After reconstituting the bodies of Lily Peck and Michael Kavanagh, correctly this time, Cassie went to clean up and change. Then she went in to see Doug, the mortuary manager.
After her little speech, he sat back in his chair, frowning, surveying her face. ‘You really want to make this official?’
‘It’s a HATARI, so it should be reported,’ she said flatly.
The acronym stood for Human Tissue Authority Reportable Incident. The body that oversaw mortuary procedure, the HTA, required every body part and organ to be recorded, tracked, and accounted for. Putting the wrong organs back in a body was most definitely a HATARI, even if she had spotted it in time. Cassie was the mortuary’s ‘designated individual’ responsible for reporting any breaches of the protocol – an irony that wasn’t lost on her.
‘But you rectified the error?’ Doug asked, his habitual worried expression deepening. ‘So everything has been squared away?’
She lifted her chin. ‘Yes, but we should still report it. It’s a near-miss. I’ve mailed you my report to send to the HTA.’
‘Cassie, I know you take your responsibilities very seriously – that’s why you’re so good at your job.’ Ignoring the soft scoffing sound she made, he went on, ‘But I think you’re being overzealous. A mistake like that, which was immediately put right, doesn’t warrant reporting, in my opinion.’
‘Look, Doug, your loyalty has meant a lot to me over the years.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘But I think it’s time I did something different with my life. I’m just . . . I just don’t have the gift for this job anymore.’ Leaning forward, she put her mortuary key card on the desk between them.
Now Doug’s face creased in distress and coming round her side of the desk, he perched on the edge. ‘You’ve reported this so-called incident to me and it’s up to me to pass it on or not. I’m worried about you, Cassie. I’m no medic but anyone can see that you’re not yourself. It’s not the right moment to go making big decisions.’
His eye fell on the rash that had now spread across the backs of both her hands and up the wrists, the weals bleeding here and there. ‘That’s contact dermatitis, from the nitrile gloves. I’ve seen it before.’
‘So now I’m allergic to the job.’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Perfect.’
He waved his hand. ‘We can get you some hypo-allergenic gloves, that’s no problem. But allergies like that can be a sign of other . . . issues. Look, I know you don’t like asking for help, but I think you need to speak to someone.’ Turning his laptop round he scrolled through his emails. ‘Here, I got this yesterday. The head of psychiatric services at the hospital is looking for NHS workers “vulnerable to psychological consequences from their day-to-day duties” to be part of a pilot programme.’
Vulnerable. Not a word she’d ever thought to apply to herself. It was her job to look after other people.
‘You would need to work a month’s notice in any case. Let me arrange for you to talk to someone in the meantime, and if you still feel the same a few weeks down the line, I won’t try to talk you out of it.’ Doug sent her a kind smile. ‘How does that sound?’
Cassie pictured the faces of her guests backed up in the body store. Of course there was no way she could just walk out and leave them in the lurch.
Staring down at the bloodied backs of her hands, she recalled the promise she’d made to her gran. Maybe the only way to get both Babcia – and now Doug – off her back was to play along. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘but I still want to give a month’s notice.’
‘Deal!’ Doug’s relief was palpable, which only made her feel guilty. In a month’s time she’d be out of here.