotions run high.’

  He beeped the van backwards into the garage, leaving the doors open, and killed the engine.

  ‘Now, I’ll get you started on the hearse and I’ll take Mrs Gray inside. Have you washed and polished a car before?’

  I wanted to say yes. I’d seen it done. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It may take a few tries to get it right but we won’t need it for a couple of days.’

  Loaded with a hose, a bucket of warm water, a sponge and a complete arsenal of washing and polishing agents, I was set to work on the car. John Barton parked it on a patch of shaded grass and explained exactly what he wanted, once and clearly.

  ‘. . . and I don’t want to see a single spot, streak or smear of polish. Do a little bit at a time until you can see yourself in every panel. Understand?’

  My nod was more of a bow this time.

  I washed and dried and polished for more than an hour. Around midday a group of kids – in the same school uniform I’d been wearing myself three days ago – made their way along the street. Off on an illicit lunch excursion to town, I suspected. I moved to the other side of the car as they drew close but they decided to cross and walked right behind me. One boy was from my class. My pulse quickened.

  ‘Nice car,’ he said.

  One of the girls laughed.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘It’s a beast.’

  ‘What is theend supposed to mean?’ the girl asked.

  ‘You are joking!’ the boy said.

  Damien Van Something. I caught his eye. I held his gaze for a full second. He nodded coolly and they walked on.

  It seemed I was unrecognizable, already.

  There was a peaceful rhythm to the cleaning and polishing. I was unrecognizable to myself.

  Here was a task with boundaries and purpose, a small thing that made sense. A small thing I could do well.

  Again, I felt something. A change in the weather, a shift in the season, something dawning or something setting. Some tide on the move or moon made full. Stirrings of ancient dust.

  John Barton had his sleeves rolled up when he returned. He wiped his hands on a clean white cloth and made a circuit of the hearse. At one point he stooped and squinted but didn’t touch the car.

  He finished his lap toe to toe with me. He examined my eyes. I held his gaze, though I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘You are an enigma, young man,’ he said.

  I didn‘t know how to respond, but I didn’t have to. He patted my shoulder. Once.

  4

  MRS BARTON HAD MADE a substantial plate of pale sandwich fingers: cheese and pickles, egg and lettuce, ham and more cheese. All the crusts had been sawn off and they were embarrassingly easy to eat. I stopped when I realized she was watching me.

  ‘Eat!’ she said. ‘They’ll only go to waste.’

  I ate one more. I could have emptied the plate.

  The phone rang three times while we had lunch. John Barton answered each call and I found myself staring at the back of his head, listening to his conversation, imagining the person on the other side.

  Mrs Barton stepped between her husband and me. ‘So, do you live in town, Aaron?’

  I nodded.

  She was waiting for more detail. I ignored the invitation.

  ‘Where?’ she finally asked.

  I drew a line with my finger, through their garage and off towards the beach.

  ‘By the water?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘How lovely! Have you been there long?’

  One more nod. John Barton hung up the phone.

  ‘I see,’ Mrs Barton said. ‘Live with your mother and father?’

  ‘Oh, leave the boy alone, dear,’ John Barton said. ‘He doesn’t need the full twenty questions now. Besides, we have work to do.’

  He collected his jacket and I took it as my cue.

  ‘Toilet,’ he said. He pointed to the bathroom where I’d changed earlier. It was hard to believe it was the same day. I used the toilet – not because I had to but because I was doing as I was told – and found John Barton reversing the hearse into the garage. We were in the van and out the door without another word exchanged.

  He stuck a note to the dash. ‘The late Mr Neville Cooper. Botany Street, number 34. With a pick-up from a private residence we should be a little more cautious. We’ll be discreet and park as close to the house as we can. We have to plan a route with the gurney and consider door widths, the size and weight of the body, family members and the general public. You won’t need to worry about any of that. Same rules: be silent and do as you are told.’

  Mr Neville Cooper was a big man who had died in his bed. His three daughters sat, red-cheeked, with their mother in the lounge. I remembered the eldest one from my first high school, though I couldn’t recall her name. She was a year or two older than me but she had long deep-red hair that made you take a second look.

  In the passage, John Barton spoke with a nurse in hushed tones.

  ‘One hundred and seventy kilograms,’ the nurse wheezed. ‘And don’t I know it.’

  John Barton sized up the bedroom doorway and the hall. The front entry involved six concrete stairs; the rear, a single step onto rough paving and a steep slope down the driveway.

  ‘Back door,’ John Barton said to me. ‘Get the gurney.’

  I did as I was told. It took me a full minute to find the velcro straps that held it in the van. The legs extended for me as they had for John Barton and it rattled like an errant shopping trolley over the bricks to the back step. With a push and a lift the gurney nudged at the screen door. One hand on the door and one tugging the trolley, I broached the threshold and slid quietly through the laundry and kitchen to the bedroom.

  The late Mr Neville Cooper was a sandcastle of stomach und
er a blue sheet. Hospital machines stood mutely in the corner of the room. The gurney was higher than the bed and John Barton adjusted it until they were level.

  ‘Team lift,’ John Barton whispered.

  ‘Might I suggest a roll?’ the nurse said.

  ‘Very good idea,’ John Barton said, and we assembled on one side.

  The nurse began untucking the sheet below the big man and I took my place beside her and helped. Two fistfuls of blue sheet each and we were ready.

  John Barton counted and we lifted. The body barely moved. John Barton counted again and this time we heaved with a combined force that pitched the late Mr Neville Cooper onto his side, onto the gurney and then – with a crunching, fleshy slap – onto the floor beyond.

  The nurse swore. She stepped across the room and closed the door.

  The late Mr Neville Cooper had been naked under the sheets and now lay sprawled on the floorboards, his backside dirty, proud and parted. John Barton quickly covered the man’s bruised skin with the sheet and held his own mouth and nose. The smell hit me at that moment – sick man’s feces and decay – and my body lurched involuntarily.

  ‘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

  THE 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.