Back doors, sub-basements and refrigeration


It took two days for the

police to get

hold of me, because

when the police call your

mobile phone

it doesn’t say ‘The Police’

in the little window

where the incoming number is

displayed,

it says ‘Withheld Number’

and I don’t answer

withheld numbers;

nothing good ever came

from answering a

withheld number,

and once again this

proved to be

the case.

So, they switched their

approach and

called at a very early hour

at the beginning

of the third day, so early

in fact that

it wasn’t me who eventually

answered the call,

it was my unbridled rage

at such a

violation.

His first name was Scott,

preceded

by the letters ‘PC’ but his

surname escapes me,

which is strange

because I thought I

would never

forget his name, but

now that I attempt to

recall him,

he has faded,

which is how it works

I suppose,

how loss, and the people

and events surrounding loss,

ease

over time, and how very

necessary

this all

is.

So, I listened to what PC Scott

had to say and

then ended the call;

I was no longer angry,

something else had

taken its place,

plus I was tired,

it was, like I said,

very early

and I was extremely

tired.

When you receive a

phone call

such as this, and you’re

the last one

standing,

they ask you

to go and identify the

second to last one

standing’s

body.

I suppose this little dance

will be

done away with as

bar code identification

or similar,

is introduced down

the line somewhere,

but for now

it is still

back doors, sub-basements and

refrigeration;

plastic flowers

and

cheap tissues which

are

unfit for purpose.

The nurse/pathologist/morgue attendant

opened the door for me

and showed me into

a room, which contained a vase

of plastic flowers,

two boxes of cheap

tissues and

a dead Dad.

“Take as long as you like” she said,

as PC Scott settled into a couch

containing holes,

just outside the room

with the plastic flowers,

holding a copy of

The Manchester Evening News

he had procured from somewhere,

and which now held his gaze,

from which I had

hoped to gain a little

courage or something

similar.

So, I had as long as I liked

and was free to take my time,

in a room I wanted to leave,

as soon as I had entered.

It was definitely my father,

he was definitely dead and

it was cold in there.

I took as long as I liked,

which was just long enough

to see that his mouth had

been glued shut.

Eighteen months have passed

since the phone call

from PC Scott,

I have travelled

on three continents,

possibly running

from something,

yet i haven’t

written a

thing,

although I have received

much

encouragement to do so

from those

who seem to enjoy

my writing;

I can only hope

this was the kind

of thing

they had

in

mind.

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One Response to “Back doors, sub-basements and refrigeration”

  1. Can only speak for myself but just the kind of thing I was looking for…

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