Stories from the Edge

Exit

I am standing in a windowless room, surrounded by death.

The walls are watching me and listening to my thoughts, I am sure of it. No matter how much I try, I can't conceal my mind from them. Four white tiled walls. Someone is using them to spy on me. They encompass me, bare but for a few scientific and anatomic charts. Stainless steel benches run along the sides of the room, with weighing instruments and dissection boards. Near the door is a space for reference books, paperwork and a computer and above these is a wall phone. The smell of disinfectant rises from the wet floor. I turn my head and look at the walls and see the absence of windows. Strange how you don't notice things until, one day, you seem to open your eyes for the first time. Someone has planned it this way.

Fool! Of course there have never been windows here. The voice, now familiar, resonates harshly in my head. I grip my hands together, to stop them from shaking. Why are they persecuting me, these people, these voices? I shake my head, as if that will make them stop and look down at the dead body on the stainless steel table before me. Stiff and still, it waits. Behind me, the body I have just finished with is on another table. Sewn up and washed, it is ready to be taken away. I shiver in the draught produced by the air extraction fans. Water streams from a tap into a sink on my right, the bottom layered by saws, knives and the awkward to hold rib cutter, each now scrubbed clean and ready for use again. I flex my fingers inside the bulky steel mesh glove enveloping my left hand. There is an itch on the sole of my right foot, deep inside the thick rubber boot. I wriggle my toes and it almost goes away.

There are banging noises from inside the body fridge, across the room. The door swings open and the Mortuary Technician appears, pushing a trolley. There are lines of storage shelves laden with bodies visible beyond him. Jeff is short for someone whose job involves lifting awkward weights. He makes up for his stature by working out at the gym. He is garrulous and loud. He stops when he sees me.

Is it he, perhaps, who is persecuting me?

"I thought Bert was unzipping this one," he says, gesturing toward the body in front of me.

"Bert's at the dentist," I say.

"No one told me," says Jeff. He shakes his head with its mop of black curly hair and his face creases with annoyance.

"I did," I say.

"No, you didn't. Now I have to redo the frigging paperwork."

It's not my fault if he can't remember what I say to him. Or perhaps he is just saying he doesn't. He stalks about, preparing for the autopsy. I look at the walls again and they seem to sneer at me.

Why would there be windows in a mortuary? The voice in my head is angry. I just want it to stop.

Now Jeff is standing opposite me, on the other side of the table, a frown on his face.

"Did you say something?" I ask.

He stares at me.

"Sometimes I wonder what planet you're on, boyo," he says.

Rude bastard. Who does he think he is? The voice is angry at Jeff. Maybe it's someone else then. A feeling erupts in my stomach about Jeff. I notice his attitude. His hostility. I wonder what he says about me behind my back, to the others in the staff tea room. I resolve to be careful with him from now on, to say less and watch him more.

The phone on the wall rings. Jeff walks over and picks up the handset.

"City morgue," he announces with his typical theatrical morbidity that makes me wince. He listens, turning to look at me. "Hello, Greg." He raises his eyebrows. Greg is the lab manager. I shake my head.