Down Among the Dead Men_ A Year in the Life of a Mortuary Technician - Michelle Williams [31]
At about six o’clock, Clive asked, ‘Right, shall we move on?’ Graham gave me a questioning look and I realized that it was to be my decision where to go next. Luckily, what with Dad having been a publican in the area for over thirteen years, I knew where most of the pubs were and which were closest, but I had to be personally careful. The last thing I wanted was to go into a pub with a landlord or landlady I knew well while I was out with two men a lot older than me and, at the same time, I wanted to stay away from the town centre. I was fond of both of these guys, but I still had some street cred to hold on to and did not want to spend the evening explaining myself and my newish job to people I only see when I’m out on the town. We moved on to a few pubs in the opposite direction of town, and both Clive and Graham seemed happy.
By nine o’clock we had been to four further watering holes and were slowly working our way up the Bath Road. When it came to the curry house, though, I had no choice. The Taj Mahal, an Indian restaurant that Clive and Graham both vowed was the ‘best bloody curry house in the Cotswolds’, was the only possibility. We were all fairly merry by then so I was not bothered where we ate, or even if we ate at all, and Clive, who I had discovered had had an interesting life, was about to take centre stage and tell some fantastic stories about it.
Over our curry I learned just how fascinating life – or, to be more accurate, death – could be, and how the Coroner’s officers weren’t always as helpful as they are now.
‘John Parker was the best,’ said Clive, while loading a poppadom with mind-blowing chutney. ‘He was Bill Baxford’s predecessor. Completely and utterly useless, wasn’t he, Graham?’
Graham, who was concentrating on rolling a cigarette, raised his eyebrows and answered in his deep burr, ‘He was that.’
‘Have I told you about the jogger who got struck by lightning, Mish?’ Four months in and Clive was now shortening my name.
I shook my head and his face lit up. ‘It was some fitness fanatic who used to go jogging every night and every morning, no matter what the weather was. One night he goes off as usual, but this time in a thunderstorm, and is found an hour later in the gutter by a passing motorist. Without even going out to look at the scene or the body, John Parker, the so-called Coroner’s officer, sends us the PM request with the last line suggesting that he might have been struck by lightning.’
‘Was he?’ I asked.
Graham laughed; he had a deep, gurgling laugh, one that brought on his smoker’s cough if it went on too long. Clive shook his head. ‘I examined the body carefully and there were no burn marks anywhere, no entry or exit wound as you would expect,’ – Would you? was my initial reaction to this; I had a lot to learn still – ‘but there was a curious linear pattern on the back of his vest and an octagonal shape punched out on the middle of his back, about an inch and a half across.’
My face must have said it all – I didn’t understand – at which Graham laughed again and said excitedly, ‘Listen to this,’ while pointing to Clive.
Clive went on, ‘Stupid sod not only used to jog,’ – clearly something which Clive thought was a complete waste of time – ‘but every few hundred yards he’d drop to the ground and do press-ups. The night he died, he decided to do this on an unlit road in the driving rain, and some motorist ran him over. Probably thought he hit a deer or something. The octagonal mark was from the sump plug of the car.’ He sighed happily. ‘I was even able to tell Parker that it had been a Land Rover that