shovels ringing against the tightly packed yellow soil.
The undertaker sighs and shrugs. “You gonna have to do it yourself.”
“No,” she says, her voice breaking. “I paid you.”
When the horn of the truck sounds he stands, shrugging again. “I’m sorry, Missy, I gotta go.”
Louise rises and grabs him by the arm. “Please, you can’t leave me alone like this.”
“The Imam gonna be here in one hour’s time. You gotta get the body ready, or he won’t bury your brother.”
The horn bleats again and the man is gone.
Louise sinks down beside Lyndall, wrapping her knees with her arms, tears tracing patterns in the dust on her face. How long she sits there she doesn’t know. At last she wipes her eyes, blinking away grit like shards of broken glass.
“Fuck you, Lynnie,” she says, shoving the corpse with her hand, feeling the solid, lifeless mass. “Fuck you for doing this to me.”
She turns and stares out, the bleached landscape blurred by her tears. The gravediggers, done with their task, shoulder their shovels like rifles and stroll toward the tumble of shacks.
Louise blows her nose, dries her tears and digs the computer printout from her backpack. She scans the page, reading that the eyes of the deceased must be closed.
“Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about that, Lynnie, do I?”
The jaw has to be bound shut with cloth and the body must be washed an odd number of times, at least once.
“Once is all you’re getting. You hear me?”
There are more instructions about the winding of the body in the sheet, but this is more than enough for her to absorb right now.
Louise battles to open the rusty spigot. It burps and splutters before brown water trickles from the hose onto the concrete. She unwraps a bar of Sunlight soap—the familiar blue-gray cake with the little sun stamped into it—and places it beside Lyndall’s body.
Reaching for the blanket, she steels herself as she exposes his face, sickened all over again by the horror of his empty eye sockets. There is no way she can clean this. She covers him. Maybe if she starts with the rest of his body, she’ll find the courage to do his mutilated face.
She parts the blanket at Lyndall’s midriff, revealing his torso.
What she sees get her screaming and crawling away from him, breath coming in gulps, eyes squeezed shut.
You’re imagining it, girl. You’re tripping out.
But when she opens her eyes the horror is fresh and real. Lyndall has been eviscerated—sliced open from neck to pubes, his internal organs plundered, his empty ribcage and the vertebra of his spine exposed.
She can’t stop a hot jet of puke from shooting from her mouth, hitting the concrete floor, splattering her Chuck Taylors.
Louise knows that she is looking at the ultimate in gang justice: a message her brother will take with him into whatever afterlife he is destined for. A Muslim must be buried with anything which is separated from the body—even hair, nails or teeth should be interred along with it. By robbing him of his organs they have left Lyndall incomplete.
She sneaks another look at the raw, gaping wound that splits his torso and shakes her head.
“I can’t do this, Lynnie,” she says, sobbing. “I just can’t do this.”
Then she hears footsteps on the gravel outside the lean-to. The man who will wash the body has come, thank God.
Louise stands, ready to see a bearded figure in a white robe, a skull-cap on his head.
But the man who enters in isn’t bearded, and his gaunt face is covered with a crude filigree of blue-black tattoos. He wears jeans and a T-shirt, his sinewy arms alive with prison ink. He stares at her, then down at Lyndall.
Louise backs away, trying to work up a scream, but her voice dies in her throat as she trips over her backpack and falls, banging her head against the sheet metal wall.
The man advances, his eyes fixed on hers.
Dead eyes.
He reaches down for her and every warning her mother gave her and every
The undertaker sighs and shrugs. “You gonna have to do it yourself.”
“No,” she says, her voice breaking. “I paid you.”
When the horn of the truck sounds he stands, shrugging again. “I’m sorry, Missy, I gotta go.”
Louise rises and grabs him by the arm. “Please, you can’t leave me alone like this.”
“The Imam gonna be here in one hour’s time. You gotta get the body ready, or he won’t bury your brother.”
The horn bleats again and the man is gone.
Louise sinks down beside Lyndall, wrapping her knees with her arms, tears tracing patterns in the dust on her face. How long she sits there she doesn’t know. At last she wipes her eyes, blinking away grit like shards of broken glass.
“Fuck you, Lynnie,” she says, shoving the corpse with her hand, feeling the solid, lifeless mass. “Fuck you for doing this to me.”
She turns and stares out, the bleached landscape blurred by her tears. The gravediggers, done with their task, shoulder their shovels like rifles and stroll toward the tumble of shacks.
Louise blows her nose, dries her tears and digs the computer printout from her backpack. She scans the page, reading that the eyes of the deceased must be closed.
“Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about that, Lynnie, do I?”
The jaw has to be bound shut with cloth and the body must be washed an odd number of times, at least once.
“Once is all you’re getting. You hear me?”
There are more instructions about the winding of the body in the sheet, but this is more than enough for her to absorb right now.
Louise battles to open the rusty spigot. It burps and splutters before brown water trickles from the hose onto the concrete. She unwraps a bar of Sunlight soap—the familiar blue-gray cake with the little sun stamped into it—and places it beside Lyndall’s body.
Reaching for the blanket, she steels herself as she exposes his face, sickened all over again by the horror of his empty eye sockets. There is no way she can clean this. She covers him. Maybe if she starts with the rest of his body, she’ll find the courage to do his mutilated face.
She parts the blanket at Lyndall’s midriff, revealing his torso.
What she sees get her screaming and crawling away from him, breath coming in gulps, eyes squeezed shut.
You’re imagining it, girl. You’re tripping out.
But when she opens her eyes the horror is fresh and real. Lyndall has been eviscerated—sliced open from neck to pubes, his internal organs plundered, his empty ribcage and the vertebra of his spine exposed.
She can’t stop a hot jet of puke from shooting from her mouth, hitting the concrete floor, splattering her Chuck Taylors.
Louise knows that she is looking at the ultimate in gang justice: a message her brother will take with him into whatever afterlife he is destined for. A Muslim must be buried with anything which is separated from the body—even hair, nails or teeth should be interred along with it. By robbing him of his organs they have left Lyndall incomplete.
She sneaks another look at the raw, gaping wound that splits his torso and shakes her head.
“I can’t do this, Lynnie,” she says, sobbing. “I just can’t do this.”
Then she hears footsteps on the gravel outside the lean-to. The man who will wash the body has come, thank God.
Louise stands, ready to see a bearded figure in a white robe, a skull-cap on his head.
But the man who enters in isn’t bearded, and his gaunt face is covered with a crude filigree of blue-black tattoos. He wears jeans and a T-shirt, his sinewy arms alive with prison ink. He stares at her, then down at Lyndall.
Louise backs away, trying to work up a scream, but her voice dies in her throat as she trips over her backpack and falls, banging her head against the sheet metal wall.
The man advances, his eyes fixed on hers.
Dead eyes.
He reaches down for her and every warning her mother gave her and every
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