Saturday, 21 August 2010

Of Death and the Dead Men, 3.

"You're not supposed to be down here," said the coroner, zipping up his fly rather publicly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. It wasn't the most hygienic thing to do, the man decided, when he was it occur. But he had been caught, fair and square, and this man, this greasy little sperm of a man, was not one he wanted to agitate.

"I'm looking for Father Clark?" he said, and wondered why he posed it as a question. He was looking for Father Clark. No need for a heightened intonation, no need for verbal question marks. "He was brought out a few minutes ago?"

The coroner's eyebrow cocked high, and his head lolled to his shoulder lazily. "Whadayamean brought out? And minutes? He was brought in over an hour ago. Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of the family, of the church, and when I heard he had been shot-- murdered--! I had to come see the body, had to mourn the passing of a dear friend." The words were horrifically artificial. Terribly emotive but without any glimmer of content behind them. Words to create resonance. "Is he here?"

"No. Not for you to see, not now, not right now, so you can fuck right off, I'm afraid. You ain't allowed down here without a pass, and I don't see nothing of the sort on you. And who do you think you are, traipsing down here all dressed in white? What are you, some kind of pimp? Get out, get out right now before I call security."

The man-- he was not a man but he was in the shape of one-- exhaled, and clicked his heels as he turned away from the main autopsy room. "You, sir, will die in three years, from a stroke. You will be sat on the toilet, get up, feel your face drop and your arm sting and you will gargle and gag and fall head first into your un-flushed refuse. It will take a few minutes for you to pass on. You'll go mad first, of course, as your brain starves for oxygen, and the ordeal will feel as if it were an eternity. And then you will go to purgatory, because I do not like the way you have spoken to me, and will put a word in with St. Peter."

"Alright, fella, fuck the fuck off right now, why don't cha?" The coroner pushed the man up the stairwell leading up to the exit, and shook his head. "Fucking nut." He then headed back down to his lab, and to where the body of Father Clark was waiting for him. The corridor ricocheted noise back out toward him, and when the doors to the autopsy room swung open and smashed close, the noise suddenly cut out. On the table was a smouldering corpse, mostly charred skin and blackened exposed bone, and the lights had all started to fizzle and flicker. "What the fuck?" whispered the coroner, before something hit him hard on the crown of his skull and he blacked out. The last thoughts that crossed his mind were 'what did he mean, 'three years'?' and then darkness and silence, as the world kept turning.

No comments:

Post a Comment