Its a delicate job, one Mr Unwin has been doing since he was a small boy in his fathers funeral home. He has the gift: layers and layers of flesh-pink, blended beautifully to a soft sheen on her sallow skin; a subtle red lipstick painted on glued-together lips; eye shadow and blusher; her grey hair carefully styled. When hes finished she looks better than she has for years.
Death suits Mrs McNulty. She should have died years ago.
Mr McNulty has provided his wifes favourite ensemble for her final journey a blue, knee-length dress, a pair of thick brown tights, black pumps, and a large leather handbag. It takes a while to dress the deceased, but Mr Unwin has had plenty of practice putting clothes on dead bodies. At last shes ready for her final journey.
It isnt easy, hefting his partners wife into her coffin walnut and maple with a pale-blue silk lining and genuine brass handles but he manages. Theres a reason people call it dead weight. And Mrs McNulty has lots of it.
She looks so peaceful lying there, and Mr Unwin takes a moment to give thanks for her life, before wheeling her into the chapel of rest, where shell spend the night with Mrs Rileys mother. A pair of old ladies, comfortable together in eternal sleep.
Now only one thing remains to be done.
Mr Unwin takes Mrs McNultys hands and arranges them across her chest, right over left, gluing them together to make sure they stay in place. Sometimes the dearly departed move in transit, or the change in temperature from the funeral home, to the hearse, to a cold and draughty church makes their tendons contract. It can be very distressing for the family, and contact adhesive covers up a multitude of sins.
Back in the front office Mr Unwin settles behind his desk and looks out over the darkened rooftops of Old-castle. Eight days to Christmas and theres not a single decoration or card up in the funeral home. This is not a place for celebration; it is a place for quiet respect and mourning.
Theres a bottle of Highland Park in his desk and he pours himself a modest dram, adding a splash of cold water to loosen the whiskys aroma. He raises his glass to the sleeping city. To Mrs McNulty, may you have all the peace in death you denied your husband in life. Which was why Mr McNulty had pushed her down the stairs, fracturing her skull and breaking her neck.
With a faint smile, Mr Unwin unlocks the drawer in his desk and pulls out a long wooden box. It opens with a small golden key click and its contents sparkle in the dim light. Wedding rings, large and small, new and old, all cut or pulled from the fingers of the dearly departed. He places Mrs McNultys ring on the pile, admiring the way it fits so neatly with the others. All those lives. All that love. All that grief.
He has a separate box to keep the severed fingers in.
Contact adhesive covers a multitude of sins.
6: Geese a Laying
Kathy Geddes didnt look in any fit state to do a runner ? shuffling along, trying not to aggravate her piles and stitches ? but that didnt mean she was free to wander round Castle Hill Infirmary unsupervised.
Val Macintyre dawdled along beside her, hands in the pockets of her uniform trousers. Of course she could have worn plain clothes, treated it as an undercover operation, but that was just asking for trouble. No, a prison officer wore a uniform for a reason so everyone knew who was who. And besides, it wouldnt feel right: escorting a prisoner out of uniform. Not having that comforting bundle of keys jangling against her leg.
Geddes winced her way down the stairs, across the corridor and out into a small, bleak courtyard, lined on four sides with dirty brick and lichen-speckled concrete. The hospital had put up a bus shelter, smack bang in the middle, so patients could have a cigarette without setting off every smoke detector in the place.
A wheezy old man huddled in the smoking hut, drip stand in one hand and a ratty-looking roll-up in the other.
Val waited for him to finish and hobble off before crossing her arms and squinting at Geddes. You shouldnt be smoking.
Bite me. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and oozed smoke towards the ceiling.
Youre supposed to be breastfeeding!
Bugger that: little bastards chewed me nipples raw. Theyre like half a pound of mince. He can go on the bottle.
Dont call him that.
What, bastard? Why not? Thats what he is, isnt he? Havent got a clue who his dad is.
I dont like it. Val turned her back and stared out of the rain-flecked glass. At least they didnt have long to go. Thank God.
Behind her, Geddes was humming something vaguely recognizable as a Christmas carol. Not that there was much sign of the festive season in the smoking hut, just a big poster reminding everyone that SMOKING KILLS!
When you going to get me some more vodka then?
Youre supposed to be looking after that baby, not boozing it up. She squared her shoulders and put on her prison guard voice. Thats long enough. Were going back to the ward.
But I dont want to! Whining and petulant. Like a child. Im fed up of this shite!
You should have thought of that before you got pregnant, you selfish little. . . Val rubbed a hand across her face. Took a deep breath. Sorry. I didnt mean that. Its been a long week.
Geddes shrugged and headed back out into the rain.
Oldcastle Royal Infirmary sulked on the south-east corner of Castle Hill the ancient building a testament to Vic-torian civic pride. The sort of place red brick and long, winding corridors went to die. Sometime in the late sixties the city council had added an extension: two massive wings in glass, steel and concrete.
The maternity ward was in the older part.
Theyd put Kathy Geddes in a private room: somewhere secluded, where she wouldnt upset the other mothers with her convictions for assault, lewd behaviour, drunk and disorderly, soliciting, robbery, and the piece de resistance: attempted murder.
She didnt deserve to have a baby. She was a terrible mother to the three kids she already had, never mind a new one drinking, smoking, doing drugs. . . Not like Val. Val and her husband did everything they were supposed to, followed the doctors instructions to the letter, but could she get pregnant? No. Geddes was like a bloody rabbit and Val couldnt even have one.
She sat in the uncomfortable visitors chair and watched the cot while Geddes ate crisps and stared at the television.
Rolf that was what shed called her little baby boy. Rolf Ainsley Schofield Geddes She shouldnt be allowed to have children, torturing the poor kid like that.
It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that he wasnt a Rolf . He was a Brian, or a Donald. . . Yes, definitely a Donald.
He yawned, showing off a little pink mouth and tiny pink tongue. Donald Macintyre. It had a lovely ring to it. Donald Philip Macintyre. Philip after her father, who went to his grave without ever having a grandchild.
Geddes stuffed in another handful of crisps, chewing with her mouth open.
It just wasnt fair.
A nurse came round with the tea trolley at ten pm, wearing brown felt antlers and novelty-snowmen earrings that flashed on and off. Geddes curled her top lip. Bloody tea tastes like warm pish. And how come you cant get any decent sodding biscuits on the NHS?
The nurse ignored her, gave Val a cup of coffee and a long-suffering sigh, then disappeared off to spread cheer among the other mothers.
Now they were all alone: Geddes, Val and little Donald.
Right, Val put her empty cup down on the bedside cabinet, are you sure youre feeling up to this?
Bloody right I am. Kathy levered herself out of bed. Driving me mad, sitting here all day.
What about the stitches?
Bugger the stitches. She peeled off her hospital-issue nightie and stood there in a baggy bra and grey pants, stomach swollen and saggy at the same time. You going to help or not?
Val nodded, took a deep breath, and helped Kathy into a brand-new set of clothes. Then stood back as she stared at herself in the mirror. Isnt that better?
Jesus. . . Geddes pulled at the top Norman had picked up from the big Marks and Spencer on Dundas Road, Is your bloody husband blind? What the hells this supposed to be?
You look fine.
I look like a bloody frump.
Val stripped down to her underwear then clambered into a pair of tan chinos and a pink sweatshirt, and pulled a baby sling on over the top. It still had the price tag from John Lewis dangling from one of the straps. She stuffed their discarded clothes and a few supplies into a large grey holdall. Nappies, cotton buds, surgical gloves, baby wipes, that kind of thing.
You look fine.
I look like a bloody frump.
Val stripped down to her underwear then clambered into a pair of tan chinos and a pink sweatshirt, and pulled a baby sling on over the top. It still had the price tag from John Lewis dangling from one of the straps. She stuffed their discarded clothes and a few supplies into a large grey holdall. Nappies, cotton buds, surgical gloves, baby wipes, that kind of thing.
She handed Geddes a green Oldcastle Tigers baseball cap. Are you ready?
Youll have to carry the little bastard my arse is giving me gyp. Geddes peered out through the blinds at the corridor. You sure well no be seen?
Come on darling, come to your aunty Val. . . She lifted him out of his cot, wrapped him up in a snugly new blanket, then slipped him into the baby sling. Warmth spread through her like sunshine as she looked down at Donalds little pink face. He was perfect. Utterly, utterly perfect.
You finished sodding about? Cos Id like to get the hell out of here!
Val pulled on a long overcoat, fastening it over Donald in his sling: hiding him from sight. Another baseball cap topped off her disguise. Not even her own mother would recognize her.
There was no one in the corridor, just the low gurgle and hum of the hospitals heating system to keep them company as they walked past the antenatal rooms, examination suite, and birthing pool.
The nurses station was empty ten-past ten, right on schedule. The duty nurse would be away getting things organized for tomorrows rounds. No witnesses.
They pushed out through the wards outer doors, keeping their heads down to avoid the cameras.