The Dead I Know Read Online Free PDF Page B

mumbled to himself.
    The hinges and holes for the handles were all pre-drilled. It took me ten minutes to put it together.
    John Barton dumped an armload of silky white fabric into the box. ‘Lining is attached with the staple gun.’
    He murmured instructions and stapled the lining in place.
    ‘Mattress,’ he said.
    I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. The coffin had a luxurious spring bed that we lowered into place.
    Finished, it reeked of new paint and plastic but I doubted Mrs Carmel Gray would mind. With John Barton cradling her head and me lifting her sensibly shoed feet, we lowered her in. The mattress springs creaked as they took her weight. Mrs Carmel Gray’s final bed felt more comfortable than the floor I’d woken on that morning. My dream from the dawn raced in and made me hold my breath. I blinked and shook the image of the orangetoenail from my thoughts, replaced it with the squareheeled shoes on the body in front of me. Utilitarian and, yes, dignified old ladies’ shoes.
    We retired to the house for morning tea around eleven, and on the way past the chapel I caught a glimpse of a closed coffin and an insight into how hard John Barton worked while my eyes were elsewhere. I guessed this was the old man from the coolroom. John Barton had collected and prepared, lifted and clothed, made up and presented the body and coffin by himself. I felt superfluous and in awe, and then my place in this world became clear – he could do all those things by himself, sure, but my back and my hands could share the load.
    Mrs Barton presented me with a package. Apparently, Tommy So had had a suit on the rack that needed very little alteration to fit me.
    John Barton was suspicious. ‘Try it on, Aaron. Seeing is believing.’
    I discreetly kicked the wet towels deeper into Skye’s bathroom so I could close the door. The fabric was silken and light – boxer shorts without the colour and shine. The loops on the pants were too narrow for my belt but the rest of the suit fitted well. In the mirror, my transformation was almost complete.
    John Barton produced a narrow black leather belt from his wardrobe but had to punch a new hole. Like scientists, , he and his wife examined their creation. I slipped my hands into my pockets.
    ‘Ah!’ John Barton growled, waggling a finger. ‘Your hands only enter your pockets to fetch something.’
    He gestured that I should copy him – hands clasped behind his back, hands hanging by his sides, hands clasped in front.
    ‘Very good. If I see you with your hands in your pockets it’ll be your turn for a ride in the hearse. In the back!’
    I chuckled. It caught me by surprise.
    John Barton and his wife stood stock-still, as if they were equally surprised.
    I covered my mouth.
    ‘That’s quite enough of that, too,’ John Barton said. ‘There’ll be no laughing in here.’
    His finger was waggling again but something akin to a smile had messed with his funeral director’s expression.
    We drank tea and I wasn’t required to open my mouth except to drink or shovel food in.
    Eventually, John Barton looked at his watch and stood. ‘Will you give us a hand with Mr Dean’s flowers, please, my dear. People will be arriving in about an hour.’
    My rib cage seemed to tighten around my heart. I should have known there would be people. I should have guessed that the suit was not just for my own amusement.
    The garage floor between the vehicles was a brawl of colour. Giant bunches of flowers – eleven in all – shamelessly lit up the grey concrete. Mrs Barton took one arrangement, then stood beside the coffin placing the others that John Barton and I carried in. The smell of real blooms, all sappy and green, overcame the ubiquitous scent of fake flowers.
    John Barton tugged on my sleeve and beckoned me into the hall.
    ‘Same rules,’ he said. ‘Be silent and do as you’re told.’
    I nodded.
    He dusted a white petal from my shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine. Remember to keep