The Dead I Know Read Online Free PDF

intimacy about the process that caught me off guard. Mr Neville Cooper’s genitals were concealed beneath the rolls of his stomach and thighs. His nakednesswas incidental, like that of a pensioner dressing outside his shower stall at the caravan park. It was natural to look without seeing, and dressing him felt like an act of kindness – a helping hand for a fellow who couldn’t help himself. Had Mr Neville Cooper been alive, the closeness would have been impossible. Dead, Mr Neville Cooper was a safe friend.
    His suit was spotless, perhaps new. John Barton coached me through the lifting and yoga of loosening and dressing the dead, how to save your own back and balance while tucking and rolling. His movements seemed rough to begin with but I later realized they were merely practical. He spoke as a tailor might, including the dead man in his mumblings.
    ‘Now your left arm, Mr Cooper. Nice big stretch. Good. A fine shirt they’ve chosen. Hand me the jacket and tie, Aaron.’
    We dressed Mr Neville Cooper in his jacket but John Barton left the top button of the shirt open and slipped the tie over his own head. He fussed with the sleeves and seams and I stood back to appreciate the transformation. With the dignity conferred by the suit it was possible to overlook Mr Neville Cooper’s wan features and imagine he was asleep.
    John Barton drew the gurney carrying Mrs Carmel Gray alongside so their heads were side by side.
    They were sunbaking together in their fineries. It’s possible I smiled at that thought.
    A hospital tray carrying a single pump pack of vitamin E skin cream was rolled to a working distance and I was ordered to stand beside Mr Neville Cooper’s resplendent remains.
    ‘Do exactly as I do. Watch closely.’
    He took a squirt of cream and lathered it in his palms. He rubbed it on the back of Mrs Carmel Gray’s hand. I did the same for Mr Neville Cooper. Beauty therapy for the dead.
    ‘Try not to get it on the clothes. Take your time. Hands, face, neck, hairline. Any exposed skin.’
    John Barton nodded his satisfaction at my work. He buttoned the rest of Mr Neville Cooper’s shirt and knotted the tie around his own neck – as he’d done for me. He slid it in place and folded the collar expertly, then smoothed the dead man’s hair as he might his own.
    He handed me a photo of Mr Neville Cooper before his demise.
    ‘What do you think?’
    I stared at the image. It had been taken at a wedding. It was hard to accept the fact that the two-dimensional picture in my hand now had more signs of life than the man before me. He looked younger in death.
    ‘Our job is to create a memory picture for those left behind,’ John Barton said. ‘Some places they pump the dead full of embalming fluid and paint their faces with make-up. To my eye that looks unnatural. We don’t want to bring them back to life; we only want to give them dignity. I spend a lot of time getting the hair right.’
    I hadn’t noticed. It was picture perfect and wouldn’t have happened by accident. I wondered how much vitamin E cream he’d use on a car accident victim or those with their heads blown off by shotgun blasts. I wondered, but I didn’t ask.
    ‘Mrs Gray will be delivered in a Crenmore coffin. An Eternity model. Come,’ he said, and led me to the storeroom.
    ‘We keep about twenty caskets in stock and can get them here overnight when it’s a special order. The names are on the packing labels.’
    We carried the Crenmore Eternity into the coolroom and positioned it on a lowered gurney. The plastic covering was dispatched with scissors so sharp they needed no cutting action. For transport, the upturned lid had been screwed to the base.
    ‘Use this,’ John Barton said, handing me a battery drill. ‘Take care not to scratch the finish. The lid is in two parts. You’ll find hinges, handles and screws to fit them inside. Bit of tab-A-goes-into-slot-B. Think you can handle that?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Need I have asked?’ he