“I really–”
“Just this way, Mr Delford. If you want to go on through to the room I showed you earlier, we’ll be right there.” Hen smiles at him widely as she shoves Dusty into the changing room just off the main post-mortem room.
“This is a huge mistake–”
“Tris, hun”—Hen grabs a gown and roughly pulls it over Dusty’s clothes, spinning her around and tying it off at the back—“I know you’ve just got out of the hospital and are probably feeling a little”— she studies my face as Dusty blinks those full eyelashes at her—“not yourself, but I really need you to take one for the team here. Getting a mention in a scientific journal will go a long way to getting the funding we need for this place. I can’t go another winter with that boiler, Tris. The building was like the Arctic last Christmas, and don’t even get me started on the fridge for the staff room. So you’re going to go out there. You don’t even need to showcase a full post-mortem, just show him some of your techniques and you can be home by teatime.”
“But I–”
“Thanks, hun.” She pats her cheek fondly. “I knew I could count on you.”
She disappears back through the door as Dusty turns to stare at me.
“Well, you’re no bloody help, are you?” she hisses.
“What do you want me to do?” I raise my hands helplessly. “They can’t see me!”
“Fuck.” She lets her head drop back and sucks in a breath. “You owe me for this.” She finally meets my eyes as she reaches for a pair of blue latex gloves and yanks them from the dispenser roughly.
By the time she steps into the main room, she’s fully gloved and gowned. She’s also insisted on wearing a blue paper hairnet and a surgical mask.
“This isn’t the CDC, you know,” I say as I follow her into the room.
“I’m not touching that thing unless every inch of my body is covered,” she sniffs.
“It’s called a cadaver, not a thing, and it’s not your body,” I point out. “It’s mine.”
“It doesn’t mean I want to smell like a funeral director.”
“I don’t smell like a funeral director,” I say defensively.
“No,” she relents. “Admittedly, you smell lovely…” Her voice trails off as the table comes into view. “Okay, that’s really a dead body.”
“Look, Dusty,” I tell her. “If you really don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. Just tell them you don’t feel well. We can grab the book and go home.”
“No.” She takes a fortifying breath. “I’ve got this. Hen wants a new fridge for the staff room, and far be it from me to deny a woman fresh milk in her tea.” She nods. “I can do this.”
“You don’t need to touch any of the internal organs,” I say quietly, even though Hen and Mr Delford can’t hear me. “Just cut through the top layers of skin, and I’ll talk you through the stitching. Just imagine it’s one of your stage costumes.”
“A costume? Yeah… if I was Ed Gein.” She grimaces. “Okay.” She straightens her spine. “No digging for buried treasure, just some fancy cross-stitch, no problem.”
She steps up to the table and looks down at the naked man on the table with his pale waxy skin.
“Here you go.” Hen hands Dusty a scalpel.
“The head bone’s connected to the neck bone… the neck bone’s connected to the…” Dusty hums under her breath.
“Tris, what are you doing?” Hen whispers.
“Just distracting myself.” She swallows as Hen moves to stand next to Mr Delford on the other side of the table.
Dusty leans over the body, her hand trembling as she holds the scalpel.
“I think I’m going to faint,” she mutters.
“Just breathe through your mouth.” I move to stand directly behind her. “I’ll talk you through it.”
“I-I…” Suddenly, her eyes roll back in her head, and she falls backwards, stiff as a board, the scalpel clattering to the floor. All I see is the back of her as she topples toward me and then blackness.
