cavity on the cadaver was still open. Patch, bloody after his earlier excavations, was looking over both his shoulders. He moved cautiously forward, towards Lord Arbuthnot’s feet. Then he placed hishands on the deceased’s hips, and rolled him in my direction.
Horrified, I stepped back, Patch’s irreverence knew no bounds. The body groaned as gases escaped, pressure widened the hole in the chest wall and I could see right inside. I knew that I would be having nightmares about this for weeks to come.
‘Stop lolly gagging over there and come and see this.’
Patch was staring at Lord Arbuthnot’s backside. I could see no way that this could get any worse. Frank Pearson was already green to the gills, and if there had been others present I would have been running a book on how much time he had left before he was sick. I shouldn’t have been so smug.
At first I couldn’t make out what I was looking at. It was faded with age. Patch swung his large magnifying glass in front, and we stared mystified.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘What does it look like?’ Patch sounded irritated by my puerile question.
‘It looks like a tattoo,’ Frank replied, unabashed.
‘Well, it’s not. It’s a burn.’
‘Like a cattle brand?’ I had found my voice again.
‘Precisely!’
The autopsy room fell silent. Far away in distant corridors, I could hear the rattle of trolleys. Porters shouted greetings to one another, normal life continued. In this room, it had stopped; nothing was as it should be. We stared in quiet communion at the mark, burned long ago into the rear end of Lord Arbuthnot.
‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ The words tripped softly out over my lips.
‘I have obviously seen burn marks on children made by cigarettes and heated objects,’ answered Patch, ‘but I have never observed first hand such a brand. Note these indentations–also old burn marks.’
Patch’s plum eyelid twitched, as he observed the oddity. His curiosity was aroused, but from past experience, I knew he would add nothing to his disclosures. We were lost to him now as he studied the grooves and indentations on the flaccid, bloodless, buttock.
I felt the vomit rise into the back of my throat, acidic and sour it burned its way up my gullet. Fire flushed through my system. Last time, I barely made it to the ladies room. The race was on, no time for niceties. I grabbed my helmet off the steel table by the mortuary room door. I had no time to say goodbye, or to hear Frank Pearson’s muffled guffaw.
The place was a maze. I ran directionless through the corridors, searching for a toilet. No luck, so I pushed down hard on a fire exit handle, praying it wasn’t alarmed, and escaped into the fresh air of the car park.
The autopsy room had been windowless; the storm clouds outside took me by surprise. My lungs gasped for cool clear air, but to no avail: the afternoon was warm and muggy. A summer storm was building. My t-shirt clung to my back; small streams of sweat ran down my neck, as I sprinted towards Awesome. The sun was hidden behind heavy clouds, and even Awesome gleamed dull in the flat light. The shine had been taken off everything.
Escape was all that I had in mind. I needed something more than I could get from my Harley. Heading for Arthur’s Seat, I was sure to find solace. Unfortunately, I didn’t find good sense and the black saloon car behind me with tinted windows was nothing but another bit of traffic to me.
The car was of the same mind, but the driver was obviously too taken with the sight of Holyrood Palace to pay attention to the road. His wheels–I assumed he was male as they cause ninety-five per cent of accidents–just missed my back tyre.
Fat drops of rain fell on my visor as the heavens poured. I opened up my throttle and increased my speed. I had to shift to lose that idiot. The rain came down faster. The rumble of thunder travelled over the River Forth as I climbed Arthur’s Seat.
Dark and stormy, I
Horrified, I stepped back, Patch’s irreverence knew no bounds. The body groaned as gases escaped, pressure widened the hole in the chest wall and I could see right inside. I knew that I would be having nightmares about this for weeks to come.
‘Stop lolly gagging over there and come and see this.’
Patch was staring at Lord Arbuthnot’s backside. I could see no way that this could get any worse. Frank Pearson was already green to the gills, and if there had been others present I would have been running a book on how much time he had left before he was sick. I shouldn’t have been so smug.
At first I couldn’t make out what I was looking at. It was faded with age. Patch swung his large magnifying glass in front, and we stared mystified.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘What does it look like?’ Patch sounded irritated by my puerile question.
‘It looks like a tattoo,’ Frank replied, unabashed.
‘Well, it’s not. It’s a burn.’
‘Like a cattle brand?’ I had found my voice again.
‘Precisely!’
The autopsy room fell silent. Far away in distant corridors, I could hear the rattle of trolleys. Porters shouted greetings to one another, normal life continued. In this room, it had stopped; nothing was as it should be. We stared in quiet communion at the mark, burned long ago into the rear end of Lord Arbuthnot.
‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ The words tripped softly out over my lips.
‘I have obviously seen burn marks on children made by cigarettes and heated objects,’ answered Patch, ‘but I have never observed first hand such a brand. Note these indentations–also old burn marks.’
Patch’s plum eyelid twitched, as he observed the oddity. His curiosity was aroused, but from past experience, I knew he would add nothing to his disclosures. We were lost to him now as he studied the grooves and indentations on the flaccid, bloodless, buttock.
I felt the vomit rise into the back of my throat, acidic and sour it burned its way up my gullet. Fire flushed through my system. Last time, I barely made it to the ladies room. The race was on, no time for niceties. I grabbed my helmet off the steel table by the mortuary room door. I had no time to say goodbye, or to hear Frank Pearson’s muffled guffaw.
The place was a maze. I ran directionless through the corridors, searching for a toilet. No luck, so I pushed down hard on a fire exit handle, praying it wasn’t alarmed, and escaped into the fresh air of the car park.
The autopsy room had been windowless; the storm clouds outside took me by surprise. My lungs gasped for cool clear air, but to no avail: the afternoon was warm and muggy. A summer storm was building. My t-shirt clung to my back; small streams of sweat ran down my neck, as I sprinted towards Awesome. The sun was hidden behind heavy clouds, and even Awesome gleamed dull in the flat light. The shine had been taken off everything.
Escape was all that I had in mind. I needed something more than I could get from my Harley. Heading for Arthur’s Seat, I was sure to find solace. Unfortunately, I didn’t find good sense and the black saloon car behind me with tinted windows was nothing but another bit of traffic to me.
The car was of the same mind, but the driver was obviously too taken with the sight of Holyrood Palace to pay attention to the road. His wheels–I assumed he was male as they cause ninety-five per cent of accidents–just missed my back tyre.
Fat drops of rain fell on my visor as the heavens poured. I opened up my throttle and increased my speed. I had to shift to lose that idiot. The rain came down faster. The rumble of thunder travelled over the River Forth as I climbed Arthur’s Seat.
Dark and stormy, I
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