Down Among the Dead Men: A Year in the Life of a Mortuary Technician

by Michelle Williams

  Well, my eyes filled with tears but I managed to sniff them back, although only just. She had been a very pretty girl, with long, pale brown hair that her mum had arranged into bunches, a chubby face and blue eyes that were now clouded. She wore pink dungarees over a white blouse. I knew at once that she was loved and cherished, probably spoilt deservedly by all around her.

  There was surprisingly little trauma to see. The right side of her face was badly grazed on the cheekbone and around the eyes, and blood trickled from the side of her mouth; also, it was obvious that her right arm was badly broken from the way that it bent so sickeningly, and that her chest was crushed.

  Graham, the seasoned old pro who had seen everything and done most of them, and who could heave twenty-stone bodies off and onto the table without help, undressed Lizzie with surprising gentleness. He treated her with dignity and respect, even folding the clothes as he took them off in case Mum and Dad wanted to keep them. He said nothing while he did this and kept his head down, so that it was only when he had finished and I glimpsed his face that I saw that he, too, had tears in his eyes.

  By this time, Ed Burberry had arrived and changed. As a matter of routine he checked the ID, and then carefully charted all the external injuries – the facial grazes, the broken arm, the crushed chest. Having done this, he told Graham to begin the evisceration while he went back to the alcove where the pathologists kept the paperwork and dictated their reports. While he mumbled into the microphone, Graham started; for once the radio was turned off and there was no banter at all.

  There was no difference in what Graham had to do with Lizzie when compared with what he did with an adult, except that the scale was different; the liver was a miniature, the kidneys were tiny, the intestines as if seen in a telescope viewed the wrong way round. When he lifted the pluck out, he did so effortlessly and, when he put this in a stainless steel bowl that I carried over to the dissection bench, it was almost as if it were empty. I don’t think that Graham’s face altered at all while he did all this; it remained set, as if carved out of stone.

  Ed Burberry was normally a happy participant in the gossip and banter, giving as good as he got, but today he was similarly subdued as he went through his routine. I helped him by weighing the organs and was able to see how it wasn’t just in size that Lizzie’s organs differed from an adult’s; the aorta – the main artery – was pink, not yellow and cracked, the heart was compact and stiff, not soft and flabby, and the lungs were pale pink, without any sooty dirt. Even I could see the damage that had been done to Lizzie. The chest had been filled with blood because the aorta had ruptured, while the ribs were all broken and the lungs lacerated.

  After twenty minutes, he was finished. He thanked us both and left without another word to go back to the alcove to dictate his report. While he did this, Graham reconstructed Lizzie and I cleaned up, once more in silence. In another thirty minutes, it was all over, the dissection room clean, as if it had never happened. Little did I know that the day was about to get tougher.

  Lizzie’s family, understandably, wanted to come and spend time with her. Mr and Mrs Dawes arrived, your average-looking young family. I could see Dad was trying so hard to hold it together for the sake of his wife. Even though I had by then experienced a fair few viewings, this was going to be difficult. Clive took charge of it but I was in attendance, and realized that I had a lot to learn from the experience; yet I was finding it hard to know how to react, let alone where to look. ‘I’m sorry for your family’s loss,’ just sounded lame as it came out of Clive’s mouth. Even I knew that no words would help this family.

  Mrs Dawes entered the waiting area looking really shaky and was immediately made to sit down by Mr Dawes. He looked up at us and apologized for his wife’s behaviour. Apologize? I thought she was holding it together well, considering. It was only the fact that her knees would not bear the weight of her body at that moment that gave away the signs of what she was going through. Clive spoke to them both in a soft manner, and told them where Lizzie was resting, gesturing towards the door that led to the viewing area. Mr Dawes thanked Clive and helped his wife up out of the seat. Clive slowly opened the door to where Lizzie was laid out, and her parents entered the room. It was only a couple of assisted steps that Lizzie’s mum had taken before her legs completely buckled and she fell to the floor, beginning to cry uncontrollably. It was the most painful, heartbreaking sound I have heard. For the rest of the afternoon, all that could be heard though the mortuary was Mrs Dawes wailing and asking why. I have never felt so helpless.

  As I sat in the pub that night, it was only very gradually that I came to terms with what I had seen. It was the first time that I fully appreciated what death can mean. I also had feelings about my own grandfather. I knew how much he loved me, and how much I loved him, and had done so for as long as I could remember. What if this had happened to my family? How would they interact twenty-eight years on? I could not get my head round it.

  TWENTY

  Clive ended up spending most of the weekend in the mortuary with Lizzie’s family. Her grandparents had been allowed to come and visit her, but there was obviously a lot of tension between the parents and the grandparents and their relationship had broken down. The two-hour slot for viewings at the weekend had gone out the window and Clive had spent a total of seven hours each day over Saturday and Sunday just pottering about the mortuary while Lizzie’s family sat with her. Consequently, when Graham and I arrived on Monday morning all the weekend work had been done by Clive. We were handed hot drinks and sat down to listen to Clive tell us in detail what had happened.

  There had been a blazing row in the relatives’ waiting area between Lizzie’s mum, Josie, and her grandfather. Len, Lizzie’s grandfather, was obviously racked with guilt and was under no circumstances coming to terms with what had happened, and neither was Mum. I was starting to learn that bereavement can take many different forms. After the initial shock of losing her young daughter, Josie’s first reaction was pure grief, her body went into shut-down, her limbs refused to work and she could not speak. This turned to white-hot anger from what Clive was telling us. Josie had lashed out physically at Len and had slapped him hard across the face while verbally abusing him, too. Charlie, Lizzie’s dad and Len’s son, had to physically lift his wife away from the situation and take her, kicking and screaming, outside. Clive said it had appeared that Charlie was in complete control of the situation. He announced to his family that he wanted to spend some time alone in the viewing area with Lizzie. He made his wife promise him that she would sit quietly for a few minutes while he stayed with his daughter.

  Clive said that what occurred next had never happened to him in all his years as a technician. Charlie had gone into the viewing area alone, while the rest of the family sat in silence in the relatives’ room. He had shut the door behind him, which was not uncommon, but it had opened only a few minutes later; he then came out with Lizzie in his arms and, before anyone quite knew what was happening, was making his way towards the front door. Josie had screamed at this sight and her body again went into collapse. Lizzie’s grandmother took control of Josie while Len blocked the door to his son and dead granddaughter. Clive said that he moved in as well at this point. He had tried to explain to Charlie that it would not be a sensible thing to do, and that Lizzie needed to stay with us. Len had confirmed this, but Charlie was a big bloke and began to try to barge his way past his father and Clive. Clive said it took around ten minutes of coaxing Charlie, with the distraught father eventually falling to his knees holding Lizzie’s small limp body in his arms until Len could take Lizzie off him and place her back on the viewing trolley.

  Clive needed some quick thinking on this, and decided it was time to get Lizzie to the funeral parlour, but it was three o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Luckily, he knew which funeral service would be taking care of Lizzie and it happened to be a local firm that he had worked with for many years. He took a chance and rang the owner of the funeral parlour, who a
greed to be there in an hour. Clive then sat with Lizzie’s family and talked them through what was going to happen now.

  When Tony, the owner of Phelps & Stayton Funeral Services, arrived, Clive had shown him in the back way to the viewing area where Lizzie was. Once he had concealed the ‘tradesmen’s’ entrance to the viewing area with the curtain, he invited the whole family in and Tony greeted them in his gentle manner. They had met before when Tony attended Josie and Charlie’s home to settle the arrangements for Lizzie’s funeral just the day before.

  Clive felt it was important for all of the family to be able to move on a step with Lizzie’s death as, in his experience, it helped them with the grieving process. This was something the family were not dealing with. Clive told me about how he once had a body in the mortuary for three weeks with a viewing every day because the dead lady’s husband did not want her to leave the hospital. In the widower’s head, if his wife left the hospital, and was released from our care, it would become final. Clive had to spend the last week of this gentleman’s visits convincing him to make funeral arrangements for his wife. ‘There is only a certain amount of time that you can halt decomposition by refrigeration, Michelle,’ he had explained tiredly.

  That afternoon, Lizzie was placed slowly in the small white coffin that had been lined with pink silk with a pink pillow. Painted daintily on the coffin lid were pink bows, and once this was placed over her, Tony sealed the coffin and the family left the room.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I had decided shortly after this that I needed a break and thought that I would ring Dave. Dave is my soul-mate. We worked together for ten years, and from the first day we met we got on. No sexual attraction or complicated stuff like that, just pure friendship. Anyway, Dave moved to Lancashire about four years ago to be near his partner, Chris. They met online, and after a few weekends up there with him, Dave decided to move up to Lancashire permanently. I was pleased that he had met someone, but so disappointed he was leaving.

  Dave is a few years older than me, eight to be precise. Sometimes when we are together though you would be forgiven for thinking we have a mental age of about five. Dave is super-intelligent and has a definite opinion about most things, and he fascinates me with the stuff he has locked away in his brain. A bit of an old glam rocker, Dave had hair down to his backside when I first met him, and always wore ‘Kiss’ T-shirts, jeans and Converse boots; the only thing different about him now is that he’s had his hair cut. He’s very focused, but I believe the world is missing out on a great man, a talented painter and a wealth of knowledge. He should be in the limelight, in my eyes.

  We had vowed never to lose touch, and we haven’t. We see each other at least three times a year, always at Christmas and birthdays, and try to get a week abroad together once a year with partners and family. We saw each other Christmas Eve last year, but I knew he wouldn’t be disappointed to see me again, and I felt that I could really do with the break.

  I spoke to Dave the next morning and, as luck would have it, he said that he was due some time off and could take it the following week. After checking with Clive that it was OK to have leave at such short notice and after half an hour of teasing from him, I arranged to go on Friday for two weeks. Luke and I would have the weekend with Dave and Chris, then just potter about till he finished work on the other days, when I was sure we’d end up in the pub, and that was just fine by me. The beauty of Lancashire is that it is such a friendly place. Steeped in history, loads of old architecture, fantastic countryside and not forgetting the fact that everything is about twenty per cent cheaper than Gloucestershire. Maybe I will move up there myself one day, but until then a fortnight would have to suffice.

  We had the best time with Dave, two weeks of pure relaxation, food, ale, laughing, crosswords in the daily paper, hot chocolate – and starting with a champagne breakfast on the train on the way up which Luke organized, just because. The weather was still pretty shitty, but when I’m with people like Dave, Luke and Chris, it doesn’t matter.

  As soon as I got back to the mortuary I knew that something special had occurred from the fact that Clive and Graham were laughing loudly. When I went into the office, Graham was red in the face and in danger of choking, and Clive’s eyes were watery.

  ‘Morning, Michelle,’ he said brightly, while Graham tried to get his breath back.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ he said, although this was obviously a big, fat lie. ‘It was fairly quiet last week, wasn’t it, Graham?’

  And Graham, who had been rolling some cigarettes in preparation for his morning break later on, began to laugh and choke again, just about managing to splutter, ‘Very quiet indeed.’

  ‘What’s so funny, then?’ I was beginning to wonder if the joke was at my expense.

  ‘Just a funny story I heard.’

  ‘Go on then, tell me.’

  He said at once, ‘First things first. When you’ve checked the bodies in, we’ll have some coffee and I’ll tell it to you.’ This struck me as a bit odd, because normally we had coffee first thing and caught up on small talk before starting the serious work.

  ‘OK,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘There’s only two,’ he said, and Graham began to laugh again. ‘Both women.’

  I looked at the book where the porters write down the details of the bodies that they have admitted to the mortuary. As Clive had said, there were only two, but Graham had been wrong because although one was called Ethel Smithson, the other was called David Harcourt. Oh well, I thought, we all make mistakes.

  I went to the fridge bay where Mrs Smithson had been put to check her over. In order to do this properly, I had to pull the tray out of the fridge onto the hydraulic trolley so that I could get a good look at her, making sure that she wasn’t leaking, that if necessary she was viewable and that any valuables were properly accounted for. Having done this, I turned my attention to David Harcourt who was residing in the top space of the fridge next door. I pulled the door open, positioned the trolley and pumped it up to the right height, then pulled the laden tray onto the trolley before lowering it again to waist height. I unzipped the body bag and was surprised at what was inside. It wasn’t Mr Harcourt at all; it was a buxom blonde with long hair and an ample chest, dressed in a long flowing nightie. Obviously, the porters had made a mistake, I thought, except that when I checked the name on the wristband and the Coroner’s label, they both said that it was Mr David Harcourt.

  I looked again at the face and saw that underneath the heavy make-up there was a faint trace of stubble, and the hairline was slightly crooked. When I pulled at his hair, it came away to reveal the close-cropped black hair of a man. I looked up and saw that Clive and Graham were standing in the doorway to the body store, both grinning like lunatics. Graham asked, ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Clive said, ‘Meet Davina Harcourt, Michelle.’

  I looked back down at the body. The ample chest was in fact made out of rubber.

  Clive explained. ‘According to Neville, by day David Harcourt was a respectable inhabitant of the town of Cirencester, a member of the Round Table, hard-working chartered surveyor, father of three and keen amateur golfer. By night – or at least on those nights when his wife went off to the Trefoil Guild or Women’s Institute or whatever – he became Davina by rummaging through his wife’s drawers and by the appropriate application of make-up and other accessories.’

  Graham added, ‘He did the job properly. He’s got some nice frilly knickers on.’

  Everyone’s heard of people like this, but I never thought I’d get to meet one, so to speak. ‘Why?’ It seemed a pointless question, but I couldn’t help asking it.

  Clive said knowingly, ‘Ah, well, the story doesn’t end there, Michelle, because Davina didn’t just get his rocks off by getting into high-heels and squeezing into Mrs Harcourt’s Ann Summers crotchless panties. He’d gone to the trouble of buying a cylinder of helium from the local party and joke shop, as well.’

  He lost
me completely with this. ‘Helium?’

  Clive explained patiently. ‘You get a plastic dustbin bag, and a dressing-gown cord or something to tie around your neck so that no air can get in, then you pop the end of a hose from the cylinder up inside it. You switch the cylinder on and lie back.’

  This seemed so bizarre as to be insane. I briefly wondered if he’d done it to make his voice go squeaky ... At my bafflement, Clive said, ‘Auto-asphyxiation, Michelle. Eventually, you begin to lose consciousness and have trouble breathing; apparently, for some poor bastards, it brings about a massive hard-on as good as the real thing.’

  I must have looked like a codfish because both Clive and Graham collapsed back in fits of giggles. When they had calmed down again, Clive went on to say that although this kind of thing wasn’t common, they got to see them on a fairly regular basis. ‘Especially because of GCHQ,’ he said.

  GCHQ – the country’s top intelligence analysis centre – was located not far from the hospital. I asked, ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  Clive pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Very funny place, Michelle. Very funny. People who work there go doolally quite regularly.’

  Graham agreed. ‘Driven bonkers by the work,’ he said.

  ‘And when they do die unexpectedly, my God, all hell’s let loose. Coroner’s officers, police, forensic pathologists, even men in black suits with suspicious bulges come knocking at the door.’