Wish You Were Dead

1

Debbie talked to the dead. ‘Hello, boys and girls!’ she would greet them all at 10 p.m. every weekday, when she let herself into the silent mortuary, to clean. ‘Bet you wish you weren’t here!’ she would add. They never answered her back — well, at least no one had yet — and she was pretty glad about that.

Her friends asked her how she could stand to work here. Didn’t it spook her?

‘No,’ she would answer. ‘The dead don’t bother me. It’s the living that do. They’re much scarier!’

Although, in truth, with the flickering lights and the hum of the fridges, she was always just a little nervous in here. Which was why she liked to chat away, telling them all about her day and asking them about theirs. Most of them, she guessed, had had a pretty shitty day, which was why they were in this place.

She counted from the names on the fridge doors. Eighteen overnight guests. Two more than yesterday. They lay behind the doors on racks of shelves, wrapped in white plastic. Their names were on tags tied to their big toes — except for the occasional ones who arrived with no feet.

Debbie was nosey. As she went about her work, she always wondered what fate had brought each of them here. When she cleaned Mrs Grace’s office, she liked to sneak a look at the ledger.

All the details were recorded there. The name, date of death, if known, and suspected cause of death, also if known. Mostly they were known. Heart attack. Stroke. Suicide. Fall from a ladder. Stabbing. Road traffic accident. And mostly they were short-stay, before going off to a funeral home. But a few, names unknown, were here for months. One, badly burnt in a fire, who they had nicknamed Crispy, had been here for two years.

Tonight, she was on a cheeky mission. She had been offered a lovely sum of money — £500 — by Curtis, a dodgy friend of her husband, for some information. Not about one of the guests, but about Mrs Cleo Grace, who ran the Brighton and Hove City Mortuary.

Mrs Grace was going on a family summer holiday later in the year. Could she find out where, Curtis had asked, pressing the cash into her hand.

Debbie loved a challenge, and this one was much easier than she had expected. There, in a stack of papers on Mrs Grace’s desk, was a print-out of an email, with pictures, confirming her booking.

Bingo!

Checking to make sure no one was watching, she said, ‘No peeping, boys and girls!’ Then she took a photo with her phone.