IAIN WEST FORENSIC SUITE, AN EXTENSION TO THE WESTMINSTER PUBLIC MORTUARY, LONDON
S peechlessly, I slide out of the death bag and carefully get off the steel table.
The morgue's floor is cold as ice. I am barefoot, and I still don't know why. Whoever toe-tagged me decided I don't need shoes anymore, that I should suffer against the cold floor.
I hop like a panicked kangaroo for a few seconds before I realize that I will eventually need some kind of shoes.
Rummaging through the plastic bag I came in, I find nothing. It feels awkward and unsettling searching through my own coffin-like bag of death.
Before my mind scrambles for solutions, my lungs screech from the cold. I cough so hard I am sure something will burst out of my lungs into the air. My back bends forward. My hand clamps to the steel table, preventing me from falling.
Why is my body in such pain? Is this what death feels like?
I cough again, my mouth agape it hurts so badly. The clothes I am wearing aren't helping against this freezing cold. It takes a hard effort to lift up my other hand as if it's tied down to a weight.
My hand is faintly bluish. I shriek—then cough again.
I manage to straighten my back and then rub my hands together for warmth. I rub them on my body as well.
Then I hop like a kangaroo again. Amazing how much unexpected energy your body can exude when you're in danger.
Relax, Alice. None of this is happening. You're probably not dying. It's just part of the insanity you're enduring.
It occurs to me that if I am not dead yet, it's only a few minutes before I freeze to death in here.
See? How could you freeze to death if you are dead already? Let it go. Confess your madness, and it will all subside. Just do what you came here to do. Examine the dead kids' heads.
My inner thoughts freeze to the cold of the floor underneath me. I rub my body even harder and do more of my kangaroo dance.
I really need to find shoes now. I haven't looked hard. I need shoes—and a coat.
I try to rip apart a piece of the plastic bag so I can wrap it around my feet and body. But the bag isn't elastic enough. Of course not. It's durable enough to hold a dead person inside. Why would it cut easily?
I tilt my head. The cold room doesn't offer any visible solutions. It's a huge, rectangular room, reminding me of the corridor in the underground ward in the asylum. I take a long, cold breath to get some oxygen into my head. It hurts, but I need it to think clearer.
The floor is marble all around. The walls are buried behind the endless metallic drawers with corpses inside. There are only three bulbs in the entire place. One is hanging over my head, another a few meters away, and the third is a bit too far. I can't see it—I am too numb to walk that far.
The three bulbs are slightly shaking as if huffed and puffed by an invisible wind.
Closing my eyes and clenching my teeth, I try not to think about the dead all around me. Thanks to the dim light, I can pretend they don't exist, like all the scary things in the night we dismiss.
The cold attacks my feet again, chilling through my spine. It's getting harder to force my eyelids open.
Seriously, I am not dead. Am I? The tag is some kind of a morbid joke. Right?
I miss the madness of my Tiger Lily. She would have spat some quirky words at me. She would have accused me of being mad and useless, but she would have also hinted at some solution.
I keep walking as fast as I can in the room to get warmth into my body. I am actually limping now. It reminds me of the Pillar's Caucus Race, walking fast inside the morgue, knowing it will get me nowhere.
Where the heck is the door?
I can't find it.
Please tell me I am not mad.
Mad or dead, which is which, and does it really make a difference?
Panting, I stare at the few tables next to me. They are lined with plastic bags of the corpses. Those I stopped by are different. The bags are all labeled with chalk on the surface: Watermelon Murders .
This is what I am here for. Cold or no cold, I have to examine the corpses.
Still tapping my feet to the cold ground, it finally occurs to me to check my jeans pocket for my mobile phone. I guess I was too panicked to look earlier—isolated living in the asylum does this too you; calling someone for help isn't the usual reaction for a person with a Certificate of Insanity.
I find the mobile and pull it out. I am surprised there is a signal inside the morgue. Thank God. With numb fingers, I dial the only number on my contacts.
Beep. Beep.
No one picks up.
I hate those beeps.
My face reddens when the call ends. Some programmed woman's voice tells me that no one is picking up, that I should try later.
"He has to pick up!" I scream at her.
"Well, sweetie. Let's try again," the woman chirps.
I almost throw away the phone, shocked by the woman's response. Isn't this supposed to be prerecorded?
But then I succumb to the madness, which means basically ignoring it and not giving it much thought. I push the button again, almost hurting my forefinger.
The Pillar has to pick up, or is he a figment of my imagination, too?
Finally, someone picks up and says, "Carroll's Cause for the Criminally Cuckoo. How can I help you today?