Free Resurrectionists by Kim Wilkins

couldn’t guarantee we wouldn’t accidentally disinter somebody’s great-greatgrandmother. It’s a real shame. The cemetery has one of the longest continuous histories in Europe. It’s never been built over or moved or reclaimed. I bet there are burials over a thousand years old there. Could be some amazing stuff in the ground.”
    “That thought actually grosses me out a little.”
    “It’s purely academic. Let’s hop on this bus. Your bag is getting heavy.”
    “I said I’d carry it.”
    “It’s fine. We’re not far from home now.”
    Home was a single room in a boarding house, on a street of other boarding houses and bed-and-breakfast hotels. Cathy’s room was at the very top of a steep flight of stairs, beyond a communal lounge, a communal bathroom and a communal kitchen. Maisie couldn’t bear to think about having to share a bathroom.
    “Here we are,” Cathy said, unlocking her bedroom door and letting them in. She hung her duffel coat and hat on a hook on the back of the door, and Maisie did the same with her overcoat. Cathy’s hair was straight, parted directly down the middle and so long that it was becoming wispy on the ends. Maisie had always wanted to pin Cathy down and style cut her hair.
    “At least it’s warm in here,” Maisie said.
    “Yeah, it’s pretty cosy. Some of the rooms on the west wing are like iceboxes.”
    Maisie looked around. The room was small. A bookshelf and desk were crammed in under the single window, a tiny basin hid behind the wardrobe. Cathy’s walls were decorated with pictures: dolphins, Native Americans, mandalas, a poster listing the main character traits of Virgo, a “Sacred Sites 2000”
    calendar. A hand-woven dream catcher, decorated with beads and feathers, hung from one end of the curtain rod, a large crystal from the other. Cathy had already pulled apart her bed: one mattress was on the floor made up for Maisie, and the other mattress was still on the frame.
    “So,” Cathy said, settling cross-legged on what remained of her bed, “talk to me. About anything. I just want to hear somebody talk to me. And use my name as much as possible.”
    “Well, Cathy,” Maisie said, giggling, “I’ve been here five days, Cathy, and I’m stuck up on a windy cliff-top, Cathy, and I miss my boyfriend, Cathy.”
    Cathy laughed. “Yes, that’s it. Halleluiah, somebody knows my name. They call me Catherine in class because that’s the name I’m enrolled under. I never know who they’re talking to. You know, I always wanted to ask if Maisie was short for anything.”
    Maisie shook her head. “It’s my grandmother’s name. That is, my paternal grandmother. I didn’t even know my other grandmother’s name until Tuesday night.”
    “Why not? Didn’t you come here to sort out her things?”
    “Mum never spoke of her. It was taboo to mention her in our house.”
    Cathy raised her eyebrows and flicked a long strand of hair off her shoulders. “Really? Wow, we all thought the Fieldings were the perfect family.”
    “You have no idea what goes on in that house.”
    “Like what?”
    Cathy’s interest was a little too eager. Maisie waved her hand dismissively. “Oh it’s not that bad. Not like Flowers in the Attic or anything. It’s just that my parents are kind of tense people. Adrian’s always saying we have to move out because the stress is bad for his voice.”
    “So how come you haven’t moved out yet?”
    “The stress of buying a house is worse. But who knows? Next year we might do it. Adrian’s just been signed to Churchwheel’s.”
    Cathy clapped her hands together in delight. “Well done, Adrian. You know, Sarah and I always thought he was just gorgeous.”
    “He is gorgeous,” Maisie said.
    “And so sweet-tempered.”
    “Yeah, that too.” She was getting annoyed now. Perhaps it was the “sweet-tempered” thing. People always said it about Adrian, and she always took it as an implicit suggestion that she was bad-tempered or