Handle With Care

After helping you slide the first body onto the shiny steel surface, I watched you remove the plastic sheet. I thought I might be sick but you merely frowned. I was being unprofessional. You ignored me as you set about your task. Yanking on your gloves you put your hand on the girl’s cheek. Swinging round, you asked me how long I’d left her laying there. I said half an hour and showed him my watch in reproof. Your glare matched your silence. I’d followed procedure. I always did, no matter what. All my life, I’d followed routines and rituals.

Neither of us smiled.

Snapping on the cassette recorder, you started pushing and prodding the cadaver. Never had I seen you behave so callously with a client. At one stage, her breast almost separated from her chest. Laughing, you merely shoved the loose flesh back as if it were the contents of your ham sandwich.

At one point, you run your hand between her legs and said she must have been about twenty-five or six. Twenty-two, I said, correcting you. A strange look spread across your grey features as you slowly removed your hand. You said something about her, but I couldn’t catch your meaning and let your coarseness pass. At least you were in a better mood.

Moments later you began extracting her body parts to weigh them. You were miffed because she wasn’t an organ donor. What a waste of a good pair of kidneys, you said, but you weren’t looking at her kidneys. You dropped them onto the scales. After finishing with the brain, I helped you put her together again. She’d have to look good for her funeral. The same old tired joke and God how I wished, you would find a new one.

A little while after we’d finished you slapped me on the shoulder. Damn good job you said. What a waste, you added, looking at her; someone’s missed a good screw.

I pushed her body into the fridge and slammed the door shut. You fingered your lips and made it clear you were ready for a bit of a snack. Tossing your gown aside, you told me to get another stiff ready. You wouldn’t be long.

Several days passed before we were busy again. I’d been away on leave and when I came back, you and I were sharing the night shift. Two o’clock had been and gone and everyone else had left for the night. I said you should have some coffee before you started home. You didn’t complain. Instead, you pulled a flask of brandy from your desk and poured a liberal dose into our mugs. I didn’t protest. I wanted to savour the moment.

After ten minutes of inane conversation, you fell asleep. As gently as possible, I laid your body out on the table. After taping your mouth, I strapped your body down tight. From under a bench, I recovered my briefcase and set the contents out on your desk. Removing 50cc of yellow liquid from a glass ampoule, I injected the contents into the a vein in between your fingers. Then I nicked the wound with a knife so no one would ever discover the tell-tale pin prick.

Turning on the cassette recorder, I began noting my observations. You would have been proud of my meticulous attention to detail. I had watched you very closely over the years and no one could doubt your skills as a teacher. Even if I was a lowly paid technician, you still took supreme pleasure in displaying your brilliance.