The science lab reeks of gas and bleach. Zippy stands at the back of the crowd of Year 11s surrounding Mr McLean’s workbench.
‘Before I get started, can everyone see?’
Martin Hayes is standing in front of Zippy. He’s aiming the sharp end of a pencil at Chloe Ward’s bum. He looks over his shoulder, sees Zippy and steps back, motioning to her.
‘Here,’ he says, in the careful, friendly voice people have adopted since she came back to school.
Zippy shakes her head at him. Although no one’s mentioned it, she knows there was an announcement in Monday’s assembly because by mid-morning her Facebook page was full of condolences:
So sorry m8 x
RIP ur lil sis
hugz 2 u xx
She had nineteen new friend requests, and someone had made a page, ‘In Memary of Izzie Bradley’, which had twenty-six likes. Lauren made several comments on the page, each one prefaced by BBF. She might as well have made an announcement: I’m best friends with the bereaved girl, be nice to me, I’m devastated by association.
Zippy wants to stay at the back of the class but Martin moves and Mr McLean notices her. ‘Plenty of space at the front for a small one,’ he calls. ‘You won’t see anything back there, Zippy. Come on.’
She squeezes past the boys and the taller girls at the back until she is standing right next to Mr McLean’s workbench. She looks down at the swirly pattern of the wood because she doesn’t want to see what’s laid out in front of her.
‘OK, OK. Let’s get started. Dissection pan. Pins. Scissors. Tweezers. Frog.’ Mr McLean sounds like he’s been looking forward to this all week. ‘The frog’s been prepared for dissection, so all I’ve got to do is secure it. The pins go right through the tissue, like this and this, into the wax in the bottom of the pan.’
Murmurs of disgust and amusement ripple through the Year 11s. Zippy concentrates on the bench.
‘First, let’s just have a look at him. See how he has four toes on his forelimbs but five on his hind limbs? See how smooth and slippery he is? That’s due to the mucus that’s formed by cells in the skin. Now, I need to make one long cut, straight down the centre of the ventral side – that’s what the stomach side is called – all the way down to the cloaca, the opening his waste and sperm come out of.’
There’s another sniggery ripple and Martin Hayes takes the opportunity to poke Chloe Ward in the bum with his pencil. When Chloe whips around to snatch the pencil, Zippy accidentally looks up, and then she can’t look away.
The frog is grey and stiff and its skin is tight and shiny.
‘Right, I’m going to make the cut. Here we go.’
The scissors make a rubbery sound as they cut the frog open.
‘Now I’m going to make two side cuts at the top, and two at the bottom.’
Mr McLean cuts across the torso near the front legs and then the hind legs. He picks up the tweezers and pulls the flaps back. The frog is suddenly very human and Zippy’s stomach scrunches – it looks like a little old man, like Jeremy Fisher in a waistcoat of skin.
‘I’m going to pin the skin, like this, and this. And now I’ll cut the muscle. See all the blood vessels here?’
The cutting sound is louder this time. Zippy watches as the scissors slice the tissue. She breathes slowly. The frog’s spirit has left its body, it can’t feel anything. But it looks so pitiful pinned to the tray with its insides out. Breathe in and breathe out. Keep breathing. Zippy drags her gaze back down to the workbench. The wood is stripy, flecked with imperfections and scratches. She tries to think about the wood and when that isn’t enough she looks at the tiny hairs on Chloe Ward’s tangerine arms, but it’s no good, the dam breaks and all she can think about is Issy.
When Dad asked her to go to the funeral directors’ with Mum, Zippy said no, but he wouldn’t leave it, he wanted to know why.
‘I just don’t want to.’
That’s not a good reason. Why don’t you do it for Mum?’
‘Can’t someone else?’
‘She doesn’t want anyone else there.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know – she doesn’t want anyone except family.’
‘I’ve never seen a dead person before. It’d be like a horror film.’
‘When’ve you ever watched a horror film?’
‘Why don’t you go?’
‘Well, women usually dress women and men dress men. It doesn’t say anything about children, still … I thought Sister Stevens could help, but Mum said no. It’d be a nice thing for you and Mum to do it together.’
‘I don’t want women doing stuff to my body when I die. My husband can do it.’
‘Don’t be silly, you won’t mind, you’ll be dead.’
‘And I don’t want to see Issy.’
‘It’s just Issy’s body, she isn’t there any more.’
‘I know. That’s why I don’t want to see her.’
‘It’s just an empty shell. There’s nothing to worry about. There’s nothing scary about your sister’s body.’
‘But I don’t –’
‘OK, OK. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I would, Dad,’ she said, trying to be generous in victory, ‘it’s just –’
‘No, it’s not a problem. Don’t worry. I’ll sort something else out.’
Dad picked the Church Handbook off the bookcase and started thumbing through the pages, his lips moving as he read stuff in his head. ‘I suppose I could go with your mum.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ she said.
‘I just thought that she might prefer it if you …’
His words dangled like a fishing hook. Zippy pretended to examine her thumbnail and then scratched a pretend itch on her arm.
‘Your mum’s very upset.’ Dad sighed and flicked through more pages of the Handbook. ‘When Jesus died his friends went to the tomb to prepare his body for burial. Of course, when they got there, it was empty, but I think their intentions were clear. And I’ve always thought it was such a kind thing to do.’
‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘I think it’s what a true friend would do.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘I imagine Jesus was extremely grateful.’
‘Yeah.’
‘“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”’
Dad didn’t say anything else. He just put the Handbook back on the bookcase and left the room. But his meaning was quite clear. If she didn’t go with Mum, she wouldn’t be a true friend to Issy, and she would have to live with her unkindness forever.
The front bit of the funeral directors’ was like an office. A woman sat behind a desk wearing a suit and typing on a keyboard as if she was just doing an ordinary job in a building that wasn’t full of dead people.
‘Please sit down while I get things ready,’ she said. Then she picked up a phone and said, ‘The Bradleys are here.’ She didn’t get anything ready. She just carried on typing with her clicky nails.
Mum sat down on the edge of a chair. She had a big carrier bag which she put on her lap.
‘What’s in the bag?’
Mum opened it wide so Zippy could see inside; a little pile of clothes, a pair of shoes, Issy’s patchwork blanket, the CD player from the kitchen and several CD cases.
‘We’re going to have music?’
‘Some people like it.’
‘You’ve done it before?’
‘A few times. But the sisters were all old.’
‘Do non-members do it?’
‘Dress the dead? I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s mostly to do with Temple clothes I think, with not letting non-members see them. And it’s a last act of service for the person who’s died. I’m sure you don’t think about dying, I didn’t when I was your age, but if you just try and imagine it, it’s nice to think that when you die people who love you, not strangers, will take care of your body.’
Zippy glanced at Mum’s body. It was a bit baggy, slightly droopy in places, and she knew she never wanted to see it naked or look after it when it was dead. She gestured at the woman who was staring at her computer screen as her fingers went clickety-click, click.
‘Why can’t she just do it? Isn’t it part of her job?’
Mum looked at the woman too. The woman’s nails were long and straight with sharp edges and painted with sparkly purple polish.
‘I wouldn’t want her touching Issy.’
They didn’t say anything else to each other for a bit and Zippy started to feel fidgety and awkward. Eventually Mum said, ‘Did you have a nice day?’
Zippy pulled the sleeves of her school jumper over her hands before sitting on them. Her day had been all right. She was beginning to get used to the pitying looks and the barely concealed curiosity.
A door opened and a man in a suit stepped into the reception area. He had a swirl of white hair that curled around his head like a Mr Whippy ice cream. He looked very serious, his hands were clasped and he did a funny little bow.
‘If you’d like to come through now,’ he said.
Mum sprang off her chair and Zippy followed. On the other side of the door things were different. There was a long, green-carpeted corridor flanked by gold curtains that were pulled across partitioned segments, like a posh changing room. Zippy wondered whether there were dead people in all of the cubicles or if they kept them in a big fridge somewhere and just wheeled them out when their relatives came to visit. The man stopped by one of the curtains and did the funny bow again. Then he pulled it back a little and extended one arm. Mum stepped in first. Zippy hesitated but the man bowed and gestured again, so she followed Mum into the little cubicle.
There wasn’t a window. The walls were painted yellow and decorated with a couple of old-fashioned pictures of angels in thick golden frames. The angels had wings which made Zippy feel annoyed – angels are resurrected humans and humans don’t have wings. A table-like stand leaned up against the right wall. It was covered in a long white cloth and Issy’s coffin lay on top of it. The coffin didn’t have a lid which surprised Zippy because she’d imagined that it would be propped open, like in Dracula. The funeral directors had covered Issy with a white blanket and from her position by the curtain Zippy couldn’t see anything except for the spread of Issy’s hair which made her knees wobble and she looked at the yellow walls and the green carpet and the big carrier bag in Mum’s hand instead.
‘Take as long as you wish,’ the man said to Mum. Then he bowed one last time, closed the curtain and disappeared.
‘I’m going to remove the stomach now,’ Mr McLean announces. He pokes around the frog’s insides with the tweezers and scissors. When he pulls the stomach out, he holds it up like a prize. It’s prawny, a sort of tiny foetus, and a tube attached to its end curls like a little tail.
‘Look at this, everyone.’
People laugh. A couple of the lads say daft things like ‘Phwoarh, nice stomach’, and a girl giggles and says, ‘I’m not looking, sir, I can’t look.’
Zippy doesn’t want to look either, but she can’t help it. Mr McLean’s tweezers remind her of chopsticks and the stomach dangles from them like something meaty from a tub of special fried rice. Her own stomach clenches and she runs a hand across her forehead to check for sweat. It’s moist and cool and she pulls the sleeve of her school jumper down past her fingers before making a second wipe. She shouldn’t have spent so long on the Internet last night, she knew she’d regret it later, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself.
When they got back from the funeral directors’ she wanted to know exactly what had happened to Issy. There’d been no point in asking Dad, he’d have only said, ‘What do you need to know that for?’ and she couldn’t bring herself to ask Mum, so she asked Wiki instead. The brain in the autopsy picture appeared to be wearing a polo neck of skin. She learned that the skin is cut along the crown and rolled back over the face. She tried to imagine Issy with her scalp inside out, and couldn’t. She read that a cut is made from the middle of the neck to the pubic bone. The major blood vessels are sliced open and inspected, and the chest cavity is emptied of organs which are then weighed, bagged and, once the cavity has been lined with cotton-wool, placed back inside, in a big jumble. When she’d finished reading, she turned off the computer, trudged upstairs and cried herself to sleep.
‘Ready for a testicle?’ Mr McLean asks.
The boys groan in unison and Mr McLean gives a sympathetic laugh. He rummages in the frog’s torso for a moment and retrieves a bright orange thing about the size of a baked bean.
‘There you go,’ he says. ‘Have a good look at that.’
He leans across his desk and presents the testicle for the students in the front row to inspect. Zippy wipes her forehead again and breathes deeply and slowly.
Mum put the bag on the floor and lifted the CD player out. She opened a case and crouched to place the disc in the player. She selected ‘Dearest Children, God is Near You’. Then she stood up and held out her hand.
Zippy’s feet felt like they were stuck to the green carpet and she couldn’t move for a moment, but then she took a step, and another, and another until she was standing next to Mum. She felt raw and shivery. She didn’t want to touch Mum, but it seemed mean not to and so she held Mum’s dry hand and they stood side by side for a little while, not saying anything. Zippy stared at Issy’s face; she didn’t look peaceful and she didn’t look asleep. She looked like a badly made model of herself, empty of all her Issy-ness. She looked really dead.
‘Right. OK.’ Mum unfastened their hands and took a deep breath, as if she were getting ready to start a race, or dive off a high board. ‘Let’s get rid of the blanket and then we can get her dressed.’
Mum’s fingers trembled as she lifted the blanket. Zippy thought about suggesting that they go home and let the funeral people do it instead, but she knew Mum would say no.
Issy was wearing her Cinderella nightie.
‘I brought her vest and knickers over earlier, while you were at school, and I asked if they’d put them on her,’ Mum said. ‘So don’t worry, we don’t have to see where they did the … you know.’ She folded the funeral directors’ blanket in half and in half again and then placed it on the floor. ‘Right, I’m going to get her nightie off.’ She bent down, rummaged in the bag and pulled out a pair of scissors.
‘You mean you’re going to cut it off, with the kitchen scissors?’
‘I can’t get it off by myself. And I think you’re going to struggle to help, aren’t you?’
Zippy nodded.
‘That’s why I brought the scissors.’
When Mum started cutting the nightie, Zippy stepped back towards the curtain so she didn’t have to watch. A new hymn started, ‘Lead Kindly Light’, one of her favourites, a hymn full of lovely words like ‘encircling’ and ‘garish’.
‘You like this one, don’t you?’ Mum said as she put the scissors on the floor next to the white blanket. ‘Why don’t you sing along? Issy would like that.’
Zippy didn’t feel as if she had much choice, she had to do something. While she sang, she watched Mum lift Issy’s arms and pull the nightie away. Everything was OK until the last lines of the hymn; when she sang about the smiling angel faces, her voice went all wobbly and by the time she reached the bit about being lost a while, she was crying properly – noisy sobs that bounced off her diaphragm and bumped against the yellow walls and curtains. Within moments, Mum was doing it too and Zippy hoped that the man with the swirly hair and the woman with the clicky nails couldn’t hear them.
‘Oh dear,’ Mum said with a juddering sob she tried to turn into a laugh. ‘This isn’t going well, is it? You don’t have to sing. No more singing. Tell you what, why don’t you pass Issy’s clothes to me?’ She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose while Zippy wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her school jumper.
Mum had packed a blue Sunday dress, frilly ankle socks, a flowery hairband and Issy’s best shoes – black patent with embroidered flowers. Zippy got them out of the carrier bag and arranged them in a little pile.
‘What about her glasses?’
‘I’ve decided to keep them.’
‘But …’
‘Go on.’
‘I was going to say she won’t be able to see.’
‘I thought so too, but I’ve decided to keep them anyway.’
Zippy handed the dress to Mum, who unfastened the buttons then picked up the scissors and positioned them inside the back of the waistband.
‘Oh. Don’t cut it.’
‘It’ll be tricky to lift and dress her at the same time. Don’t worry, it’s OK, it doesn’t matter.’
Of course it mattered. Zippy had a horrible vision of Issy coming forth on the morning of the first resurrection with a dissected dress and her knickers showing.
‘I’ll help,’ she offered.
Mum put the scissors down. ‘Are you sure? You don’t have to.’
‘No, I will.’
Mum scrunched the dress until it was shaped like a ring doughnut. She handed it to Zippy and then she stood at the head of the coffin. ‘I’m going to lift Issy and you need to put the dress over her head.’
Mum raised Issy’s head and shoulders. Zippy had expected Issy’s head to flop forward, but it didn’t. She seemed very solid, as if all her softness had leaked out. Zippy looped the ring of dress around Issy’s head then let go quickly so she didn’t have to touch her. A strip of black stitching ran across Issy’s crown like a hairband.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Mum said. ‘We’ll cover it up in a minute. Why don’t you get the socks and I’ll sort this out?’
Zippy picked up the socks while Mum pulled the dress down to Issy’s waist and drew the sleeve holes up her arms. She rolled Issy slightly onto her side and asked Zippy to fasten the buttons. Zippy’s fingers went all fumbly as she did the job, and even though the vest stopped her from touching Issy’s bare skin, she could sense the coldness beneath.
Mum straightened the skirt of Issy’s dress and took the socks from Zippy. She lifted Issy’s feet and slipped the socks on. Issy’s legs looked blotchy and cold, a shade of purply-yellow Zippy couldn’t name. They were still spattered with red spots and her little fingers were burgundy. Zippy passed the hairband to Mum, who put it directly over the incision on Issy’s head.
Mum did the shoes next and then she asked Zippy to pass the patchwork blanket from home. Mum folded the blanket in half and placed it over Issy. It came right up to her chin. Then Mum tucked her in.
Issy looked better under her own blanket but Zippy was disappointed that she didn’t look more like herself. Mum put her arm around Zippy and they stood there and listened to the music for a bit.
‘One last song,’ Mum said, and she knelt next to the almost empty bag, changed the CD and returned to Zippy’s side. They listened as the choir sang ‘God Be with You Till We Meet Again’. When the song finished they were both crying, but this time the tears were leaky rather than noisy and it was easier to stop.
‘Should we say a prayer or something before we go?’
‘Probably,’ Mum said.
Zippy closed her eyes and waited.
‘But I don’t feel like it, so you can if you want.’
She opened her eyes and stared at Mum. ‘Don’t you think we should do it properly?’
‘Go on, if you like.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Neither do I.’
Zippy said the prayer. But Mum didn’t fold her arms or bow her head, and Zippy was pretty certain she didn’t bother to close her eyes either, which made the prayer rubbish. It just sounded like a string of empty words.
After the prayer, Zippy picked up the CD player and put it back in the carrier bag.
‘I don’t want to leave her here by herself all weekend,’ Mum said. ‘Do you think they’ll let us bring her home?’
‘No.’
‘I bet they would. People used to do it in the olden days.’
‘No, Mum.’
‘They did. They used to take family pictures with the dead person.’
‘I mean, no I don’t think she should come home.’
‘I’m going to ask them,’ Mum said.
She swished the curtain back and hurried down the green carpet in search of the funny man with the white hair and Zippy chased after her because she didn’t want to be by herself with Issy’s body.
The bell rings for second period and Mr McLean discards the testicle and dives back into the frog’s torso. This time he emerges with something that resembles a skinny, coiled earthworm.
‘The small intestine,’ he says as the gut swings from his tweezers.
Zippy’s stomach scrunches several times in quick succession and she knows if she doesn’t get out of the lab right now, she will throw up all over Mr McLean’s desk.
‘Can I be excused, sir?’
‘Are you OK, Zippy?’ The intestine wobbles as he speaks.
‘I’m just a bit –’
‘Go and get some fresh air.’
She pushes through the crowd of Year 11s, looking at the floor, at the mishmash of black school shoes, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone who might either laugh or feel sorry for her. She shoves the lab door open and hurries down the corridor to the double-door exit.
Outside, she leans against the wall of the building and knocks back long swallows of fresh air. Breathe in, breathe out. She already feels a little better. Breathe in. A group of Year 7s pass on their way to a science lesson. Breathe out. Some sixth-formers stroll by, heading for the sports hall. She walks over to the raised flower beds and sits on the corner of a planter. Several of Adam’s friends approach, lugging heavy sports bags; they’re laughing, but they quieten when they see her and nod respectfully as they pass. Then Adam appears, bag bumping against his thigh as he jogs to catch up. He slows when he notices her and stops for a moment.
‘All right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. So what’re you doing here then?’
‘Just getting some fresh air.’
‘Right.’ He shuffles from one foot to the other. ‘And you’re all right?’
‘Yeah,’ she says again.
‘I was going to send you a card.’
She nods as if she knows, and briefly wonders whether he would have written ‘love from Adam’, or just signed his name.
‘You weren’t at Youth Night on Wednesday.’
‘I didn’t feel like coming so Mum said I didn’t have to.’
‘I just … I hoped you were OK.’
She attempts a smile to show she was fine and ends up pulling a face that demonstrates she wasn’t.
He puts his bag down and sits on the planter beside her. She shuffles to make more space but he rests a settling hand on her arm and she observes the bones and veins hiding under his skin.
‘Maybe you should go back to class? Then you won’t be by yourself.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘It might take your mind off stuff – better than sitting out here, thinking.’
‘It might.’
‘Good.’
He slips his hand into hers and squeezes. She lifts their knotted fingers and brushes his skin against her cheek; he’s warm and full of life and doesn’t seem to mind her borrowing his hand for a moment.
‘I’d better go.’
She relinquishes his hand so he can stand and pick up his bag and then she watches his body as he jogs away. It’s weird that he is made up of skin and muscle and strings of blood vessels; and it’s horrible that one day he will die and someone might have to open him up and catalogue his pieces. Does everyone look the same on the inside? It’s impossible to know – it’s not as if you can turn your gaze inward to follow the hairpin bends of brain tissue or stare at your sinuses.
There’s no way she is going back to biology. She hopes Mr McLean doesn’t come out to see if she’s all right; she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, not even Lauren, not properly. When they meet up at break time she’ll get Lauren chatting about Jordan Banks, that’ll take up the whole twenty minutes, easily. She can’t talk about this to anyone. Touching dead bodies is weird and even people at church would think it’s strange to keep one in your house.
The old man with the swirly hair thought it was weird.
‘Why don’t you go home and have a talk to your family about it?’ he suggested.
‘It’d just be for the weekend,’ Mum said, ‘so she’s not by herself. You can pick her up on Monday, when you come for us, before the funeral.’
The man said it was something to think about. Mum nodded and pretended to consider it but Zippy could tell she’d already made up her mind.
The thing is – people are more than their bodies. Zippy isn’t sure about the mechanics of it but when Issy climbed out of herself, she didn’t leave anything behind, she took all the bits that made her her – what’s left is empty and bringing it home is pointless.