A W Eglinton
New Member
The Coroner (short story)
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*I felt that. I don't know you but I know what you are. Why do you close my eyes when all I want to do is see? I can see your white room when they’re open. I even saw that cigarette-end burn in the ashtray and I could smell it on your hands too. You have warm hands, wise hands but you're not content. Open my eyes...I'm begging you. Make this background din go away. Take me away from this dark world! Wait a minute...waht are you doing? No! Leave me alone! Please! Don’t cover me up and lock me away! I want to be in the light! Bring me back to the light!
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N.B. For the full version of "The Coroner" click here
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A W Eglinton
(Jan 2005)
Smoke streams from a ceramic ashtray. He takes a deep breath. The oxygen rushes into his lungs filling every viscous cavity as far down as his abdomen before climbing back up through tarred tubes into his mouth, trapped inside bulbous cheeks. He pushes the air from side to side, his mind still rehearsing the procedure even after all these years, he exhales through pursed lips. The stale air whistles out into a white room. He moves closer to the table, raises the recorder and begins: “Slight abrasion over the left temple. Heavy bruising to the lower neck and left shoulder”. From his breast pocket he produces a small measuring instrument. He lays it parallel to a wound on the body taking care not to disturb the open flesh. “There is a three inch incision along the lower abdomen. Some of the flesh is torn – this suggests the use of a blunt instrument”. He clicks a button at one end of the measure activating a torch at the other. A circle of light dances over the tanned skin. “The right leg has received numerous blows and is split in three separate areas. Just below the knee, part of the tibia is protruding through inflamed skin”. He slides his fingers under the limp flesh, using them like a jack to raise the leg, but the underside reveals nothing of interest. He continues. There’s not an inch of the boy’s body that escapes his expert gaze. He reaches the right foot and notices something irregular: black markings. His latex fingers probe the skin. “On the sole of the right foot there is a tattoo, set in black ink, half an inch in width and a quarter of an inch in height. I read the following two numbers: 45”. In the space of a second, like the ripple that becomes the wave, his mind is flooded with a rush of unfamiliar thoughts. The effect travels down through his entire body, rendering him immobile. A boy is picking biscottes off terracotta tiles at a family villa in Perpignan, his mother’s figure is a blur in the afternoon sun, stretched out by the strawberry trees. He uses a butter knife to smooth a thick layer of jam over a biscotte. It greets his mouth with delight. He catches his brown reflection in the tall French windows, Babette is standing behind him. He surrenders to her manly grip. Rows of poplar trees pass by and empty plains fade into a V of bubbles and froth on a grey sea. Six seconds of silence fill the white room before irritable nerve endings begin jostling for control over his thumb. A click. The recorder stops. He puts it back inside his mock-leather briefcase, perched behind on a steel trolley, and returns the torch to his breast pocket. He gives the boy one more look then smoothes his eyelids shut.
*"Ça je l’ai senti. Je ne vous connais pas mais je sais déjà qui vous êtes. Pourquoi fermez-vous mes yeux quand tout ce que je veux c’est voir? Je la vois votre salle blanche quand j’ai les yeux ouverts. D’ailleurs j’ai vu la cigarette qui brûlait dans le cendrier là-bas, même que j'ai reniflé son odeur sur vos mains. Vous avez des mains chaudes, des mains sages mais vous n'êtes pas un homme heureux. Ouvrez-moi les yeux…je vous en supplie. Faites taire cet insupportable bruit de fond! Faites moi sortir de ce monde obscure! Attendez...qu’est ce que vous faites là? Arrêtez! Laissez moi tranquille! Ne me couvrez pas! Ne m’enfermez pas! Je veux sentir la lumière! Faites moi revenir à la lumière!"
He flings a pale green sheet into the air. It falls with grace over the body, leaving soft contours around the head and feet; they remind him of Mt. Blanc and the lower Alps on the relief map in his office. “Thirteen for Christ’s sake…what a waste”, his voice sounds unfamiliar in the hollow room. "And tomorrow you're being shipped back to Paris, so for once i'm not going to be the last person to see you." Part of his post-autopsy routine has always been to lament the victims whatever the cause of death. He considers it part of his responsability as a moral citizen, and as he says, he is usually the last person to see them before they are rolled into the furnace. But this victim does not belong to his jurisdiction. The boy was found on county soil so his orders were to carry out the autopsy for formality's sake, and the rest would be dealt with by high command. He walks over to the sink, peels off the tight rubber gloves and kicks open the peddle bin with an unexpected clatter, the gloves fall into the dark hole spreading like jellyfish in the bottom. The lid shuts and the sliding door at the far end of the room is flung open. Allsworthy, his young novice assistant, stands dithering at the threshold. He's holding a brown envelope with a red string seal but his thoughts and attention lie in the depths of his groaning stomach. Food has always been Allsworthy's ordre du jour.
- Good god Allsworthy! Has no one ever taught you to knock before entering a room?
- No sir, I…I mean yes sir…sorry sir but I couldn’t find you and I thought…well I thought you were somewhere else sir.
-Yes alright lad, alright. What is it you have there?
- It’s a letter for you sir. It’s from Head Office. They said it was high priority. Most urgent they said sir…er…something about the French affair. Anyway I’ve been running around all over looking for you sir but/
- Yes calm down Allsworthy for goodness sake or you’ll give us all a heart attack!
- Right, sorry sir, calm down…yes…I’m calm now.
- Good, now show me that letter will you?
Allsworthy hands the envelope over. The door closes slowly behind him. He dithers again. His longing for a pastrami and rye sandwich from the local delicatessen, prompts his salivary glands to produce an excess of fluid, which he swallows, noisily. The Coroner looks up, and with one sharp glare orders more privacy. Allsworthy steps back and turns to the table. His eyes wander over cracks in the white floor tiles, they lead him to a steel leg then up to the pale green sheet. He notices the lumps at either end. He is intrigued. Then it dawns on him that the 'French case' is lying under this sheet. With the coroner in the corner of his eye he starts lifting the sheet.
Allsworthy had only been on the job for a matter of weeks and although he had already made frequent trips to the county morgue, he had never been allowed further than the front desk. His employment had been granted on a temporary basis, largely thanks to his uncle who was a high ranking officer in the force. Allsworthy was clearly the happy-go-lucky type with little scope in life. Desires and aspirations remained unkown territory to him, and anyway he was quite content to be pushed along by others, like a pebble in the sea. But standing there between the coroner and the boy in the inner chamber of the morgue he felt different; the seeds of awe were being sewn right there within him, and their roots had taken a firm hold.
The coroner’s letter bears the customary coat of arms in the top right corner and is printed on thin grain paper, praised for its agreeable touch. His instructions are as follows:
*"Ça je l’ai senti. Je ne vous connais pas mais je sais déjà qui vous êtes. Pourquoi fermez-vous mes yeux quand tout ce que je veux c’est voir? Je la vois votre salle blanche quand j’ai les yeux ouverts. D’ailleurs j’ai vu la cigarette qui brûlait dans le cendrier là-bas, même que j'ai reniflé son odeur sur vos mains. Vous avez des mains chaudes, des mains sages mais vous n'êtes pas un homme heureux. Ouvrez-moi les yeux…je vous en supplie. Faites taire cet insupportable bruit de fond! Faites moi sortir de ce monde obscure! Attendez...qu’est ce que vous faites là? Arrêtez! Laissez moi tranquille! Ne me couvrez pas! Ne m’enfermez pas! Je veux sentir la lumière! Faites moi revenir à la lumière!"
He flings a pale green sheet into the air. It falls with grace over the body, leaving soft contours around the head and feet; they remind him of Mt. Blanc and the lower Alps on the relief map in his office. “Thirteen for Christ’s sake…what a waste”, his voice sounds unfamiliar in the hollow room. "And tomorrow you're being shipped back to Paris, so for once i'm not going to be the last person to see you." Part of his post-autopsy routine has always been to lament the victims whatever the cause of death. He considers it part of his responsability as a moral citizen, and as he says, he is usually the last person to see them before they are rolled into the furnace. But this victim does not belong to his jurisdiction. The boy was found on county soil so his orders were to carry out the autopsy for formality's sake, and the rest would be dealt with by high command. He walks over to the sink, peels off the tight rubber gloves and kicks open the peddle bin with an unexpected clatter, the gloves fall into the dark hole spreading like jellyfish in the bottom. The lid shuts and the sliding door at the far end of the room is flung open. Allsworthy, his young novice assistant, stands dithering at the threshold. He's holding a brown envelope with a red string seal but his thoughts and attention lie in the depths of his groaning stomach. Food has always been Allsworthy's ordre du jour.
- Good god Allsworthy! Has no one ever taught you to knock before entering a room?
- No sir, I…I mean yes sir…sorry sir but I couldn’t find you and I thought…well I thought you were somewhere else sir.
-Yes alright lad, alright. What is it you have there?
- It’s a letter for you sir. It’s from Head Office. They said it was high priority. Most urgent they said sir…er…something about the French affair. Anyway I’ve been running around all over looking for you sir but/
- Yes calm down Allsworthy for goodness sake or you’ll give us all a heart attack!
- Right, sorry sir, calm down…yes…I’m calm now.
- Good, now show me that letter will you?
Allsworthy hands the envelope over. The door closes slowly behind him. He dithers again. His longing for a pastrami and rye sandwich from the local delicatessen, prompts his salivary glands to produce an excess of fluid, which he swallows, noisily. The Coroner looks up, and with one sharp glare orders more privacy. Allsworthy steps back and turns to the table. His eyes wander over cracks in the white floor tiles, they lead him to a steel leg then up to the pale green sheet. He notices the lumps at either end. He is intrigued. Then it dawns on him that the 'French case' is lying under this sheet. With the coroner in the corner of his eye he starts lifting the sheet.
Allsworthy had only been on the job for a matter of weeks and although he had already made frequent trips to the county morgue, he had never been allowed further than the front desk. His employment had been granted on a temporary basis, largely thanks to his uncle who was a high ranking officer in the force. Allsworthy was clearly the happy-go-lucky type with little scope in life. Desires and aspirations remained unkown territory to him, and anyway he was quite content to be pushed along by others, like a pebble in the sea. But standing there between the coroner and the boy in the inner chamber of the morgue he felt different; the seeds of awe were being sewn right there within him, and their roots had taken a firm hold.
The coroner’s letter bears the customary coat of arms in the top right corner and is printed on thin grain paper, praised for its agreeable touch. His instructions are as follows:
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*I felt that. I don't know you but I know what you are. Why do you close my eyes when all I want to do is see? I can see your white room when they’re open. I even saw that cigarette-end burn in the ashtray and I could smell it on your hands too. You have warm hands, wise hands but you're not content. Open my eyes...I'm begging you. Make this background din go away. Take me away from this dark world! Wait a minute...waht are you doing? No! Leave me alone! Please! Don’t cover me up and lock me away! I want to be in the light! Bring me back to the light!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
N.B. For the full version of "The Coroner" click here
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A W Eglinton
(Jan 2005)
