hatched, matched and dispatched theme to it!” The diminutive mortuary attendant chuckled.
Gwynfor Evans proceeded to explain, in laborious and sometimes uncomfortable detail, how important his ‘unusual’ job was. Steven, keen to sustain the necro-enthusiast’s trust, faithfully took down shorthand notes, occasionally asking for the spellings of technical terms. Jargon aside, as far as Steven could tell, Gwynfor’s vocation revolved around booking bodies in and booking them out again, after ensuring he had the necessary signatures on the release papers, of course. In between, his function was to ensure that the specialist equipment – a glorified refrigerator – was properly maintained, that nothing untoward happened to the bodies while they were in his care. An occasional highlight, usually when the supervisor was off duty, involved assisting relatives of the deceased and their police escorts in formal identifications. It was, Steven concluded, an altogether macabre and exceptionally unrewarding profession.
“I expect you’ll want to see a body, while you’re here.” Gwynfor finally offered.
“Well…” Steven did not want to appear overly keen. “Not really…but I suppose I’ll have to if I’m to get a true feel…” he squirmed inside, “…for the amazing job you do.”
“Of course. I believe you journalists refer to it as…colour.” Steven nodded. “Well, we had an overdose victim in first thing this morning. Only 28 she was, body absolutely riddled with needle puncture marks. Her left foot has early traces of gangrene too, by the look of it. Why the hell they do these things to themselves…” But Steven had been preparing for this scenario.
“What are the worst things you see in your job? What about the really gruesome cases? Perhaps a grisly murder…or a car crash victim? Perhaps I should see something like that to get a real…flavour…of how difficult your job is.” He was not aware of any murders within the last few days and he could only hope there had been no fresh fatalities on the roads this morning.
“Well…” Gwynfor scratched the back of his scalp, where the last of his greying hair clung with determination. “…motorbike victims are the worst usually, if we’re talking about physical damage, especially the despatch riders because they still use petrol bikes…higher speeds. Personally I find the who more upsetting than the how.” Gwynfor gestured to the giant cooled filing cabinet. “I hate to see little children brought in here…the years that should have been ahead of them…and teenagers. An awful waste.”
“Of course.” Steven agreed, hopes rising.
“We did have four RTA victims in last night. My supervisor booked them in.” It was too good to be true.
“What happened to them?” Gwynfor reached the wall of corpses.
“I only know what I heard on the radio news this morning. A stolen car, old Jaguar I think they said, came hurtling down the slip road onto Western Avenue, straight into the front of a bus. Amazing there were only four. Bus driver and three from the car. Waste-dwellers they were.”
“Uh-huh.” Steven’s legs were tingling with anticipation. Gwynfor was in for a surprise when he opened the relevant cabinets. “Sounds awful. Really messy was it?”
“I haven’t seen these ones yet. I’d imagine so. I think they were put in 191 to 194. Here we are. Take a deep breath now!” The first container, which held the body of 22-year-old waste-dweller Sally Redmountain according to its LCD display, slid open with a hiss and an icy draft. Steven felt instantly numb as the colour drained from his face, his stomach
Gwynfor Evans proceeded to explain, in laborious and sometimes uncomfortable detail, how important his ‘unusual’ job was. Steven, keen to sustain the necro-enthusiast’s trust, faithfully took down shorthand notes, occasionally asking for the spellings of technical terms. Jargon aside, as far as Steven could tell, Gwynfor’s vocation revolved around booking bodies in and booking them out again, after ensuring he had the necessary signatures on the release papers, of course. In between, his function was to ensure that the specialist equipment – a glorified refrigerator – was properly maintained, that nothing untoward happened to the bodies while they were in his care. An occasional highlight, usually when the supervisor was off duty, involved assisting relatives of the deceased and their police escorts in formal identifications. It was, Steven concluded, an altogether macabre and exceptionally unrewarding profession.
“I expect you’ll want to see a body, while you’re here.” Gwynfor finally offered.
“Well…” Steven did not want to appear overly keen. “Not really…but I suppose I’ll have to if I’m to get a true feel…” he squirmed inside, “…for the amazing job you do.”
“Of course. I believe you journalists refer to it as…colour.” Steven nodded. “Well, we had an overdose victim in first thing this morning. Only 28 she was, body absolutely riddled with needle puncture marks. Her left foot has early traces of gangrene too, by the look of it. Why the hell they do these things to themselves…” But Steven had been preparing for this scenario.
“What are the worst things you see in your job? What about the really gruesome cases? Perhaps a grisly murder…or a car crash victim? Perhaps I should see something like that to get a real…flavour…of how difficult your job is.” He was not aware of any murders within the last few days and he could only hope there had been no fresh fatalities on the roads this morning.
“Well…” Gwynfor scratched the back of his scalp, where the last of his greying hair clung with determination. “…motorbike victims are the worst usually, if we’re talking about physical damage, especially the despatch riders because they still use petrol bikes…higher speeds. Personally I find the who more upsetting than the how.” Gwynfor gestured to the giant cooled filing cabinet. “I hate to see little children brought in here…the years that should have been ahead of them…and teenagers. An awful waste.”
“Of course.” Steven agreed, hopes rising.
“We did have four RTA victims in last night. My supervisor booked them in.” It was too good to be true.
“What happened to them?” Gwynfor reached the wall of corpses.
“I only know what I heard on the radio news this morning. A stolen car, old Jaguar I think they said, came hurtling down the slip road onto Western Avenue, straight into the front of a bus. Amazing there were only four. Bus driver and three from the car. Waste-dwellers they were.”
“Uh-huh.” Steven’s legs were tingling with anticipation. Gwynfor was in for a surprise when he opened the relevant cabinets. “Sounds awful. Really messy was it?”
“I haven’t seen these ones yet. I’d imagine so. I think they were put in 191 to 194. Here we are. Take a deep breath now!” The first container, which held the body of 22-year-old waste-dweller Sally Redmountain according to its LCD display, slid open with a hiss and an icy draft. Steven felt instantly numb as the colour drained from his face, his stomach
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