A Trick I Learned From Dead Men by Kitty Aldridge Page A

Lester his as usual. It’s only as I’m putting it down I notice. I look at him and of course straight away I know. The TV is blaring. Same old, but.
    I look at his head, lolled, like one of Ned’s pigeons.
Would you like to see inside your house
?
    Only then do I notice his eyes. Then the smell.
    Les?
    I switch off the TV.
    I can’t think what to do next. Funny. This is my daily bread. If I was going to expect the unexpected it would not be death. Death is my Monday to Friday. Don’t bring your work home with you, that’s what they say. Too late. I hold my head in my hands.
    Take your time, I tell myself. Sit yourself down. I’m ready when you are.

13
    Cloudy with light rain at first, becoming brighter and clearer by the afternoon
    MY HANDS EXPLAIN it to Ned.
Dead
. My hands flatten.
Dead Les
. I realise this is only the second time I’ve had to think how to sign the word
dead
.
    Ned folds his arms, looks at the floor. I put my hand on his shoulder, same as we do in the Relatives Room. We stand for a bit like that.
    Embarrassing. The fact that I didn’t twig. Mortifying. Me, a trained professional. Lee Hart, specialist subject: being deceased. There is evidence Lester died some time ago. Around lunchtime? I had a Chilli Texan burrito. It’s possible he’s been dead all day, or longer. I wish the ground would open up.
    We wait while the kettle boils.
    Ned wants to bury him in our garden, like a hamster.
    No, I sign.
    Privately I admire this idea. But. We need to sell the cottage pronto and this is something not to add to an estate agent’s particulars:
Garden laid to lawn with beds. Tool shed. Mature tree. Grave: one occupant
.
    Ned wants a plan. I’m in charge of plans.
    Tree dig us yes, he signs. He sniffs. He folds his arms over his head as if, next, the house might collapse on us. I don’t answer. The tree is a sycamore. She loved it. It tilts away from the house at an angle, like the house is afloat, like we’re setting off somewhere. Ned presses his hands over his face. Since he was little this is his way: sightless, soundless, locked in. You have to wrestle him to get his attention. He peeks, one eye.
    Doctor, I sign.
    Ned rolls his eyes, shakes his head. He is frightened. As if we murdered Les, as if. Ned points at the freezer. I close my eyes. Think think think.
    Granted it looks bad, a deceased stepfather decomposing in his own front room under the nose of his trainee undertaker stepson, and yes I have my reputation to consider, but. Even if the freezer was empty it would be necessary to fold Les in half, perhaps quarters, or even eighths.
    Ned and me eat our dinner in the kitchen. Mince and onion. Silence, except for the squirt of the ketchup bottle. I don’t catch his eye and he doesn’t catch mine. His hands won’t talk, two empty gloves. I intended putting the radio on but I don’t bother now. I let him dry for me at the sink after. We watch it get dark. A dog from the farm kicks off barking.
    I go upstairs and stand under the shower. I let it be hot. The GP visited Les recently. Recent enough to keep the coroner out of proceedings. When? Week before last? The coroner will know Les was sat dead in his chair for at least twenty-four hours. Less than ideal. When I pull back the plastic curtain the room has vanished in the steam. I am invisible and nowhere. I am someone else in another house living a different life in some other time. The steam evaporates. I am me in the here and now. You can run but you can’t hide, Lee. I check myself in the mirror. I look demented. I was good looking once. What giveth? I go downstairs, light-headed. The smell of a clean T-shirt makes me feel sane. Ned is in Lester’s chair, watching
Dancing on Ice
, his hand down his tracksuit. He waves me out of the way.
    Anything on?
    No, says his other hand.
    I boil the kettle. I open the back door. The air is cold but pleasant. Fresh, Lester used to call it. I step out on to the path and in the stillness my step is loud.