home to a myriad of maggots, worms and beetles.
“How are you doing, Hannah?” She used her torch to inspect the state of decomposition. Most of the skeleton was visible now, with the skin stretched like a drumhead over the bones, marked like a colander thanks to the holes maggots had made as they burrowed in and out. “Well look at you.” Eden picked up her camera and took several photographs of the girl’s left shoulder. Just as David had predicted, the bone had fallen out of the socket, probably as a result of early-onset osteoporosis brought on by childhood trauma. Had she lived, Hannah would have been in agony until she’d had the shoulder surgically strengthened.
The mass of maggots were concentrated in her torso, cleaning the last of the internal organs and muscle in the area. Hannah had been here three months, the cold weather accounting for the slow rate of decomposition, and would remain until the spring. When she was eventually reduced to bone, Eden intended to gather her up and cryomate her remains, re-burying her in a corner of the cemetery she’d already reserved for David and herself.
Satisfied with the numbers of pictures she’d taken, she closed up Hannah’s grave and opened John’s. Like Hannah, John had been an unclaimed body who’d died of a drug overdose in one of the flats in Chervil Court, an area of maisonettes to the north-east of Laverstone. Unlike Hannah, he’d been exposed to a full autopsy before his arrival, which had left him, like Francis Dibben this morning, without the top of his head.
Eden shooed away the flies. Fragments of bone gleamed in the light of the torch. The skin had sloughed away from John’s face leaving his teeth exposed against darkly festering gums, the bottom jaw open to reveal the bulbous black mass of his tongue balled into his throat. The stitches on his autopsy wound had split from the combination of decomposition gasses and insect activity, leading to a spill of maggots down his bronzed abdomen.
She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and climbed inside the shallow grave, careful to avoid treading on any body parts. Lifting the corpse’s arm, she shone the torch beneath to check the paper he’d been laid upon. The whole sheet was damp and liable to tear the moment she moved it but the stains had litmussed across the weave faster than ink on tissue. Fat had melted from the flesh and made whole areas of the paper semitransparent and other fluids had left a thick blackish paste over the surface. It was, she thought, reminiscent of Marmite.
She began photographing the body from a height of six inches. She’d print them all out and assemble them in a process derived from the joiners of David Hockney in the eighties, though she doubted he’d ever used a similar subject. She’d never exhibit the photographs since the act would break the bond of trust a mortician had with the people in her care but it would serve as a good basis for a future painting. She smiled as she photographed the skull. “You don’t mind, do you, John?”
The corpse didn’t answer. Indeed, it seemed rather to relish the prospect.
Back in the house, she put away her tools and stripped off her clothes, grateful there was no one but David and the dead in the whole building. In the robing room was an industrial washing machine she used when the corpse had to wear the clothes it died in. It came in useful when she’d been working, too. There was a shower room as well, a necessity when she came in from a grave site but it was for the use of all staff and therefore industrial and impersonal. She’d rather use the one upstairs, given the choice.
She headed up and was enveloped by the scent of hot cheese and bacon. She hugged David from behind as he stirred a pot of white sauce. “That smells delicious.”
“Which is more than I can say for you.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell of oil paint and corruption.” He turned round. “Though you look significantly better than
“How are you doing, Hannah?” She used her torch to inspect the state of decomposition. Most of the skeleton was visible now, with the skin stretched like a drumhead over the bones, marked like a colander thanks to the holes maggots had made as they burrowed in and out. “Well look at you.” Eden picked up her camera and took several photographs of the girl’s left shoulder. Just as David had predicted, the bone had fallen out of the socket, probably as a result of early-onset osteoporosis brought on by childhood trauma. Had she lived, Hannah would have been in agony until she’d had the shoulder surgically strengthened.
The mass of maggots were concentrated in her torso, cleaning the last of the internal organs and muscle in the area. Hannah had been here three months, the cold weather accounting for the slow rate of decomposition, and would remain until the spring. When she was eventually reduced to bone, Eden intended to gather her up and cryomate her remains, re-burying her in a corner of the cemetery she’d already reserved for David and herself.
Satisfied with the numbers of pictures she’d taken, she closed up Hannah’s grave and opened John’s. Like Hannah, John had been an unclaimed body who’d died of a drug overdose in one of the flats in Chervil Court, an area of maisonettes to the north-east of Laverstone. Unlike Hannah, he’d been exposed to a full autopsy before his arrival, which had left him, like Francis Dibben this morning, without the top of his head.
Eden shooed away the flies. Fragments of bone gleamed in the light of the torch. The skin had sloughed away from John’s face leaving his teeth exposed against darkly festering gums, the bottom jaw open to reveal the bulbous black mass of his tongue balled into his throat. The stitches on his autopsy wound had split from the combination of decomposition gasses and insect activity, leading to a spill of maggots down his bronzed abdomen.
She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and climbed inside the shallow grave, careful to avoid treading on any body parts. Lifting the corpse’s arm, she shone the torch beneath to check the paper he’d been laid upon. The whole sheet was damp and liable to tear the moment she moved it but the stains had litmussed across the weave faster than ink on tissue. Fat had melted from the flesh and made whole areas of the paper semitransparent and other fluids had left a thick blackish paste over the surface. It was, she thought, reminiscent of Marmite.
She began photographing the body from a height of six inches. She’d print them all out and assemble them in a process derived from the joiners of David Hockney in the eighties, though she doubted he’d ever used a similar subject. She’d never exhibit the photographs since the act would break the bond of trust a mortician had with the people in her care but it would serve as a good basis for a future painting. She smiled as she photographed the skull. “You don’t mind, do you, John?”
The corpse didn’t answer. Indeed, it seemed rather to relish the prospect.
Back in the house, she put away her tools and stripped off her clothes, grateful there was no one but David and the dead in the whole building. In the robing room was an industrial washing machine she used when the corpse had to wear the clothes it died in. It came in useful when she’d been working, too. There was a shower room as well, a necessity when she came in from a grave site but it was for the use of all staff and therefore industrial and impersonal. She’d rather use the one upstairs, given the choice.
She headed up and was enveloped by the scent of hot cheese and bacon. She hugged David from behind as he stirred a pot of white sauce. “That smells delicious.”
“Which is more than I can say for you.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell of oil paint and corruption.” He turned round. “Though you look significantly better than
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