Books Of Blood Vol 3

The pathologist finished his report and his rough sewing, flung his juice-shiny gloves and his stained instruments on to the trolley beside the swabs and the alcohol, and left the body to the assistants.

Ro

Standing beside the table on which he lay, the two technicians discussed their shoes. Of all things, shoes. The banality of it, thought Ro

'You know them new heels, Le

'I'm not surprised.'

'And the price I paid for them. Look at that; just look at that. Worn through in a month.'

Paper-thin.'

'They are, Le

'I would.'

'lam.'

'I would.'

This mindless conversation, after those hours of torture, of sudden death, of the post-mortem that he'd so recently endured, was almost beyond endurance. Ro

Round and round; like the conversation.

'Paper-bloody-thin.'

'I'm not surprised.'

'Bloody foreign. These soles. Made in fucking Korea.'

'Korea?'

'That's why they're paper-thin.'

It was unforgivable: the trudging stupidity of these people. That they should live and act and be: while he buzzed on and on, boiling with frustration. Was that fair?

'Neat-shot, eh Le

'What?'

'The stiff. Old what's his name the Sex-King. Bang in the middle of the forehead. See that? Pop goes the weasel.'

Le

'Look at it.'

The other glanced round at the dead face. The head-wound had been cleaned after the probing pincers had worked at it. The edges were white and puckered.

'I thought they usually went for the heart,' said the sole-searcher.

'This wasn't any street-fight. It was an execution; formal like,' said Le

The shroud was tossed back over Ro

'Do you?'

'Stella read me something about it being the centre of the body.'

That's your navel. How can your forehead be the centre of your body?'

'Well...'

That's your navel.'

'No, it's more your spiritual centre.'

The other didn't deign to respond.

'Just about where this bullet-hole is,' said Le

The bee listened. The bullet-hole was just one of many holes in his Life. Holes where his wife and children should have been. Holes winking up at him like sightless eyes from the pages of the magazines, pink and brown and hair-lipped. Holes to the right of him, holes to the left -

Could it be, at last, that he had found here a hole that he could profit by? Why not leave by the wound?

His spirit braced itself, and made for his brow, creeping through his cortex with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Ahead, he could sense the exit door like the light at the end of a long tu

His flesh and blood body was utterly deserted now; an icy bulk fit for nothing but the flames.

Ro

Ro

Had Ro

'Haven't you started on this one yet?' he snapped at the technicians.

They murmured some apology or other. He was always testy at this time of night; they were used to his tantrums.

'Get on with it,' he said, stripping the shroud off the body and flinging it to the floor in irritation, 'before the fucker walks out of here in disgust. Don't want to get our little hotel a bad reputation, do we?' 'Yes, sir. I mean, no sir.'

'Well don't stand there: parcel it up. There's a widow wants him dispatched as soon as possible. I've seen all I need to see of him.'

Ro

At first it refused life. It had always been passive: that was its condition. It wasn't use to occupation by spirits. But Ro

The shroud rose.

The pathologist had located his little black book, and was in the act of pocketing it when this white curtain spread itself in his path, stretching like a man who has just woken from a deep sleep.

Ro

The pathologist backed off against the post-mortem table, quite out of gods.

'Get out of my sight,' he said.

Ro

'Help,' said the pathologist, almost to himself. But help was gone. It was ru

'I'm sorry, whoever you are. Whatever you are. I'm sorry.'

But there was an anger in Ro

The corners of the shroud were forming into crude arms now, as Ro

Even as they formed, the hands had the pathologist about the neck. As yet they had no sense of touch in them, and it was difficult to judge how hard to press on the throbbing skin, so he simply used all the strength he could muster. The man's face blackened, and his tongue, the colour of a plum, stuck out from his mouth like a spear-head, sharp and hard. In his enthusiasm, Ro