Chapter 9 #2
‘Oh, well, Clive has marked him wrong, it’s actually an open casket viewing before a cremation. Just want to make sure he looks as good as possible for the family; his sister-in-law is a friend of mine.’
The heart in my own chest tumbled, then sharply plummeted. A brutal lurch of panic took hold – cold, sharp, and paralysing – like a wave of sub-zero frost spreading rapidly from within me. I felt it claw and ravage its way up my throat, choking, freezing me in place.
‘Goodness me, I hate London traffic,’ Uncle Phil groused. ‘You still there, Ruth?’
‘Uh-huh,’ was about all I could manage to say, my voice barely audible even to me. I couldn’t even think about what to say when all I was thinking was how the hell was I going to make this body presentable for an open casket in less than twenty minutes?
Desperate, I switched my phone onto airplane mode, ending the call abruptly. Uncle Phil would think the line dropped, and I wouldn’t have to explain any of the sheer terror in my voice if I continued the conversation.
But now what? I couldn’t put the heart back in his chest – that would be impossible. Worse, I could now see that the central chest cavity was starting to collapse in on itself, the skin sinking in a way that very blatantly screamed, Error Error: critical organ missing.
I had to act. Quickly. It was now 12.20. Grabbing the surgical scissors, I rapidly undid my careful stitching. Think. Think. What could I use as a substitute?
As I worked, ripping apart the stitching, my eyes fixed upon a dark, clotty ooze which began to bloom and blossom across Justin’s crisp white shirt, as if an old fountain pen had exploded inside him.
I cursed – my scissors must’ve somehow nicked the skin.
Whether from dead or living bodies, blood notoriously sets fast, and it was too late to even try and wipe it clean.
So, I now had a second problem; I needed something to mop up the blood and fill the cavity.
Henry continued to watch from the corner, scathingly.
And then it hit me.
Justin, I don’t believe your soul continues to exist after your demise, but if it does, wherever you are now, I am so, so sorry for what I did next. When this is over, I’ll bring flowers to your grave every month, but right now, maybe you should look away.
I grabbed a nearby roll and began to stuff handfuls of kitchen towel into the cavity where Justin’s heart used to be, like I was stuffing the prized turkey at Christmas.
I used nearly the entire roll, pushing more and more thick wads of kitchen towel into his chest until his shirt seemed to rise to an acceptable, anatomically correct level again.
I stepped back and waited for a minute, holding my breath, watching for any small sign of it sinking back down.
It seemed like it was stable, and I certainly didn’t have time to check things a third or fourth time.
This would have to do, he just had to stay like this for a day, that was perfectly possible.
As fast as I could, I set to work re-suturing his skin much faster than Uncle Phil had ever taught me, the faint pierce marks from my first attempt barely visible but just enough to guide me.
My hands were trembling so violently I had to force myself to focus.
I distracted my mind to try and keep it calm, listing every kind of pasta shape I could name in my head: spaghetti, penne, percy, damn, tagliatelle, orecchiette.
My hand that was holding the quivering needle between my thumb and index finger spasmed from the tension and the sudden twitch sent the suture needle tumbling from my grip, rolling off Justin’s water-bloated belly before clattering to the floor.
Snatching it up, I instinctively moved it to the sterilising solution, only to pause mid-action, realising this probably wasn’t necessary and would only take up more of the very little, precious time I had left.
The clock read 12.24. Pacing quickly around the morgue, I gave myself fifteen seconds to clench and unclench my fist, trying to coax some blood flow back into my hand.
Meanwhile, the white-hot frost in my chest that I knew to be a cocktail of adrenaline and fear seemed to stretch further, creeping into every corner of my body now, from my head to my toes, numbing my body parts and quivering my skin.
You really need a steady hand for this kind of work and the emotions I was currently experiencing were not assisting.
I hunched over Justin again to continue the suturing, telling myself to be slow and steady, all the while going through all the pasta shapes I could still think of: ravioli, agnolotti, conchiglie, Lamborghini – wait no, that was a car.
Before I knew it, the suturing was complete.
I wasted no time buttoning up his shirt, just doing the top two buttons and then carefully pulling his suit jacket over the thick black spot that had bled through earlier.
Luckily, it seemed any more of the bleeding was happening towards the back of his body; no one was ever going to see that.
I scanned the morgue as I gingerly stepped away from the coffin, my eyes darting from corner to corner of the room. Had I left anything incriminating out? Anything obvious? No security camera had suddenly been installed? Nothing seemed amiss.
Ripping off my gloves, face mask and flinging down the needle I had been using, I bundled them up and tossed them into the bin. Would someone notice a missing scalpel? I didn’t have time to dwell on that.
I took a step back and let out a small, shaky sigh of relief. Glancing up at the clock, I froze, hands suspended, the way they do when ‘Time!’ is called on Bake Off. Cadavre servi cru.
12.30. On the dot.
I took one last look at Justin in his coffin, inspecting and scrutinising every visible inch of him.
In my experience, open caskets didn’t encourage long, drawn-out glances.
Nobody really wants to linger on the sight of a dead body – especially not of someone they loved.
But everything seemed, dare I say it, immaculate. Mission successful.
The morgue door swung open with a jarring creak, and I lurched upwards as Uncle Phil entered. He’d made good time.
‘Hello, hello,’ he called out in his usual sing-song tone; not even being in a morgue could dim his relentless cheeriness. ‘Thanks for checking. How’s he looking?’ he asked.
‘Not bad, I think,’ I replied, trying to mask any of the anxiety that was still coursing through my bloodstream by speaking purposefully slowly.
I picked up the container I’d left on the counter and held it close to my chest. Wouldn’t want Uncle Phil accidentally opening that on a whim, curious to know what my lunch was.
He flashed me one of his signature grins, then glanced over at the cadaver.
‘Bad death for poor Justin,’ he said. ‘Good thing Sophie worked on setting his face. I don’t think I’d have done nearly as good a job.’
I nodded; I didn’t want to look at Justin’s face but I knew it was true.
Sophie was exceptionally talented at setting the faces of the dead.
Also, my aunt had told me, with some irony, that she was a gifted part-time life-drawing artist. Essentially, if you weren’t moving, Sophie could make you look good.
‘How was the funeral?’ I asked.
‘Standard,’ Uncle Phil said with a bemused shrug. ‘“Amazing Grace”, “My Way” – the classics.’
‘Of course,’ I said with a smile, an overexaggerated nod of my head and a hopefully not-too-nervous chuckle.
‘Oh yes, Clive and Eddie will handle the wake. But they did say they’ll give us a five-star Trustpilot review, so no complaints there,’ he added, pulling up the lone creaky-wheeled stool in the morgue and groaning slightly as he perched on it.
Uncle Phil was a bit obsessed with Trustpilot, almost had a breakdown when he got a one star review once.
‘Right, Ruth, I need to talk to you about something serious, do you have a minute?’
‘Sure,’ I said, glancing around for another place to sit but he’d taken the only stool, so I shifted awkwardly to lean backwards on one of the counters, trying to make myself look comfortable and not let my eyes wander to Justin’s coffin.
Was a morgue really the best place to have a chat?
Maybe Uncle Phil wasn’t bothered by anything dead-related, after so long in the fast-paced, dynamic and exciting world of cadavers.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over these past few months,’ Uncle Phil began.
‘About my career, about everything we’ve accomplished here, and how proud I am of it all.
But also, about how much time I have left on God’s green earth and how I’d like to use it.
And so, Auntie Ingrid and I were talking, and we’ve decided to finally take out the camper van and travel across Europe, visiting the Menin Gate and Tyne Cot and the like. ’
‘Okay,’ I said, hoping he’d get to the point quicker.
Was it a secondment or something? Did he want to me to be his driver on this grand tour?
My pulse was still violently racing from the chaos of tearing a heart out of a corpse not twenty minutes earlier.
I tried to read his face, searching for any indicator of what he might say next, some hint of sadness or contentment, but I couldn’t read him.
He wasn’t making eye contact, which I normally chalked up to being a bad sign.
‘I’ve really loved having you join the team.
And while I know the business is called Camborne and Sons, I always thought of the name as more of an aspiration than a promise.
You know my sons, none of them were ever really interested in the family business.
But then you came to work with me a year or so ago, and everything just seemed to fall into place. I…’
‘Uncle Phil,’ I interrupted as gently as I could, knowing he had a tendency to ramble on and I had little patience for conversational filler: land the plane. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Well,’ he said with a nervous chuckle, ‘I guess what I’m asking is… would you like to take over the business?’
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, genuinely quite stunned, that was not at all what I thought he was going to say. I instinctively placed the container on the side, worried that the shock was going to make me drop it. ‘Oh, Uncle Phil, I don’t really know what to say.’
‘It’s fine,’ he said, moving closer to reassure me and lovingly grab the hands that went to reach to my face. ‘Absolutely fine. Don’t say anything now – just think about it. I’ve always wanted to keep the business in the family, and I can’t think of a better option than you.’
‘Thank you, Uncle Phil. But… what about Sophie? I thought she’s always wanted to take over? And she’s been here for longer than me?’
‘Ah, Sophie… I think it’s best she remains where she is. I want someone like you, Ruth, someone I can trust.’
Yikes, if only he knew.
‘I just want someone in charge of Camborne and Sons who’s got real spunk.
’ Poor choice of word, but I wasn’t going to inform him of the modern-day usage.
‘By the way, have you seen her life drawings? Absolutely awful, I can’t believe we got them as Christmas presents from her,’ Phil continued.
‘Anyhow, Ruth, sweetheart, just mull it over, that’s all I’m asking at this point.
No rush, no commitment yet. We can talk more in a few days, all right? Just, please, listen to your heart.’
I couldn’t help the way my eyes flicked to the container I was clutching.