JEM HAD SEEN THE DOG the week before, the day after her birthday, while she’d been breaking in her new shoes. It was a small dog, a Jack Russell or a terrier, not something that looked dangerous like the muscley Doberman and the mint-eyed Alsatian further down the street. She’d seen the man walking the dog by the weir, and she’d seen it tied up outside the Saracen’s Head. It didn’t choke its lead or drool or go for people. The man was hard-faced though, hair buzzed to the scalp, tight jeans he was too old to wear, dark red boots laced up his shins. He had a tattoo on his neck. A web. Or a net. Something stringy. Mumm-Ra said tattoos outside the collar and cuff meant people were beyond civilization. Mumm-Ra saw a lot of tattoos at work, in all kinds of hidden places. She often told Gran about them. Once a woman with only one breast had had one where the other breast wasn’t. A rose.
Outside the man’s house there was a police van. It’d been there all morning. The lights and the engine were off, but it was very noticeable, very nosey looking. They would be taking the dog away soon, Jem was sure. The kids on the street had been trying to climb the backyard wall for a look-see before it was destroyed, even though it was the same dog it’d been the week before, nothing extra special or with superpowers.
Destroyed made the dog sound like a battleship in a war game. Jem wondered how they’d do it—a gun, maybe, or by injection, like criminals in America. The dog would twitch and go to sleep and then its heart would stop. They’d been learning about the heart in biology. The heart was the last piece of equipment to keep going in a body; it worked the hardest. One cell told all the others what to do, and if the main cell died another normal cell took over. She’d shared that piece of information with Mumm-Ra and Gran. Gran had said it sounded like socialism. Dictatorship, more like, Mumm-Ra said. A vet might come to the man’s house and put the dog down, the same as if the dog had cancer or a broken leg. The dog wouldn’t know what was happening, so it wouldn’t be scared, although dogs did understand, they could sense things.
Martin, Jem’s dad, had had cancer. He was extremely lucky. He had one lung and he’d had chemotherapy while living in his caravan in Catton Park. It’d taken months for him to get better and during that time Jem hadn’t seen him much. He’d said, before he’d been told he would be fine, that if he wasn’t going to be fine he wanted to be put down. Before he started to mess himself. He wanted sleeping pills or to be dropped off the bridge into the river. After the chemotherapy Martin’s eyebrows didn’t come back.
He still smoked sometimes, at the pub, and after tea. Mumm-Ra said he was an imbecile and would be seeing her soon enough if he didn’t stop—she’d be zipping him up. Mumm-Ra worked in the mortuary at the hospital. She wore blue scrubs. She looked like a doctor, but she wasn’t one, even though she’d taken exams as part of the job. A practical exam and a written exam. After she’d said the thing about Martin, Jem had wondered for a while about people being zipped up, as if they were bags. She knew it meant something else. Jem didn’t like to think about what Mumm-Ra did at work, which involved glue and chemicals, and not crying while other people cried.
Mortuary. Mortuary. Sometimes words got stuck in her head, usually if they sounded a certain way—strong, important.
The street had been busy all morning. It wasn’t raining. People were standing about with their front doors open and their arms crossed and they were talking about what had happened and waiting to hear more. Before Gran had gone, Jem had been standing around too. The rules about who you could talk to, when, and where, had been suspended. People she didn’t know had said things to her like, What a tragedy, and, Oh my Lord. She’d even missed watching ThunderCats, which was her favorite program.
The baby had been a tiny baby, a newborn. No one knew if it was a girl or a boy or what its name was. Maybe it didn’t have a name yet. People on the street had seemed angry there was no name and were tutting a lot. She wondered if that meant the baby wasn’t a proper person yet, or was beyond civilization.
Jem’s brother hadn’t seemed like a proper person until he’d been given his name. Mumm-Ra had been too sad to give him a name in the first week because his dad had gone back to Yugoslavia. For good, because of the war. She’d also had a cesarean so she couldn’t come downstairs. Cesarean. Mumm-Ra had a smiley scar that was hidden by the hair there, and a skin fold, not that Jem saw that part much. Gran had had some serious words with Mumm-Ra and then they’d taken Jem’s brother to the town hall. Her brother was called Sava. It was a name from his dad’s country—Gran had found it in a book. Everyone called him Sav. Jem couldn’t really remember Sav’s dad, except for his red checked shirt and jars of sweet pickled seafood that he ate on black crackers. Mumm-Ra and Martin had chosen Jem’s name together before they’d split up. Jemima. Jem hated it. Posh, or a duck, were the bullying options. Everyone called her Jem, luckily, but that didn’t stop people not liking her at school. Mum had become Mumm-Ra after ThunderCats Series One and the big argument over Jem’s bike and because of her job. Jem never said it out loud though. Gran’s real name was Marcy. You couldn’t write a report at school about a book unless you said why the characters were called what they were and what it meant. Naming humans was complicated, and went wrong really easily, and people fought about it, so Jem hadn’t minded if the baby didn’t have a name. It was neglect, people were saying, poor little mite.
People were also saying that the baby had been left outside in a basket in the yard, near the kennel. It’d been crying for hours. Dogs didn’t like crying babies. The man’s girlfriend was very thin and hadn’t even looked pregnant. Then she was holding a screechy bundle outside their front door and there was a big party and the next day there were bin bags full of bottles and cans on the pavement. Jem didn’t know their names, the man and his girlfriend. They lived thirty-two doors down. That was very close. If what had happened had been an asteroid, it would have hit Jem’s house too, but asteroids were rare and they usually hit deserts.
The baby had already been taken away in an ambulance. The man had been taken away by the police, because he was the dog’s owner and responsible. Possibly he was also drunk. Someone who had passed by the house had looked in and said that the girlfriend was sitting at the kitchen table, not crying, just drinking a can of lager. Someone else had said that she was hysterical; she’d screamed and hit the policeman who’d arrested her boyfriend. Hysterical. Jem had thought that meant “funny.”
It was hard to know what to believe. She didn’t have any friends on the street. Deborah Mason lived a few doors down, but she and Deborah were not friends. Deborah called Sav a half-caste commie bastard. She called Jem duck-fuck. She said once that ThunderCats was a stupid television program, why did they have blue faces? Jem tried to explain they didn’t, only Panthro, and actually his face was gray, which had made things worse. She’d ended up with a horse pinch on the arm that was red and sore for a week. Deborah was two years older than Jem and at a different school, but they took the same bus. Deborah was always talking about her periods, but she called it red-eye or painters or the blob, and her Tampax was always in wrong and uncomfortable, and it made the whole thing sound horrible.
Deborah had talked to Jem earlier on the street though, in a normal conversation, without any insults. She’d said the baby had been picked up by the neck and shaken to death. The dog had bitten right through the baby’s neck. Decapitated it. Then it had licked up all the blood. Deborah’s mouth looked horrible when she said this, glistening and dramatic, and her tongue tip came out between her teeth. Some of what she said might have been true, but a lot definitely wasn’t. Jem had nodded and tried to look impressed. You made the most of it when the rules were gone. But after a second or two, Deborah’s face had gone blurry, as if she were underwater in a swimming pool. Jem’s stomach had sent a bile bubble up to her mouth, which popped and tasted disgusting. Gran had called her in not long after that to mind Sav because she was going to the social club and Mumm-Ra wasn’t back from her night shift.
Mumm-Ra was home now, looking withered and baggy in her uniform. She was moving around the kitchen slowly. She was, Jem knew, capable of turning into a monster if everyone wasn’t careful. Night shifts were killing her, Gran often said, but Jem knew her mother would never die, just like actual Mumm-Ra, it was impossible. She was far too powerful. There were probably a lot of evil spirits where she worked, which might help summon her strength. Jem didn’t really believe in spirits and thought the séances some of the girls in her class had done in the store cupboard were stupid, obviously fake. Night shifts paid well though, especially at weekends.
Mumm-Ra was opening a tin of tomato soup, while Sav flicked bits of baby food all over the floor. Mumm-Ra had cut her hair very short last year because Sav was a puker and she was sick of washing sick out of it. Other mothers got perms and crimps. From behind, in the uniform, she looked almost like a man.
Sav was nearly two. He was extremely strong and didn’t like to do what anyone wanted him to do. He liked to prod eyes and to smash down towers of objects he’d stacked. Steering him along to the newsagent’s to get sweets or collect Gran’s paper was impossible. If the man’s dog had gone for Sav, he probably would have blinded it.
It’s not the dog that should be put down, Mumm-Ra was saying, quietly. Some people should have to get a license to breed. She was up to speed on the situation, even though she’d only just got back. Maybe she’d seen the baby. Maybe she’d actually been handling the baby. Putting it back together. Making it look not so bad for the relatives, with powders and cream. Cosseting, it was called. Gran said what Mumm-Ra did was sort of what a beautician did, but much harder.
Jem never talked about Mumm-Ra’s job. If people asked in school, she always said a hospital orderly or a nurse. The source of all Mumm-Ra’s power probably came from her ability to do what she did to bodies, which didn’t scare her, though Gran said it certainly took its toll. Because death, and people’s grief, were exhausting. Morticians often had to stop working. Some went mad, really mad, with roaring in their heads, or they disappeared and were found in the woods. Nerves of ice, Martin said about Mumm-Ra.
Martin wasn’t able to pay much money toward Jem, some months nothing at all. He did get a disability benefit for having only one lung though. And the house they lived in had belonged to Martin’s mother. Useless, is what Mumm-Ra said about Martin, a useless lump, but they were quite like friends. Martin had even put his arm around Mumm-Ra when Sav’s dad left and had offered to stay. Mumm-Ra said no. No, no, we’re the opposite, Martin, the absolute opposite. Sav’s dad was a roofer, an expert roofer; he’d worked on the repairs on the prison in the castle. He’d worked legally. Then he’d gone back home because men especially were needed. Unlucky in love, Gran said about Mumm-Ra. She likes the leavers, your mother. If a man won’t marry you before the babies come, Jemima, he’ll be gone after. That fellow will have a family, I bet, never mind any war.
Gran had bits and bobs of wisdom about men. Her husband had died before Jem was born. He’d been called Leonard. Gran had burgundy hair that was white at the roots. She drove a green Maxi and could fix the fan belt herself when it squealed. There were always soft mints and a packet of Merits in her purse. She slept in Mumm-Ra’s room overnight when Mumm-Ra was working.
Mumm-Ra stirred the tomato soup. Sav put his dinner bowl on his head and orange goo smeared into his hair. Then he flung the bowl at Mumm-Ra and a splattery streak went up the back of her scrubs. Hell’s teeth, she said, without turning round. Sort him out will you, Jem. Your gran’ll be back soon. But it’s Saturday, Jem wanted to say. She didn’t say it because Mumm-Ra turned round and gave her a look that involved not blinking and the kitchen light dimmed a bit. Mumm-Ra could sense things coming like a dog could. She took the soup upstairs on a tray.
Jem decided that when Sav was having his after-lunch nap, she’d go out again and see what was happening. Sav was a good sleeper, an hour at least—you could stick pins in his forehead and he wouldn’t wake up. He wouldn’t be left alone really if there was an emergency; Mumm-Ra would be in the house. If Gran arrived, Jem could say she’d had to nip to the chemist for some more of something. That seemed sensible. She was always being told how sensible she was. It was annoying, especially as she was only just not eleven anymore. Today she wanted to see what was going on, like everyone else. The baby and the dog would probably even be on the news.
She did Sav a nappy in the bathroom and put Vaseline on his bum, shielding herself from a wee spout with a towel. He loved weeing when his nappy was off. Men loved weeing up against trees and in the underpass and in the park and they started very young. Jem was getting good at nappies. She could do them much faster than Mumm-Ra. It was mostly Gran and Jem that looked after Sav though so there was plenty of practice. Jem put the dirty cloth in the dirties basket, which was getting full. The nappy man came on Sunday nights and Wednesday nights, but Sav had gone through quite a few with a bout of something runny. The nappy man was a stupid old-fashioned person and it was embarrassing to have to open the front door to him, hand over a smelly bundle, and get a clean bundle back. Even though a lot of people were using disposables, he was still in business. Mumm-Ra said disposables were expensive and it was better to keep a person in work. She snapped at Jem when Jem asked who made the disposable ones then? Why do you have to be so contrary, madam? Contrary.
Jem hated the nappy man, partly because what kind of man wanted to wash poo for a living, partly because he had a van that said MR. NIPPY NAPPY MAN on the side like a giveaway, but mostly because he had a funny eye. He had an eye with a golden gash in it, like a gold disease of some kind. The eye didn’t move about much. His other eye was blue and normal. She sometimes wondered who had the worse job, the nappy man or Mumm-Ra. Mumm-Ra, probably.
Jem carried Sav back to the bedroom, got his library books out, then sat on the beanbag to read to him. He squirmed into position in her lap and she fended off his pointy elbows and heels. Moon, he said. Sav was heavy and half her size already, who knew how because he didn’t eat anything. Moon, he said. What about Ant and Bee? Jem asked. She hated Goodnight Moon. The colors were horrible. The little rabbity creature in pajamas was horrible. The strange page near the end was extremely horrible. It gave her the same feeling as jumping down off somewhere high, or looking up at the sky for too long. She tried to slip the book under the beanbag but Sav spotted the cover. He scrambled to get it, took hold of Jem’s hand, and made her hold it. Moon! OK, OK, mister.
She let him turn the pages as she read. Sav pointed items out in a slow, serious way as she said the words—toy house, mouse, comb, brush, bowl full of mush, quiet old lady whispering hush. She tried to flip ahead to the end of the book, past the weirdest bit, but Sav wedged his podgy fist between the pages so she couldn’t avoid seeing
Goodnight nobody
Sav turned and looked up at her, frowning. He didn’t understand, but neither did Jem. Who was nobody? Was nobody actually somebody, a person there but not-there in the room? Could the rabbity creature see nobody from its bed? That was like a ghost story for babies, which was very wrong. And if it was a joke she didn’t get it, because it wasn’t funny. It was exactly the opposite of funny, and opposites always created problems. The opposite of married. The opposite of love. The opposite of alive. She nudged her brother and blew on the back of his head. He smelled of milk and potato and nappy detergent. Come on, she said, turn the page, Sav. Sav turned the page. Jem read to the end of the book, then tried to lift him up and put him in his cot, but he grabbed her T-shirt and barnacled to her. Moooon!
After three more Goodnight Moons he let her put him down. He shuffled about, stuck his legs through the bars of the cot, kicked, yawned, then rolled onto his stomach and went to sleep immediately, as if someone had unplugged him. Under the sticky orange, his hair was thick and dark. He looked nice when he slept, Jem thought, loose and soft, not like the Lego-hurling, crusty-nosed monster he normally was. Sav always wanted things done for him and shown to him. Being the one who knew more was hard work; she often didn’t like it. Maybe he dreamed of Yugoslavia when he slept. Maybe he dreamed of his dad, though he’d never met him, and his dad might be dead. Could you dream of a place or a person you’d never known? Gran said Sav would have a lot of questions when he was older.
Jem put a blanket over him. She thought about going outside. She thought about the little baby, lying in the basket, and pictured its neck like a chewed-on dog’s bone. Mumm-Ra’s bedroom door was shut. Silence and darkness behind it, like the Black Pyramid. Jem went downstairs and turned on the TV, but there was only motor racing on, flimsy cars on a noisy, skidding track. She got her book out and sat at the kitchen table.
The street was quiet by the time Gran arrived, just a few people coming back from the city with carrier bags and their hoods up. Drizzle had started. The police van wasn’t there anymore. The dog had probably been taken away. Mumm-Ra had already gone back to work and wouldn’t be home until morning. When she’d left the house she was pig-eyed and late and on the point of being extremely cross because she couldn’t find her keys. She’d forgotten her box of sandwiches on the kitchen counter—she ate sandwiches for dinner at work as if it were lunchtime. Things always felt topsy-turvy when Mumm-Ra was on night shifts.
Jem walked down the cut between houses, to the football field, and along the backs of the yards. There were empty crisp packets skittering about, a flat, dented football. The back gate of the man’s house was battered and blistered. There was police tape across it—the only sign anything terrible had happened there. Jem could smell dinners cooking, crispy pancakes and meat and gravy. She could smell rain on the bricks. People were inside waiting for the evening news. The baby might have a name and it would be announced. Could you name a baby after it was dead? Or maybe they’d use an initial, like the little girl who had gone missing from the park last year. Baby R. Rebecca, Jem had guessed, or Rachel. Gran was making cauliflower cheese for their dinner, which Jem didn’t like because the cauliflower was usually soggy and the sauce had flour lumps and hardly any cheese. Gran would ask her about boys at school, which was embarrassing. Anyone look like that lovely Lion-y character? Jem never corrected her.
Mortuary. Decapitated. When you thought things, like words, it was because there was a voice inside your head that said the thoughts. Jem hadn’t realized that before. The voice wasn’t exactly your voice, but it wasn’t anyone else’s.
There was no point hanging around outside by herself. She walked back along the yard walls. If she were friends with Deborah she could go and knock on her door and ask if anything else had happened. Deborah’s door was white plastic. In the upstairs window—Deborah’s bedroom, maybe—was an A-ha poster. She could imagine Deborah’s face when the door opened, a big how-dare-you sneer. The rules would definitely be back by now. Off on your own, duck-fuck? Where’s your Yoogi brother?
Jem looked at her watch, which was blue leather and quite nice, a birthday present from Martin last year. He’d forgotten her actual birthday and had given the watch a week late. Overcompensation, Mumm-Ra said. It was quarter past five. She was supposed to be back by six. Sometimes Martin came to see her on Saturday afternoons for tea but not every Saturday. Jem didn’t have Martin’s surname, Steele, which he complained about, but it was too late now. He didn’t have any other children—none that he admitted to, Gran said. Steele would have been a good surname. Martin was the only other person Jem knew who liked ThunderCats. He watched a lot of television, even cartoons; he said cartoons were ace and philosophical. ThunderCats hasn’t caught on yet, he told her once. They’re all too different from each other, too distinct. But they have the same emblems, she’d said, and they all follow the code of Thundera. Not the same as a uniform, he’d said.
Jem walked back down the cut. On the street a bus passed by with OUT OF SERVICE on the front. It never made sense when buses drove along out of service—they were still going somewhere and could drop people off and be useful. They were doing exactly what they said they weren’t. She walked down the road toward the Saracen’s Head, which smelled of beer and vinegar. A dog was tied up outside—a border collie. Its tongue was long and pink and tipped up at the end like a spoon with spit in it. She looked at its mouth for a while until she felt a bit sick, not with a bug, but a sort of strange worried sickness.
She turned and walked home. She opened the door and went through the front room into the kitchen, where Sav was playing with pots and pans on the floor, and Gran was having a cigarette at the table and reading the newspaper. Clouds of cauliflower steam billowed from the cooker. Hi, love, said Gran. Jem picked up the box of Mumm-Ra’s sandwiches. I’ve got to go and drop these off, she said. Her face felt like it was glowing pink but she’d said it, matter-of-fact, like it was on a list of things to definitely do. Oh, said Gran, that’s nice, you’ve certainly got a spur in your heel. Do you know the way? Yes, said Jem, get off at Ashton Road. Gran nodded. OK. I’ll keep a plate warm for you.
Jem waited a moment. Sav held his arms up for a carry, but she ignored him. Her face felt very hot now. Her armpits felt hot and tingly. She waited for it to all fall through, for there to be a telling off, though Gran never told her off. Her heart was clapping, quite fast, as if it were applauding the brave performance. Mostly you didn’t feel your heart, only after sprinting or when you were afraid. Gran turned the page of the newspaper. Bye then, Jem said. Bye, love, said Gran.
Sav wailed as she walked away. Jem got to the front door and opened it. She went outside. She walked down the street, past Deborah’s house, past the dog and the pub. When you were sensible, you were trusted to do things. You could look after your little brother alone in the house. You were allowed to find the hospital on the bus, even though you didn’t know exactly where you were going. She had 50p in her pocket. She didn’t have her coat. Gran hadn’t even made her take her coat.
A bus was coming in the right direction. She half ran to the stop. The sandwiches bumped about in the margarine tub. She might have to stick them back together again for Mumm-Ra. She waved, and the bus stopped. Jem got on. The driver had smeary jam-jar glasses and didn’t seem to care who she was. I have to get off at the hospital, she told him, Ashton Road. He nodded. She waited for him to say how much the fare was, but all he said was, Sit down then, Cuddles. The bus moved and jerked her forward as she walked down the aisle. There were no passengers except for a couple of women in brown cashier smocks and a man in a hat who was asleep against the window. Jem sat near the front, though the back seat was empty and she never got to sit on the back seat going to school, like Deborah did. She sat with the sandwich box balanced carefully on her knees. She could see a purple wrapper in one corner through the plastic. A biscuit. A fruit Club, probably. They were Mumm-Ra’s favorite.
It took ten minutes to get to the hospital. She kept looking at her watch, the big hand ticking round. The town was dark silver in the rain, like pencil lead. The bus went past the prison and the castle, up the one-way system. People were already going into the pubs. A few umbrellas bobbed along. The streetlights were on.
She’d been to the hospital once before, not to visit Mumm-Ra, Mumm-Ra wasn’t working there then, but to have a bean-shaped growth removed from her chest. She’d lain on a table covered with white paper and they’d given her a stinging injection to numb the patch and she hadn’t felt them cut. She’d looked at the ceiling the whole time and a nurse had held her hand. She’d had eight proper stitches afterward, with thin black string because they couldn’t use paper ones. She’d pulled the stitches out early because they were itchy and the hole had gaped open. There was a silky white scar on her chest now, a bit like a spider’s sac, which her T-shirt covered. They’d done tests on the bean but it was harmless.
Jem got off the bus at Ashton Road. The driver didn’t tell her where it was but she could see the hospital looming. She walked across the crossing. Ambulances were parked in a bay outside and as she walked toward the main doors one of them turned on its siren and whirling light and blared off. In front of the main doors, under the dripping porch, were a huge pregnant woman and an old man in a wheelchair with a metal stand next to him. A clear bag hung from the stand with a tube snaking down. It was rude to stare but Jem couldn’t help it. The man didn’t even look like a person. He was slumped over in the wheelchair. His bare shins poked out under his gown and his feet were purple and lumpy, like bruised vegetables. The gown was the same as the one Jem had worn, white with little blue diamonds.
Some patients died here, some died on the way here, and some were dead when they arrived. It didn’t matter to Mumm-Ra, though maybe the ones who were dead or died coming were harder. They would have bad injuries, like motorbike smashes, and the baby attacked by the dog. They might be in pieces. Decapitated. Jem tried to stop looking at the man in the wheelchair. He would be going to the mortuary soon. The rain was very light again now; she could just about feel it on her nose, as if the rain were only thinking about what it was supposed to do. Most people thought working with dead people was a man’s job, according to Gran. When the job had been advertised Mumm-Ra had interviewed and got it. She had the right disposition, Gran said. She’s always been like that, your mother.
The Royal Infirmary was old, several stories high, with an even taller tower, but also new bits built on the sides. Hospitals had to keep getting bigger, because more and more people needed them and there were new cancers all the time. It was hard to picture Mumm-Ra anywhere, touching cold hands and faces, talking to relatives with orange baby food staining her back. She would probably have new scrubs on. Jem could picture her at home, on the sofa, tired, her head leaning on her hand, eyes closed, or staring at something on the other side of the room that wasn’t really there. Mumm-Ra’s staring always made Jem nervous.
The signpost of departments outside the main doors didn’t list the mortuary. Jem could ask at reception. She could even leave the sandwiches at reception and someone might take them to the mortuary and Jem could go home. Probably they wouldn’t even let her go to the mortuary, you might have to be eighteen, like for pubs and some fairground rides. She looked at her watch again. If a bus came in a few minutes, she could be back home by six o’clock, to Gran’s cauliflower cheese, to Sav throwing water out of the bath and screaming when his hair was shampooed, to watching telly until later than normal because it was Saturday.
The woman on reception didn’t seem concerned when Jem asked where the mortuary was. She pointed to a door on the other side of the building, described the way through the hospital, and then let Jem go, just like Gran had. Follow the blue line, the receptionist said, until you get to pathology, then turn right. Pathology sounded like a joke that actually was funny, though Jem felt too wobbly to laugh. She walked down a corridor, past several wards. A dinner trolley was going round. There were lots of old lopsided ladies. There was lots of coughing. She remembered the hospital smell from when she’d had the bean off; it wasn’t as bad as everyone said. It was sort of aniseedy. A couple of doctors walked past and looked at her. One smiled. He had on a paper hat and a kind of paper apron, like a man who worked at a meat counter. Maybe he thought she was a patient. Maybe he knew Mumm-Ra, Jem looked more like Mumm-Ra than Sav did. People said they had the same eyes, hazel, which wasn’t brown, and wasn’t green, but was both mixed up. Gran said quite often that Mumm-Ra should marry a doctor. Not my type, Mumm-Ra always said. Exactly, Caroline, exactly my point.
Jem followed the blue line. She didn’t get lost. The Royal Infirmary wasn’t very big really. She went down some steps, then up some steps, out a back door, and past a few prefab huts until she got to a small plain building with a sign on the door. MORTUARY. Jem stood outside. The doors opened and a woman came out and she also smiled at Jem as she walked past. The woman didn’t look like she’d been crying. Maybe she was a secretary. The door swung closed. MORTUARY. The building looked like a building where nothing important happened, like one of the humanities huts at school. She’d expected something frightening, tall, sooty, with ivy or broken windows, like a haunted house. This wasn’t that.
Something caught her eye and she looked to the side. Next to the mortuary was a small car park with yellow lines painted on the concrete, which meant cars couldn’t park there. Parked on the yellow lines was a long black car with an oblong window: a hearse. It was right there. She could see in. You were supposed to see in. On the back shelf was a coffin. It was made of dark, very shiny wood. Someone had polished and polished the wood. There were brass screws and handles and there was a smooth brass plaque with nothing engraved on it. No name. No birthday. Nothing. There were no flowers around it, like when hearses went to the church and made other cars drive slowly.
Another ambulance siren wailed in the distance. Jem stood outside the mortuary.
There was a rush around her, a feeling like jumping off a wall, like before throwing up. She wanted to sit down. She wanted to run back along the blue line, all the way to the bus stop, all the way home. It wasn’t raining at all now. The rain had stopped. It was almost evening, almost six o’clock, the end of the day. But Mumm-Ra was working. She was inside the building, with the bodies of people who didn’t exist anymore. She might be holding the little dead baby, carefully, combing its hair, buckling a tiny shoe strap, doing some makeup to blush its cheeks, or she might be holding the hand of a relative, the man who owned the dog, the man’s girlfriend who people had said didn’t care. Her mother would never die, because she couldn’t, though all of this, all this, would be taking its toll.
Jem stood outside the door and held the box of sandwiches. She wanted Mumm-Ra to see her through the window and come out and put a hand on Jem’s head, even if she was cross, and Jem couldn’t really tell her why she had come here. Not the sandwiches. She wasn’t even sure what the sandwiches were. Cheese? Fish paste? Egg? She didn’t know. She lifted the lid and smelled inside the box. Egg.