Random Acts of Unkindness by Jacqueline Ward Page A

in the container, inside the skin and muscle, disconnected. I’ve looked at bodies after autopsy. I looked at my mother and wondered where the person has gone. Where the soul is. Was. Jim comes back and sits down.
    ‘We’ve tried to get hold of your husband, but he’s not answering.’
    ‘Ex-husband.’
    Let’s get that straight at least. Ex-husband.
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    Jim’s reverted to the corpse-side manner we reserve for relatives. He’s lowered his eyes and he’s sighing.
    ‘You don’t have to do that with me. You know. The stance.’
    He smiles a little.
    ‘Ah, but I do. I like to do things by the book, me. Straightforward. And you’d be wise to do that too. You’re not doing yourself any favours.’
    I don’t look at him.
    ‘I wasn’t trying to do myself any favours. I was trying to find my son. Following up leads. Like I do every day.’
    The door opposite opens and John Stafford, the guy who runs the mortuary, shakes our hands.
    ‘OK. We’re ready. So. Where’s the family member? You know, for the ID?’
    We all look at each other for a few seconds. No one wants to say it. It’s suddenly unspeakable. Eventually Jim manages it.
    ‘Jan here is going to ID. Jan’s son has been reported missing. So if we can just get on with it.’
    I’ve been in the room before, many times, with other people who need to have some closure. I’d like to think that these incidents, where people die in solitary circumstances and need identifying, are few and far between. I’m thinking just now that, in fact, they are quite frequent. More than you would expect.
    Mums, dads, sisters, brothers, all here to witness someone’s disappearance from the world. Never to be seen again. This is the last place before the post-mortem or autopsy. The last farewell.
    John’s touching the white sheet. I can see the outline of a face, nose sticking out. Further down, shoulder blades before the sheet becomes thicker and turns into a thick shroud. I realise that John is staring at me and I nod.
    I can’t tell at first. I can’t see properly. Maybe it’s the shock. I have to move forward and look closely. Brown hair, white skin, more pallid than death, long eyelashes. Eyes closed.
    I remember the day Aiden was born, the day I counted his amazing fingers and toes, checked his body for completeness. He had a small red birthmark just under his earlobe. Funny. I didn’t mention that in any of the reports I gave. I check the earlobes. It’s not him.
    I start laughing loudly. I bend over double and rest my hands on my knees.
    ‘It’s not him. No. It’s not Aiden.’
    John covers the boy up again and we leave. Jim waits until we get to the car before he speaks.
    ‘You shouldn’t have started laughing. It’s disrespectful.’
    I lean on my car. I stopped smoking a long time ago, but now I really need a cigarette.
    ‘You know, that’s the second dead body I’ve seen in two days. I don’t wish anyone else dead, or this feeling on anyone else. But believe me, I’m celebrating.’ I breathe in deeply. ‘But then again, I’m not. Because if he’s not dead, he’s out there somewhere, being kept prisoner against his will, isn’t he?’
    Jim shakes his head.
    ‘Or tripping the light fantastic with a glow stick in each hand. You don’t know where he is. For all you know he could have skipped the country and is working in Ibiza. You think you know these kids, but you never do. Not entirely. You know the drill. My boy would never do that, my daughter would never do that. Parent’s natural instinct to protect their offspring. But most of the time they’re thinking with their hormones and they turn up months later pregnant or skint.’
    I nod.
    ‘Yeah. I did think about that. The only flaw in your argument is that corpse in there. He’s someone’s son. Have there been any missing reports recently? Or have you just written them off as runaways? He’s not pregnant or skint, Jim. He’s dead.’
    I drive him back to the