Colin Cotterill - The Coroner's lunch

Siri tucked the sheet under Mrs. Nitnoy’s body like a shroud to protect her from the rough hands and eyes of the men who had come for her. He pulled out the wheeled platform, stood back and allowed them to take her. Her big feet stuck out like flippers. The men lifted her more gently than they seemed capable of, and lowered her into her box.

“She is all…back together, is she?” Kham asked. “We don’t want bits of her dropping off on the way home, do we, boys?” The men laughed nervously, more because of who he was than because they saw any humor in what he said. If his insensitivity was to be put down to shock, he must have been deeply disturbed by his wife’s death.

But Siri no longer believed this. He looked at Kham, looked directly into his eyes, and the senior comrade turned away, with a hint of embarrassment and something more. Siri didn’t speak again. Kham walked outside.

The laborers maintained a respectful verbal silence and tacked the lid on the coffin as quietly as their hammers would allow. They struggled to wheel the comrade’s wife back through the door. Due to the extra weight, the wheels yanked the trolley to the right and it crashed into the door frame. The bearers reversed once, but the trolley continued to swerve to the right. It refused to be wheeled out to the yard.

With no small effort, the men were forced to lift the cart and its cargo and carry it through the doorway. Comrade Kham was waiting for them outside, a cheap, fast-burning cigarette between his lips. He had nothing to say either. He walked beside the trolley, frustrated by its zigzag trajectory, and disappeared with it around the end of the building.

Siri stood below the MORGUE sign, his head tilted like a dog listening. But this old dog was paying attention to the debate going on inside his head. He took deep breaths to calm his nerves, but his pulse was still racing.

Half his mind told him to walk away, go home, leave all the doors open, the lights on. Just get out of there and never come back. But the saner half, the scientist half, told him not to be ridiculous. He turned and walked back through the small vestibule and to the examination room.

It was lighted by a flickering fluorescent tube. He stood beneath it in the center of the room and listened. He could make out the moths bouncing against the mosquito netting at the window, and the buzz of the light above. He could hear distant muffled conversations from the hospital and the crowing of a cock rehearsing. But that was all he heard.

A cockroach scurried by his feet and across to the storeroom. There weren’t enough disinfectants on the planet to keep a hospital free of roaches in Southeast Asia. Dtui and Geung mopped and scrubbed four times a day and put down poison and sticky traps, but creatures who had survived the freezing of the earth and the meteor were smart enough to survive Siri’s morgue.

He followed the creature into the storeroom and switched on the light. A dozen accomplices joined the roach in scurrying for gaps and shadows. Everything in the room was double wrapped or trapped in screwtop jam jars so the vermin had no hope of feasting on the samples that lined the shelves. But the aroma of death pervaded the place and to a cockroach, that was like the scent of jasmine on a warm evening.

The shelves were set out in library rows with only enough space to pass between them sideways. He inserted himself between rows three and four and edged down to the specimen jars. Just above his head, Mrs. Nitnoy’s brain hung in a noose of cotton in its own small pond of formalin. The cotton prevented it from becoming misshapen against the bottom of the jar. By the next morning, it still wouldn’t be set hard enough to dissect. But perhaps in a few days the comrade’s wife would have something to tell them after all.

When Mr. Geung arrived at the morgue on Tuesday morning, Dr. Siri was already at the workbench. The specimen jar was in front of him, empty, and he was about to slice into Mrs. Nitnoy’s brain.

“Hel…hello, Dr. Comrade.”

Siri looked up. “Good morning Mr. Geung.”

Geung stood unsteady, staring. “You’re here.”

“I know I am.” Siri understood the problem. Geung was always the first to arrive. He’d never walked in to find the doctor at work this early, and it threw him out of kilter. He needed order and consistency. Despite the illogic of it, Siri asked, as usual, “Any customers today, Mr. Geung?”

Geung laughed and clapped. “No customers today, Doctor.” Reoriented, he put his rice basket on his desk and began the morning clean. Siri stooped back to his work.

“Well! Did you lock yourself in the morgue last night?” Dtui was at the door smiling at him.

“It isn’t unknown for me to be here early, nurse.”

“No. It’s not unknown for snow to fall in Vietnam either. But it still makes the front page of the newspaper.” She noticed the freezer door open. “She out jogging?”

Siri laughed. “If I’d known you were so funny in the morning, I’d have come early every day. Her husband took her home last night.”

“How romantic.”

Dtui also went to the office to deposit her lunch on her desk. She bumped into Geung in the doorway.

“‘Good morning, handsome man,’” he prompted.

“Good morning, handsome man,” she said.

“Good morning, beautiful woman. Joke?”

“What has two wheels and eats people?”

“Don’t know.”

“A lion on a bicycle.” Geung laughed so enthusiastically, she found herself joining in. Siri in the next room got caught up in the merriment. He felt a sort of fatherly pride that his staff got along so well together. This was obviously a morning ritual he never got to see. He doubted whether Geung got all Dtui’s jokes, but he knew he’d still be able to recite them verbatim six months later.

He stared at the brain on the glass tray in front of him. He hadn’t given it sufficient time to set properly. It sprawled like a blancmange . But he didn’t want to wait; for his own peace of mind he had to know. He used his longest scalpel and cut carefully through the brain with one neat slash. He repeated this action several more times until the brain sat in slices like a soggy loaf of bread. He gently separated the sections and used a large magnifying glass to inspect each one.

Dtui, with a surgical mask over her face against the dust, was sweeping in the storeroom.

“Dtui, bring me the camera, will you?”

She looked at him with her brow furrowed. “The camera?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well….”

“What’s wrong?”

“There are only three exposures left on the film.”

“That’s enough.”

“Doctor, Sister Bounlan’s wedding party is tonight. I was….”

“I sympathize with her. But this is more important. Believe me.”

Once he’d saved and labeled the samples, Siri announced he’d be going out for a while. He collected a plastic bag full of liquid, and some vials, and left. He didn’t say where he was going.

He walked out of the morgue and past his old crippled motorcycle. It had lain collecting dust and cobwebs in the cycle park for three months. He couldn’t afford the new carburetor it needed. He was about to check to see how much money he had on him for the taxi songtaew fare when he had an idea. He turned back to the morgue and surprised Dtui reading.

“Dtui.”

“Oh, my God. Don’t do that. You scared the life out of me.”

“Then don’t do things you’d be scared to be caught doing. How did you get here today?”

“Eh? Same as every day. On my bicycle.”

“Good. I want to borrow it.”

“What for?”

“What for? What do people usually use bicycles for?”

“You aren’t going to ride my bike.”