H Good Grief

Good Grief

Being a same-sex partner I have little say in the nature of Gavin's
funeral. On the third day after he dies I get the call I have been
dreading. It comes at two am. I am not asleep.

"We're going to burn him," says Meg, Gavin's mother, cutting short any
of the usual conversational gambits.

"Gavin hated fire," I say.

There is a pause on the end of the line and then Meg's voice comes
again. "Well, Gavin's dead now, isn't he? I want to bring the ashes
back with me to LA. Bringing the whole coffin back would be too
expensive. And then on top of that there would be a mountain of
paperwork. Please, don't argue. This is a difficult enough time as it
is."

I take the phone away from my ear. I am lying naked on the sofa. I
haven't been able to face our bed since Gavin died. 'Our', is that the
right word now?

In the moonlight coming through the window I can see a photograph of
Gavin and me. We are standing on the top of Sydney's harbour bridge.
Gavin is posing like King Kong, a very small monster on the top of the
world.

'You are so beautiful,' I think. 'So beautiful.'

"Please," I say into the phone. "Will you call the funeral directors?
Say that it is ok for me to see the body. I just want to see him one
last time."

There is another pause. The time delay between here and LA, or
something else.

"I don't think so. I'm sorry. Gavin's dead, you understand? You have
to let go. I mean. Viewing the body, it's simply not something we do in
our family. It's nothing personal. That's just the way it is."

Quietly I replace the handset. It is five past two in the morning. I
get up from the sofa and walk through into the kitchen. I flick on the
kettle. I don't think I will be sleeping tonight.

**

On the day of the cremation I go to work. I arrive early, pull on my
green gown, and descend to the steaming bowels of the hospital.

"Hey man," says Macey, "what are you doing here? Isn't today, you
know, the day?"

I shrug my shoulders and tell Macey to grab me a coffee. Macey is from
Sierra Leone and knows all about death, more than half of his family
were massacred the year before he came to the UK.

"You'd better knock it back quick," says Macey, "word is out there's
been a pile up on the motorway. We's gunna be busy today."

Sure enough I've only taken two sips when the bell from theatre number
one rings and we're called upstairs.

There are two gurneys waiting for us. Apparently they are mother and
son. The son's head is caved in on the left hand side, like a crater on
the moon, and I am surprised he ever made it to theatre at all. The
mother's rib cage has been cut open and her heart is lying there like
something in a butcher's shop. It is obvious they weren't able to save
her.

"Where've you two bleedin' been?" says one of the surgeons pushing the
gurney with the son on angrily towards us. "Get these two down to the
morgue. Do you know how many we've got backed up out there?"

I take one of the gurneys and Macey takes the other. We share the lift
down with an old lady who offers us both a mint.

"They think they've got my husband," she says. "He went ice-fishing
last weekend and he hasn't been seen since. He was ninety-three. 'If I
can't live life now, when can I live it?' Those were his last words to
me." The woman gestures to the bodies on the gurneys. "What happened to
these two?"

"Car crash," I say.

"Never driven myself," says the old lady. "Seems like an awful foolish
way to go."

"You sure you're ok here today?" says Macey.

"Compared to watching Gavin burn," I say, "this is a walk in the
park."

"Strange bloody park," says Macey and we head off into the
morgue.

**

Macey and I don't get a break until way after our usual break time. We
each grab a coffee and pull up one of the plastic seats.

"I ever tell you I hit on Gavin?" says Macey.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Macey laughs. He has a laugh like a tank. "Because at that funeral
they'll be talking about Gavin. Because I'm wondering what the hell
you're doing here today."

"I'm alright," I say. "Let's change the subject."

Macey slaps his hand against his forehead. "Man, I remember now, I've
got something to show you."

Macey stands up and goes over to his locker. He comes back holding the
latest edition of Fortean Times. This is his favourite magazine.

"Look," he says, "they found these aliens in Birmingham running a
pizza place. You grow up in Sierra Leone you miss things like this. You
think everyone's from the same planet."

"Let me see that," I say. I take the magazine from Macey. It is not
the alien story I am interested in but another article at the bottom of
the page. I read it through once and then again.

"Can I keep this?" I say to Macey.

"Whatever," says Macey. "But leave me the alien one."

Carefully I tear out the article I want. Then I excuse myself from the
table and go and make a few phone calls.

The whole thing is easier to arrange than I imagined. The next day I
will be off to Hamburg.

**

The flight leaves on the nose and lands in under a few hours in
Hamburg. Everything looks so clean and I wonder if I could live here in
the future.

Gavin loved Germany. One Summer he dragged me around Berlin looking
for locations from the movie Cabaret.

"I'll be Sally Bowles," he said, "you can be Herr Issevoo," and he had
straddled a chair in our hotel room and began singing his favourite
song from the Kit Kat Klub. This memory is like a ghost inside my head
clamouring to get out.

The taxi pulls to a stop outside a large brick-fronted building. I
point to the address I have scribbled on the piece of paper and the
taxi driver nods his head.

There are a number of brass plaques on the left-hand side of the door.
Dr Weiskleiger I see is on the third floor. I push my way in and head
up the stone staircase. The sound of my own footsteps echoes around
me.

**

Dr Weiskleiger's office is an oak panelled shell. Everywhere on the
walls are certificates displayed in wooden-edged frames.

I take a seat and quickly explain my story and how I came across the
article in the Fortean Times. When I have finished Dr Weiskleiger
positions his arms in a triangle under his chin and leans towards me
across the desk.

"This is most unusual," he says, "usually we have a body. You say he
was burnt? You saw this with your own eyes?"

Outside a large black bird flies past the window, somewhere someone
shouts something and a car horn blares.

"Not with my own eyes," I say, "but I have it on good
authority."

Dr Weiskleiger leans back. "Without a body?"

"I can get a body," I say sharply. "That is not a problem."

"Young man," says Dr Weiskleiger, "I don't think you understand what
we do here. You say you have read the article?"

I nod my head and stand up. "I have given this a lot of thought. All I
want you to do is provide the serum. You can leave the rest to me. You
are a scientist, aren't you even slightly interested to find out what
is possible?"

A smile plays across Dr Weiskleiger's lips. I see that by appealing to
his scientific nature I have him hooked.

**

That evening, on arriving back in England, I call Macey and arrange to
meet him in The Swan. This is our local pub.

When I arrive the place is packed and full of noise. Over in one
corner is a large screen tv showing a game of football. I spy Macey
wedged into a alcove by himself. He looks like a big piece of black
cheese.

I attempt to tell Macey my plan a number of times but the each times
my words are drowned out by the shouts around us. I recall now that
tonight is the night England are playing Portugal in the European Cup
quarter-finals.

I cup my hands together and place them over Macey's left ear.

"MY GAVIN IS DEAD," I shout. "I'M GOING TO BUILD MYSELF ANOTHER GAVIN
AND BRING HIM BACK TO LIFE."

My words have an immediate effect. Macey goes pale and drags me out of
the pub and into the parking area. It is raining and the drops land on
me and Macey like so many tiny explosions.

I explain to Macey about the article I read in the Fortean Times about
the doctor who has developed a serum to bring dead people back to
life.

"Wouldn't you bring your family back if you could?" I ask.

Macey shrugs. "It's been a long time," he says. "Their death is as
real now as their lives ever were." Then he scratches his head. "But
Gavin was burnt. I don't get how you can bring him back."

So I tell him what I intend to do. We work in a hospital and everyday
we move dead bodies about. Each body we move we will check for
similarities to Gavin's. If a certain part of a body should resemble
that of Gavin's we will cut it off. Eventually we will have a complete
body. I will inject the serum and bring it back to life.

"I'm not sure about this," says Macey. "You're going to steal from the
dead."

"No," I say, "I am going to give new life."

Macey walks away and then he walks back. "This thing you build, it
won't be Gavin. It might look like Gavin but it won't be him."

"It will," I say. "You just have to believe. That's what I think. It's
just a matter of belief."

**

We set up a base of operation in a cleaning cupboard in the depths of
the hospital. I have sorted out some photographs of Gavin for reference
which I pin to a cork-board. I have a pointer to point at each one.
Macey is sitting on a cellophane wrapped pile of industrial toilet
rolls.

"This is the nose," I say pointing to the nose. "See how it is
slightly upturned at the end."

"What's that one?" says Macey. He points to the photograph at the
bottom of the board.

"That's his bum," I say.

"I thought it was cleavage," says Macey.

"Gavin didn't have cleavage," I say.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" says Macey.

It is hot in the cleaning cupboard, like a womb, and the ceiling is
only inches above our heads.

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?" I ask.

Macey purses his lips. "Of course I am." He pulls out the latest copy
of the Fortean Times. "Look, Elvis has been found alive and well on the
moon. Do you think he's one of Dr Weiskleiger's patients?"

"He could well be."

In my pocket my pager buzzes. I take it out and see that our services
are required in theatre two. There has been a small incendiary device
outside the Spud-U-Like on the High Street. So far the body count is at
two. Hopefully they won't be too badly damaged.

"If they've been blown to bits," says Macey. "It will save us having
to do any actual cutting."

"Now you're coming round to my way of thinking," I say.

I flick off the lights and Macey and I head upstairs.

**

For two days we find nothing suitable and then on the third day Macey
comes into the cleaning cupboard clutching something in the palm of his
left hand.

"I found it," he says. "The right ear."

Carefully I take the ear from him and hold it up to the light. Light
glows through its periphery and I remember a day on the beach in Sitges
when Gavin turned towards me to share a line in the book he was reading
and his ear looked just like this one before me now.

I place the ear carefully on the table. Macey smiles at me and
spontaneously we both clap our hands. It is a good moment.

Finding the ear seems to be like taking a thumb out of a dam.
After
this the parts come thick and fast.

I find an arm on an Turkish labourer who has died in a motorcycle
accident, Macey finds a torso on a market gardener from Swadlingcote
who got bitten by a rare bee shipped in by accident of the frond of a
Rhodesian palm. Slowly, slowly the body starts to take shape.

At night I lie awake on my sofa and dream of the resurrection. I can't
wait. The house seems so huge with only me in it and I feel like a pea
at the bottom of a pan. If this doesn't work out then I have decided I
will sell. Death, I realise, has had a big impact on my life.

**

On the second Tuesday after we start the whole project I am in the
storeroom gazing at the body we have put together. It is complete
except for the legs. Gavin always said that his legs were his best
feature and I am being very fussy about finding an exact match.

"We could get any old legs and cover them with nice trousers," says
Macey. "Who will know the difference?"

"I will," I say.

It is remarkable how much the body resembles Gavin and each time I see
it I have to catch my breath.

"I want the legs to be as perfect and beautiful as the rest," I
say.

"You're the boss," says Macey and then he asks me if I would like to
come out with him and some of the guys that evening.

"It's an Afro-Caribbean disco at the local village hall." Macey
glances at the body. "Gavin would have wanted you to go out. Soon
enough he'll be around again and he can tell you so himself."

It is the last sentence that cinches the argument. "Ok," I say, "I'll
come."

**

At the party there are a lot of big black guys who look like
Macey.

"That's Himbo," he says, "I live with him." And he goes on. "That's
Amiri, I live with him. That's Umberto, I live with him. That's Ooga, I
live with him."

After about fifteen minutes of this I ask Macey to stop.

"How many people do you live with?" I say.

"Twenty-six," says Macey. "But it's not too bad, I only share a
bedroom with eight, a bed with five."

I am about to make some kind of comment when Macey adds, "It's to cut
down costs, me living with all these people. I send most of my money
back to Sierra Leone to support the half of my family who weren't
massacred. Come on, do you want to dance?"

Britney Speares is playing so I say yes and we push into the mass
of
bodies. Above us lights flash off and on and the beat pounds in my ears
like drums. Macey dances like a cat in a cartoon and at one point I
raise my hands above my head and look up at the ceiling. It looks
awfully far away.

When we go and sit down the hands on the clocks have moved on and I am
covered in sweat. Sitting opposite us is Losotho. This is one of
Macey's buddies.

"Hello," he says and then he asks us if we have heard about the
crash.

"What crash?" I say my ears pricking up.

"The football team. Apparently their coach crashed into a horsebox.
There are bodies strewn all over the motorway."

Sensing this is the chance I have been waiting for to complete the
body I ask Losotho where exactly on the motorway the crash was. Then I
drag Macey out of the church hall.

"It doesn't seem right," he says. "They may not even be dead
yet."

"If they're not dead, I won't take the legs. It stands to reason that
football players are going to have nice legs. This is what we've been
waiting for."

Macey runs a hand over the top of his head. "Man," he says, "say we
get these legs, we inject the serum, the body wakes up and it's not
Gavin."

"It will be," I say. "It has to be. Are you with me or not?"

Slowly, Macey nods his head.

We stop by my house for a saw and a sack and then we head to the crash
scene. There are ambulances and police cars and fire trucks here as
well as a big crowd of people who have stopped by to have a look.

Macey and I slip under the cordon and pause by the first body. A
fireman is standing watch and two medics are kneeling over it. I
recognise the player's face from Match of the Day.

"Is he alive?" I ask.

"Barely," says one of the medics and pulls out a large syringe from a
bag.

"Can you move along please?" says the fireman. "There's nothing to
see."

The medic pushes the syringe into a place just above the belly. The
football player lets out a long low moan. Behind us a tow-truck first
catches alight and then explodes in a ball of flame.

"Nothing to see," says the fireman and makes a shooing movement with
his hands.

At the third body Macey and I strike lucky. This one is dead.

"You keep an eye out," I say, "I'll check the legs."

The footballer's head is twisted at one hundred and eighty degrees to
his shoulders and his left arm is missing. Blood is seeping out of the
empty socket onto the tarmac.

"Hurry up," says Macey. "They'll be on to us soon."

The footballer has a fancy buckle on his belt. I wonder if he knew
when he bought it it would be money soon wasted. Or perhaps not wasted,
because money is of little use to him now too. I undo the buckle and
pull down the trousers and underpants.

I take a small flashlight out of my pocket and run it up and down the
legs. The thighs are covered in a dark brown aura of hair, the calf
muscle is like a rectangular box. I run my fingers along the length of
a shin bone and bring my ear down so it is resting on the
kneecap.

"Gavin," I whisper, "Gavin. I miss you so much."

"There's someone coming," hisses Macey. "Are these the ones or
not?"

"Yes they are," I say. I raise my head and test the sharpness of the
saw blade against my finger. Then I start to cut.

**

Macey and I nip into a local pub and knock back a triple brandy each to
calm ourselves down. After, we head back to the hospital. I have the
legs in a sack over my shoulder.

Macey stands behind me, nervously pacing, while I attach the legs.
Over the past weeks I have developed a fine sewing hand and even close
up it is almost impossible to see the stitches.

I ask Macey to help me roll the body over so I can do the back. Then I
bite off the end of the cotton and move away to examine my work.

"It's Gavin," I say.

"We did it," says Macey. He breaks into a big smile and claps his
hands. I clap my hands and we both jump up and down. In the heat of the
moment I feel Macey's arms around me and the next thing I know his lips
are on mine. I feel myself returning the kiss, my tongue going into his
mouth and then I snap away.

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" I shout.

Macey holds up his hands, palms forward. "I'm sorry," he says. "I got
carried away."

"WE'RE ABOUT TO BRING MY FUCKING BOYFRIEND BACK TO LIFE."

"Sorry," says Macey.

All I can see is blue. "JUST FUCK OFF," I shout. I go over and open
the storeroom door. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE."

Macey tries to say something but I am not hearing him anymore.

"I'll see you around," says Macey and he leaves the room. I close the
door and lean back against it. I can hear this roaring in my
ears.

"I'm sorry," I say to Gavin. "It didn't mean anything. Macey is just a
friend. He knows that as well as I do."

I go to the locker and retrieve the serum that Dr Weiskleiger gave me.
I pull the stopper off the end of the needle and go over to where Gavin
is lying. Dr Weiskleiger said to inject the serum into the buttock so
gently I roll Gavin over.

I mark a place with my fingers and insert the needle. It slips in
easily, the skin barely rippling around it.

"Please work," I say and I push down on the plunger.

I don't know if I expect an immediate effect but the effect is
immediate. The toes start to move, then the ankles flex, then the knees
vibrate, then the thigh muscles spasm.

I wrap my arms around myself and hug tightly. "Come on," I say.

I am expecting the movement to move up the body but as yet the stomach
is still, the chest is silent.

"Come on," I say again.

The thighs are still spasming and the movement is becoming more and
more violent. I don't know whether I should make an attempt at
restraining the legs or whether I should slap the upper part of the
body to try and bring some life to it like they do on hospital dramas.
I am still undecided when I hear a ripping noise and I see the stitches
I have most recently sewed have come out and the legs have become
detached from the body.

For a second the legs are still, as if surprised, then they flip to
the left and fall onto the floor with a whump. They are out of sight
and I move around the table to get a view of them again. It is to my
amazement that I see they are still full of life. I watch breathless as
they get themselves upright and begin shuffling around the room.

"Gavin," I say. "Gavin." And this is all I can say.

**

The next day I call Dr Weiskleiger.

"The legs are fully automative?" he says.

"They have been walking all night," I say.

"Walking where?" says Dr Weiskleiger.

I feel we are going around in circles, like the legs in the room. "Is
there anything I can do?" I ask. "Reattach the legs. Inject more serum.
Find more body parts."

"I'm afraid the case sounds hopeless," says Dr Weiskleiger. "This was
always a possibility."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" I say.

Dr Weiskleiger speaks curtly. "When you are operating on the cusp of
known knowledge then uncertainties are likely to surface at every
opportunity."

I twist the phone cord around my left wrist and stand up from the
sofa. Across the room I can see the picture of Gavin on the top of
Sydney harbour bridge. What hurts the most is that I never got to say
goodbye, not properly.

"So what can I do?" I say into the phone.

There is a pause, then the voice comes through louder than ever, like
a surge of electricity.

"This may be hard for you to understand but without sustenance the
legs will die again. Of course, being legs, they have no way of taking
on sustenance. My advice to you would be to make the legs comfortable.
Give them a happy time. Some legs die only once. To die twice must
surely be a blessing?"

I replace the handset of the phone and sit back down on the sofa. I
put my head in my hands and think. Dr Weiskleiger's words have some
sense in them.

After an hour I call Macey and arrange to meet him at the
hospital.

**

We find the legs still shuffling around the room, like they have
somewhere to go but are not sure of the way. I ask Macey to hold them
while I put on the clothes I have brought from home.

I slip on the underpants, Gavin's favourites, they have a picture of a
frog on them, then a pair of jeans, then socks, then trainers. Once
complete I hold the bag open and Macey slides the legs inside.

"What are you going to do with that?" Macey nods to where the top half
of the body is still lying on the table.

"I'm not sure," I say. "You know I said it was all a matter of belief?
It is. I don't believe that that's Gavin anymore. Gavin is in these
legs. That's what I feel."

Outside the hospital I holler a taxi and ask it to take us to the
station.

"Shall I get a ticket for the legs?" says Macey.

"What do you think?" I say.

Macey nods his head and goes to join the queue.

The train is not busy and the legs can have a seat to themselves. I
watch the countryside go past outside, flying by as if it doesn't care.
The legs don't move, perhaps sensing that at last they are really going
somewhere.

"About the other day," I say to Macey, "I'm sorry I got angry."

"I'm sorry too," says Macey. "I shouldn't have kissed you. I was
happy, you know, that we'd done it. It got me thinking about my own
family. The ones that got killed back home. It comes up on you
sometimes and you want to hold on."

"I know," I say.

We get off the train at Matlock. A small woman in a red hat sits on a
bench clutching tightly onto a Chihuahua barking excitedly.

I lead Macey through the town, past the chip shops and men on
motorbikes, and down a path to the river. It is a hot day. Yellow and
white butterflies bounce on the rooftops of grass.

The legs have stuck close by us all the way through the town but once
Macey and I sit down they start to carefully explore by themselves.
They work outwards in increasing concentric circles until finally they
find themselves by the river.

"Gavin and I used to come here," I say. "It was his favourite place.
We came a week before he died. We went skinny-dipping in the river. A
couple with children saw us and called the police on their mobile
phone. 'We're just naked,' said Gavin, 'that's all'. I heard the mother
repeat this later to the policeman as if it was an important piece of
information."

I see that the legs are no longer by the river but have scooted over
to a tree and are rubbing themselves almost frantically against
it.

"I think they want the clothes off," says Macey.

"It's history repeating itself," I say.

Macey holds the legs and I remove the clothes. They stand still while
I am doing this but as the last sock is removed they are off towards
the water like a shot.

"How do they know where they are going?" says Macey. "I mean not
having any eyes."

"Tell me," I say, "how did your family die exactly?"

Macey folds his feet under his buttocks. "I don't know exactly," he
says. "It was my uncle who found them. They were clam gatherers back
then. Every day they'd wade out into shallows of the Mangrove swamps.
When they didn't come home my uncle went out to look. The bodies were
blue, hanging there in the water. The heads had been cut off. We had to
bury them like that. It didn't seem right."

The legs are splashing in the water. As they go deeper in the penis
floats on the surface of the water. It looks like a snake, or something
else. I want to hold it one last time so I ask Macey to leave me for a
while. He nods his head ok and I walk down to the river.

**

When Macey comes back it is almost dark. I am sitting on the river bank
and I have the legs across my own. They are not moving.

"You ok?" says Macey.

"They'd had enough," I say. "They're gone. Will you help me bury
them?"

"Sure," says Macey.

I've brought two small trowels with me. We take one each and choose a
spot beneath a large tree. The soil is soft here and comes up easily
but still after fifteen minutes I am sweating.

"We want it deep," says Macey. "I imagine this is a place people will
bring their dogs. We don't want a dog digging them up."

"No we don't," I say.

It is late by the time we finish. The hole is as deep as a grave but
about half as long.

"I think I want to bury him in his frog underpants," I say.

"You're the boss," said Macey.

I slip the underpants over the ankles, the thighs. The penis is still
warm. I look at it for a last time and say a silent goodbye and then
Macey and I lift the legs together and place them carefully into the
hole.

"It's a nice spot," says Macey. "Would you like to say a few
words?"

"Actually, I have prepared something." I pull a piece of paper out of
my pocket and begin to read.

"Dear Gavin, we were together for five years. Sometimes you were
difficult and sometimes you were nice but I always loved you. I used to
hate it when you woke me up at half past five in the morning to go to
the gym and then decided you wouldn't go but instead lay chatting to me
so I was tired for the whole of the day.

"When I was with you sometimes I just wished that you were gone, that
I was single again and I could spend all my time doing what I really
wanted to do, watching the football, not changing out of my pyjamas for
the whole day or days, not going into the garden either to water it or
to cut the grass.

"I know sometimes you were tempted by other people and sometimes you
gave in to those temptations and I would hate you then and I would
stand naked in front of the mirror and wonder what was wrong with me. I
even packed my bag once and decided enough was enough. I was
leaving.

"But now you are gone I can't say how much I want you back. I just
wish that you were with me here again and I am not sure how I will ever
live without you in my life. You had something and I don't know what it
was. Is that what love is, a constant state of unknowing, of not being
sure? I am not sure.

"I hope that you will be happy here in your place by the water and I
am sorry that your mother burnt the other you. I am glad that I managed
to bring you back so we could end things like this. We may be different
but that doesn't mean what we feel is any less true. Let's hope things
change in the big world one day. I believe that they will.
Goodbye."

I fold up the piece of paper and put it back in my pocket.

"Would you like to say something?" I say to Macey.

"No," he says, "that was nice."

"Come on then," I say, "let's go and get the train. You haven't lost
the tickets, have you?"

Macey shakes his head and we head away from the grave back towards the
station. Behind us is the sound of the water flowing, down towards the
sea, out into the ocean, that big wide space where we can swim with
everyone.