23

The Light

‘Except for the point, the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.’

– T.S. Eliot

Quin awoke. A strange chemical smell hung in the air. A forlorn light bulb dangled from the ceiling, the only source of heat in the lofty room. To his side, bright metal instruments flashed in the light, and Quin caught the whiff of human decay in a cool draft. He recognised this place. He’d been here many times before, but in his dreams, his death dreams. For he lay on an undertaker’s slab…

He couldn’t really feel his body. It was as if it didn’t belong to him. He tried to move his arms and legs but they refused – a zom-out.

A man walked in wearing a grimy, grey overall. ‘God, Steve, did you open its eyes?’

A younger man lent over Quin, a rusting trainee badge hanging off his lapel. ‘Look I know I’m a sicko, but even I’m not up for that.’ The older man reached towards Quin and shoved his eyelids down.

            ‘Well it’s not funny. It scared the hell out of me. Don’t you forget it’s me who signs off your probation.’

            ‘Like I said, I didn’t do it,’ the trainee grunted.

Quin felt his mouth yanked open, then something being stuffed-in. His stomach clenched. Cotton wool. Being packed into his cheeks to puff them out. He knew for certain, this was no dream, but what his dreams had led up to. His greatest fear. They were going to bury him alive.

Something soft patted his neck, his face. A sugary fragrance. Face powder. Then his lips. Something moist.

‘Not too red. He’ll look like a girl!’

‘You don’t know an artist when you see one. Get on with your job.’

‘Huh,’ the trainee muttered, and Quin heard him banging about.

‘OK, you can dress him now,’ the older man said. ‘I’ll do his hair when you’ve finished. You’ll only mess it up otherwise.’

Quin felt the gown ripped off him. He lay there cold and naked in front of both men. How much more could they shame him?

‘Complete waste of a nice new suit if you ask me,’ the trainee said as he shoved the trousers over Quin’s feet and yanked them up. He didn’t bother with underwear. He lifted Quin’s shoulders and fiddled with the shirt, then put on the jacket and tie. When he’d finished he just let go and Quin’s head fell down with a sickening crack on the marble slab. But the pain was dull, dead. He heard the older man approach.

‘Not much I can do with that hair. They said not to cut it. Wanted it how they remembered him. Looks a right mess if you ask me.’ He yanked a brush through Quin’s hair, pulling hard on the tangles.

‘Why would anyone want one of these windowed coffins?’ the trainee asked.

‘Caskets, not coffins! Some of them just can’t bear to let ‘em go. Not till the last second.’

‘It’s ghoulish.’

‘You’re ghoulish. Now get him in it, and don’t spoil the hair or smudge the make-up.’

‘Right boss.’