The corpse was all ready for me when I entered
the mortuary’s preparation room. The coroner’s people had done a good job of
sewing her up again with small, neat, skilful stitches and there was very
little tissue damage apart from the examining surgeon’s cuts. The deceased was
a well-developed girl with breasts so large and firm that one could scarce
avoid calling them a rack. She had been a pretty brunette of eighteen or
nineteen (as I suppose she was intended to stay that way forever by whatever
individual had intruded into her life.) It wouldn’t require much cosmetic work
to make her seem smooth and inviolate again as the family would want. The
former family, I mean. Pardon my excessive alliteration – it’s a hazard of my
lonely lifestyle to play word games in my head.
Nestled inside a newly-made body cavity were
the organs that the medical examiner had removed to test for the poisons or pregnancy
or drugs that he probably never found, and then replaced according to the
demands of the Human Tissue Act.
They’d been squashed up together in a plastic bag; all higgledy-piggledy like
the giblets in an oven-ready turkey. Looking at her colour it was pretty
obvious that exsanguination had played a large part in her demise even if it
wasn’t the proximate cause. I poked at a switch and Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D
Minor played while I gowned myself and pulled on an apron and heavy surgical
gloves over my usual thin disposables. I ran skillful, professional fingers
over the trays to check the instruments of my craft: hooks and needles and
thread; superglue and cotton wadding; rubber tubes for the fluids. Gruesome stuff,
but it’s a living. I touched another button on the remote control and the
ceiling lights came on in bright white panels of sixteen bulbs each (and to
hell with your carbon footprint) across the whole ceiling. There were a couple of unlit squares above the
doors to the Chapel of Rest and to the back yard we use for deliveries and taking
away.
Speak of the Devil; at that very moment the
outer door was tugged open and there was the silhouette of a man outlined by
the security lights of the loading bay. “Will you please let me in?” he asked
in soft, self-satisfied tones. “I mean, I know this is nobody’s actual home so
I don’t really require your permission , but I firmly believe that
following the proprieties is important to
establish and maintain a cordial, courteous - and most importantly from
your point of view – a long-lasting professional relationship.” Blue metal
glittered in his hand in silent tribute to the police’s success at keeping
illegal guns off the streets.
“Why bring the gun if you can just walk in
here anyhow?” I asked, grasping the remote control as if my life depended on
it.
“There’s always the possibility that the
undertaker or a member of his staff actually lives on the premises, making it a
little home from home. The divorce rate today, the mortgage crisis, high rents;
it’s shocking how many folk choose to live above the shop. That can make breaking
and entering uncomfortable.”
I
thought of my nest under the rafters of the wing used to garage the
hearses. Be it ever so humble, etc. “Okay, I refuse to invite you in, given the
context. Are you responsible for this lovely child here?” I waved the remote at
my patient who lay there, well, patiently.
“A new Bride for a new Millennium,” he
replied; smugger than two very smug things in a Blackadder repeat. He gave a foxy, toothy smile; sharp but not yet
doing the thing with the scrunched-up nose and the eyes. I bet they love doing
that bit. ‘Bit’! See? I’m a punster genius.
“You’re a little late for the new Millennium, aren’t you? It’s been twelve years and, ah, counting?..” ‘Counting.’ Get it? Count? He’s a vampire and I said… Oh, please yourself.
“You’re a little late for the new Millennium, aren’t you? It’s been twelve years and, ah, counting?..” ‘Counting.’ Get it? Count? He’s a vampire and I said… Oh, please yourself.
“It’s been a busy decade for us; humans
are growing too knowledgeable. I blame electricity generation; with
all those well-lit streets at night it gives you too much security and far too
much time to read and write and to make films spreading the lore wider than
before.”
Oh, he was a rhymer this one: cute. As if OCD and a Henry Ford attitude to clothing colours weren’t camp enough. It went together with the too-smart suit and dress shirt and the so-fashionable-he-must-be-gay patent leather shoes.
He went on. “But we’re doing something about the electricity by making them afraid to generate enough of it. Our principal cat’s paw has such an appropriate name.”
Oh, he was a rhymer this one: cute. As if OCD and a Henry Ford attitude to clothing colours weren’t camp enough. It went together with the too-smart suit and dress shirt and the so-fashionable-he-must-be-gay patent leather shoes.
He went on. “But we’re doing something about the electricity by making them afraid to generate enough of it. Our principal cat’s paw has such an appropriate name.”
Yeah,
yeah; rhymes with ‘paw’. So that’s lights out for Mankind if we’re not careful.
Better be careful, then, my girl. “So, this one is going to rise from the
dead and join you on your Dark Whatever,
yeah? Does it happen often and if so why aren’t the authorities on to you lot
and closing you down?”
“They are - in some places - but they’re
prone to budget cuts like everyone else. And where does any
modern government do anything efficiently these days?” I thought
of the paperwork required to dispose of a single body these
days; a task that had been done simply and efficiently in England since
Tudor times until they devised this brave new world of managerialism, health
and safety, carbon sustainability and light heavyweight tickboxing. “Besides,”
he gloated on, “Most mortuary staff are, er, excuse me but what is your name
please; Miss? Mrs?...”
“Dinah. Dinah
the diener,” I replied proudly.
“’Diener’?” he asked; a puzzled frown
furrowing that perfect, foxy, hollow brow.
“‘Diener’; from the German word meaning
‘servant.’ It’s a generic term for those who handle and clean dead bodies. You
can Google it if you don’t believe me. And it’s ‘Ms’.” Really upsets the
old-fashioned types; that Ms. I like
to keep individuals with the power to rip my throat open just a little bit off balance,
okay?
He shook his head as if to clear his tiny
mind. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Most mortuary staff and coroner’s people can be
easily persuaded that they’re very poorly paid and so they go along with us.
Showing them Polaroids of their children or their wives
at the ante-natal clinic intimidates otherwise incorruptible
would-be slayers.”
‘Polaroids’?
Baby Boomers; don’t you just love ‘em? I swear they’re the most conservative
generation of them all. And don’t I love pointing that out? I’m Generation X through and through myself; punk and
proud. I nodded at the corpse whose long hair was now being ruffled by the
draught that Young Einstein was letting into the room.
“This one was sporty. Look at those thighs and belly; such muscle tone. Her tissues are in prime condition. I’m thinking she took at least two or three swims a week plus maybe a couple of trips to the gym? You must think of her as being practically free range. A looker, too: what a rack. You’ve chosen carefully. ”
“This one was sporty. Look at those thighs and belly; such muscle tone. Her tissues are in prime condition. I’m thinking she took at least two or three swims a week plus maybe a couple of trips to the gym? You must think of her as being practically free range. A looker, too: what a rack. You’ve chosen carefully. ”
“Organically produced. How
she bored me with all her wholefood chatter and vegetarianism. But when
choosing a companion to share the Night Hunt for centuries one selects for
beauty and physical strength. How else have we remained the top predator on
Earth for millennia?”
Not by
recruiting for intelligence; that’s for sure.
“But if you really are the planet’s top predators, why are there so few of you and why aren’t you already running the whole show? And have you ever wondered why so many of the new ones come back damaged: stumbling revenants that you have to destroy to avoid exposure? Can it be something to do with their innards being mangled during modern autopsies?” His perfect face showed no sign of understanding; none at all. “Okay then. You can come in,” I said, pressing a new button on the remote control. The darkened ceiling squares above the thresholds flashed ultraviolet for a few seconds and then I walked over to close the door.
“But if you really are the planet’s top predators, why are there so few of you and why aren’t you already running the whole show? And have you ever wondered why so many of the new ones come back damaged: stumbling revenants that you have to destroy to avoid exposure? Can it be something to do with their innards being mangled during modern autopsies?” His perfect face showed no sign of understanding; none at all. “Okay then. You can come in,” I said, pressing a new button on the remote control. The darkened ceiling squares above the thresholds flashed ultraviolet for a few seconds and then I walked over to close the door.
Any gourmet will tell you that - good though
free range meat can be - the nicest meat in the world is the strong, gamey flesh
of predators. It’s been flavoured over a
lifetime of hunting by the fear absorbed from its quarry's blood. It’s nicer
still if it’s well hung before eating. That works in a couple of ways, though
Mother always taught me that that sort of thing’s tacky. Which was pretty rich
coming from someone whose outraged and recently bereaved former in-laws
nicknamed The Spider. Predator meat
is best of all when lightly braised or flash cooked to seal in all the taste
and all the nutrients.
I looked down at hands that despite frequent manicures and a clutch of chunky Goth rings (though I’m thinking of going steampunk – I just love that brassy look!), and despite being habitually clad in gloves, I can never wholly disguise the evolutionary purpose to which Nature has adapted them. Now that’s a ghoulish thought indeed. No pun intended.
But here’s a pun for you if you like: Dinah the Diener is also a diner.
I looked down at hands that despite frequent manicures and a clutch of chunky Goth rings (though I’m thinking of going steampunk – I just love that brassy look!), and despite being habitually clad in gloves, I can never wholly disguise the evolutionary purpose to which Nature has adapted them. Now that’s a ghoulish thought indeed. No pun intended.
But here’s a pun for you if you like: Dinah the Diener is also a diner.
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