Free The Dead I Know by Scot Gardner Page B

Rowie.’
    He moved to the urinal and farted as he relieved himself. ‘Mate, you were out of it. My mum thought you were hot. You’ll have to come over this afternoon and stretch out, if you know what I mean. Hey? Fancy a bit of the old Candy on a stick?’
    I couldn’t move, but I didn’t have to.
    Westy shook, tucked and wiped his hand on his jeans before slapping my back again and flashing a stained grin at me in the mirror. ‘My place is your place, Rowie, okay? Any time.’
    He grabbed at his crotch with both hands, adjusted his wares and lurched towards the door. ‘Any time!’
    It took a good few minutes for my heart to find its groove again. My breathing was sharp, like that of a wild animal having narrowly escaped a brutal death. I finished my shave in a kind of wide-eyed funk.
    The shower drummed on my neck and I rocked beneath its warmth. Had I really spent part of the night in the company of Westy and his mother? Perhaps the tie had failed? Maybe I’d undone it in my sleep? He had no obvious desire to hurt me and that had a jot of affirmation about it.He imagined I was stoned or drunk or both. Those states were a daily ambition for the crew in van number 57 , so that somehow made me one of them. Unconscious, I’d been at their level. The thought of stretching out with his mother almost made me dry heave into the steam. Whatever really happened, the loss of that particular memory would never be mourned.
    The white van quietly burbled in front of the open garage, but nobody answered when I called inside. With my brain still fuzzy, I stood there on the gutter not knowing what to do.
    John Barton appeared from the office with his mobile phone to his ear and a grimness about his mien I’d never seen. What upsets you if death is your job? He nodded a greeting and ushered me into the van without a word. He juggled the phone and snapped his seatbelt home. With the phone shouldered against his ear, he took off. The tires squeaked and I gripped my seat as we launched into the traffic. He hustled from lane to lane and out onto the highway, the only clues to the cause of his desperation coming from broken bites of phone conversation.
    ‘Of course. Yes. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re dealing with an impact of this nature. Thank you, Sergeant. Rest assured we won’t be leaving until our job is complete. My pleasure. Goodbye.’
    His phone hit the dash with a crack.
    ‘This may be one of the few vehicles on the planet where there are actually gloves in the glove box,’ he said. ‘I’m going to need a pair and so are you.’
    Surgical gloves. He thanked me, snapped them on and then apologized.
    ‘Start again. Good morning, Aaron. It is good to see you.’
    I nodded and squeezed a quarter-smile.
    John Barton looked at me strangely. There was an expectant moment; then he said, ‘And you reply, “Good morning, John, good to see you too”.’
    ‘Good morning, John,’ I echoed. ‘Good to see you too.’
    Uneasy chuckles on both sides of the van.
    ‘You are allowed to stay in the van for this pick-up,’ John sighed. ‘Motor vehicle collisions are the stuff of nightmares for the emergency services and the funeral directors. Chances are we’ll be, quite literally, picking up the pieces.’
    ‘I’ll be okay,’ I said, and I knew I would be. I could finally see the line drawn in my head. The animal side of death – the gore and the smell and decay – could make me feel sick but not really keep me from doing what was required. The parts of my new job that filled me with abject and irrational fear, that twisted me in all kinds of knots, were the raw emotions of those left alive. It was the living who were the great unknown.
    A galaxy of red and blue lights. An ambulance, a fire tanker and several police cars. A truck on the gravel with a mangled metal appendage on its bumper that was more modern art than motorcycle. John opened his window.
    ‘Morning, Mr Barton,’ the policeman