Down Among the Dead Men (2 page)

Clive had been doing this job for twenty-six years. He had begun his career in theatre as a scrub assistant, and knew the importance of infection control throughout the hospital, mortuary
included. From the way he spoke, he took no prisoners when it came to the cleanliness of the mortuary. It soon became clear, too, that you name a mode of death and Clive had seen it; nothing could
shock him any more.

So, there I was, my first day, ready and eager for action, but all I had been offered was coffee because things had gone quiet, and there were to be no post-mortems that day. Clive knew how
precious days like this were. Because there was no post-mortem work, only a few bodies in the body store and all the paperwork was up to date, Clive had a chance to relax and de-stress. You would
not realize how busy the dead can make you, and at that moment I certainly had no idea.

We all spent the whole day chatting while Clive taught me the correct method for releasing bodies as well as other important procedures. I was introduced to a lot of people, including porters,
undertakers and the lab manager, and given a tour of the huge hospital that was now my new workplace. I arrived home to my two dogs, Harvey and Oscar, mentally exhausted without knowing why, but
excited at what tomorrow might bring. I rang my Gramp that evening to tell him about my day. I had kept him up to date on all the events and he was as excited as me about my new job. It was
important for me that he knew about my life. I knew a lot about his, and he worshipped me as the only granddaughter in a male-dominated family, so it was only right he knew. And, of course, he was
interested.

TWO

When I had first applied for the job as a medical technical officer in the mortuary, I did not immediately tell my parents, my brother Michael or my Gramp. Although we all have
a very close relationship, some things are best not said until they are certain. But, me being me, I could not contain myself when the letter came through to say I had been shortlisted for an
interview following the post-mortem demonstration. Mum and Dad knew that I was unhappy with my job in learning disabilities, but would never have encouraged me to leave one job until I’d
found another, as I had responsibilities, and I was not sure what their reaction would be to this one. I had grown up in a family that has a strong sense of responsibility, and Mum and Dad had
always worked hard. Of course they knew I had an interest in true crime – my bookcase when I lived at home was full of books about people who had committed murders – but I knew enough
to realize that this job was not going to involve a lot of murders. I guessed that very little of it would involve any of the fascinating crime stuff that is portrayed on TV, and I was later to
find out I was right.

When the request to attend for an interview arrived, I didn’t say a word to any of my colleagues at my then workplace, but was bursting to tell someone, so after my early shift I returned
home at about two thirty, put the two dogs on the lead and we set off on the two and a half mile walk to my parents’. Mum as usual made a huge fuss of Harvey and Oscar, as Dad shouted,
‘Aye up, look out, the boys are back,’ and as soon as they heard his voice they smothered him.

‘All right, love?’ Dad has asked me this question for as long as I can remember.

Mum came out with her usual, ‘Have you eaten? I’m just cooking our tea if you want to stay,’ which was followed by, ‘Have you got enough money?’ and finished with,
‘Is Luke looking after you?’ – Luke being my boyfriend. She then put the kettle on.

Dad went into his usual routine: ‘You remembered where we lived then?’ which is what I get when I have spent more than three days without being in touch. So, after all the usual chat
about work and life and stuff, I decided I would tell them that I had applied for the technician’s job.

Mum’s reaction was, surprisingly, delight. ‘What? Working with dead people?’ She lowered her voice. ‘If I was your age again, I would do that.’

Dad had a different response. ‘Comes from your mother’s side of the family, that sort of interest.’ As soon as he said this I thought,
The Addams Family
, as Adams was
Mum’s maiden name; that, and the fact that in my last year at school my nickname was Morticia because of my long dark hair and pale complexion, meant it all seemed quite fitting. I told Mum
and Dad that nothing was certain yet.

When it came to it, Mum took the day off and went with me to the interview, bringing with her Dad’s good luck wishes. I think she was probably more excited than I was. She waited in the
café down the road from the hospital while I sat through the second interview, which involved a lot of questions about my personality and, as I said before, why I wanted the job, and how I
would deal with situations that I have never been in, to most of which I replied that I would refer to a more experienced member of staff. The twenty minutes seemed to last for ever. At the end I
was told I would be contacted that afternoon. I rejoined Mum, who didn’t say much apart from asking me how I felt and did I need a proper drink to settle myself, but when the phone call came
through offering me the job and I accepted, she hugged me to the point where I nearly became unconscious. I rang Dad to tell him the news, and he replied, ‘Well done, love.’

I then rang my brother, whose reply was typical. ‘What do you want to do that for?’

Luke was pleased as he knew how much I wanted the job, and suggested we celebrate that evening. Last, but by no means least, was Gramp. He was not a hundred per cent sure as to what I was
talking about, so we visited him later that day and explained all. And, while I’m sure he still did not fully understand, he was very proud that I was going to be working at the main
hospital.

THREE

I arrived ten minutes early on my second morning at the mortuary (now that I knew vaguely where it was) and was greeted warmly by Clive who had already been in for forty
minutes and had the kettle on. He liked to get in early as he always preferred to be one step ahead of the game. Graham arrived five minutes later and went straight into the body store to register
the bodies that had been brought in overnight. I followed him through, as I was intrigued as to what this involved and eager to learn more of the routines of the MTO life.

The body store leads directly from the entrance vestibule. It is a large room containing a huge fridge which can house twenty-eight bodies and is fronted by seven tall doors. Opposite these are
some cupboards, with a bench top, as well as a sink and waste bins. Every time the porters bring a body into the mortuary, they fill in a sheet that lives on the bench top; it details who the
deceased is, where they have come from and which fridge they have been put into, plus a few other facts for continuity. Graham consulted this, and then went to one of the seven fridge doors; when
he opened it, I saw that behind it were four metal trays, one above the other, each supporting a full body bag.

He manoeuvred a hydraulic trolley on wheels in front of this, and then proceeded to raise it by pumping a lever energetically at the far end. When it was level with the third tray up, he dragged
this out and I saw that it rolled along metal runners. On the outside of the white body bag was a clear plastic pocket containing the person’s details on a small beige-coloured cardboard
label.

Graham removed the tag, opened the bag and checked it against similar tags that were tied around the dead person’s wrist and big toe. He did this in a matter-of-fact manner, as if he had
done it a thousand times before. Graham is a man of average height, with a pure white head of hair and the cheeks you get from spending a long time out of doors. Very friendly, he is full of
stories about everything which he tells in a deep, cosy voice bathed in a broad Gloucestershire accent; I felt very comfortable in his company from the word go. He has no airs or graces and talks a
lot about how things have changed.

When Graham opened the large white body bag containing Mr Evans, I was shocked to see what lay before me. Mr Evans was an elderly gentleman, and I expected to see a body that looked as though it
was at rest. What I did see was a frail old man with head tilted back, eyes staring wide and mouth gaping open. Graham noticed straight away that I was taken aback. He explained to me about the
muscles in the jaw relaxing at death and making the mouth drop open, but not about the eyes and the arched neck. At that point, Clive came into the body store and said that Mr Evans was going for
autopsy, so could we take him through to the post-mortem room and put him on the middle table?

The three tables in the PM room each had a delegated technician in order of rank. Clive was on the top table, being the senior technician, and Graham on the middle one, so I figured I would be
assigned the third table, lowest in the rank. Clive told us that this had become a Coroner’s case – and would therefore require an autopsy – because the death had happened a week
or so after Mr Evans had been admitted to hospital after a fall at home; all deaths that might be the result of an accident come under the jurisdiction of the Coroner and therefore require a
post-mortem examination. Apparently, though, such cases as these are usually straightforward. Clive informed us airily that this was probably a pulmonary embolus – a blood clot that forms
usually in the leg veins and then breaks off to travel to and block the blood supply to the lungs. I looked at him blankly and he walked away chuckling, saying as he went, ‘You’ll get
there.’

This was to be the only PM for the day, so Clive asked me if I would be satisfied just to go and watch Graham take the organs out of the body – eviscerate it – and then help him
clean up afterwards. More than happy, I was shown into a small changing room where I dressed in blue scrubs that were three sizes too big and picked from a large selection of white clogs the pair
that was closest to my size. I entered the PM room from the opposite, ‘dirty’, door in the changing room. Graham was already there and he showed me a small alcove off the main room
which housed disposable hats, masks, gloves and goggles.

Not having a clue what glove size I am, I chose the smallest and then struggled with the disposable hat – I probably ended up looking like the Pope until Graham pointed me in the direction
of the mirror. I found myself looking at someone out of perhaps a science fiction film or a medical soap opera; I felt really weird wearing all this protective gear and, once again, was worrying
that I was out of my depth.

Graham had stripped Mr Evans and placed a wooden block under the middle of his back so the torso was raised and the spine slightly curved to expose the neck. Graham checked the identification on
Mr Evans against what was written on the postmortem request. Having satisfied himself that this was the right person, he told me that identification of the body is our most important
responsibility; every so often the wrong body gets eviscerated, and what follows is a tidal wave of trouble. The next of kin, not surprisingly, tend to become upset when they discover what has
happened. From the way he spoke, I guessed that he might have committed this sin in the past, but I did not want to pry further because it was obviously painful; however, it lodged at once in my
head as something to avoid and something to be worried about.

Graham had a tray of instruments on the table with him, resting on Mr Evans’ legs. From this tray he took a knife; it was about the size of a table knife, but with a disposable blade that
looked as though it would cut through steel. Graham placed the tip of this at the top of the torso, in the midline just below the Adam’s apple, and ran it down with a single, easy sweep to
end just above the pubic hair. Sticking his fingers in a small, deeper incision that he had made in this slit just under the ribcage, he then cut down through a couple of layers of fat and muscle
to expose the guts; he extended this down towards the feet so that all the abdominal organs were exposed. This done, he then began to gently retract the skin from the ribs, slicing it off with
practised strokes of a knife laid flat to the ribs, so that within a couple of minutes Mr Evans’ skin was completely free of the front of his body, hanging away from it. It looked as if you
would almost be able to zip him right back up.

He rinsed off his knife, which was apparently called a PM40, and replaced it in his tray. After that, he washed off any blood that was on the table, and was telling me about how some corpses
‘bleed’ more than others depending on how long they have been dead as he picked up what looked like a pair of small stainless steel garden shears. He opened them up and put the blades
around the lowest of Mr Evans’ ribs on the right-hand side. He began to cut upwards, severing each rib with a crunch and then moving on up to the next until he reached the top; he did this on
both sides, and thereby removed the front of the ribcage, pulling away a big triangle like a prehistoric crab. This exposed the heart, lungs and most of the liver. He placed the ‘crab’
to one side and moved down the table so that he was over Mr Evans’ bowels, which were fully exposed and waiting to be unravelled.

Next, Graham took a pair of scissors and cut through a piece of gut near the stomach. He tugged at the guts and began to unwind them, cutting as he did so through the fatty membrane that was
holding them in place. Within a very few minutes, the bowels were lying in a stainless steel bowl at Mr Evans’ feet. While Graham was doing what he had done a hundred times before, I started
to notice the smell. I stood thinking of what it reminded me of. Graham told me how he used to work in a slaughterhouse, and then it hit me. The smell was almost the same as in the butcher’s.
By the time I had gathered my thoughts, Graham had loosened the remaining organs from the back of the opened torso – although I missed how he had done it – and he now had his PM40 up
inside Mr Evans’ throat, busily working away under the skin, pushing the blade into the floor of the mouth. After a few moments he had cut through this and around the back of the tongue so
that he was able to free the mouth and neck organs. What he did then was like some sort of gory magic trick; he pulled the tongue down through the throat, everything still intact, and then he
continued to pull everything away from the spine – lungs, heart, liver, stomach, spleen, kidneys . . . It amazed me then – and still amazes me now – how all the organs are
attached to each other.