Page 9 of Mortis

Dorothy, thankfully, remained above such slander.

“Seriously,” I growled. “Will you fuck off and do your job?”

With a huff, I turned away and checked Dorothy’s progress. Satisfied there was nothing left to remove, I withdrew the trocar, cleaned the sharp end, and reinserted it into her intestines. Then I reached for the suture kit and began stitching the small incision closed.

“It’s quiet as fuck out there,” Arlo complained. “Not enough people are dying in this tiny town.”

“Right,” I scoffed, focusing on the repetitive task. Pierce the needle through the skin, pull the nylon thread through, repeat. “Because people dying is a good thing.”

“I’m not asking for much,” he replied. “Maybe just a small bus crash full of old biddies who are already on their last legs.”

I paused mid-stitch and gawped at him over my shoulder.

“Arlo, that’s awful!”

“Oh, stop your whining, Teds. It’s not like I’m wishing the nice ladies from the Women’s Institute would drop dead.” He rolled his eyes. “How about a bus full of child murderers? Is that better?”

“You shouldn’t be wishing death on anyone, full stop!”

“What’s going on in here?”

Both Arlo and I turned towards the embalming room door. My grandad stood just beyond the threshold, a mask covering his mouth. Unfortunately, it did nothing to hide the way his honey-brown eyes twinkled as he looked between us.

“Teddy’s getting annoyed because I’m waiting for a coachload of child murderers to take a dive into the River Windrush.”

I frowned.

The traitor.

My grandad cocked his head, then shrugged. “A bunch of pensioners on death’s door might be better for business.”

“At least from a PR standpoint,” Arlo agreed.

I stared at them.

Blinked.

Then stared some more.

“I think you broke him, Moz,” Arlo stage-whispered.

My grandad chuckled and reached up to ruffle Arlo’s shaggy black hair.

“I’m not broken,” I grumbled. “I just didn’t realise my loved ones were so morally grey.”

A heavy hand landed on my shoulder, jolting me, and I was grateful I’d already pulled the needle through Dorothy’s paper-thin skin. The scent of Old Spice filled my nose, warm and familiar, and the tension I hadn’t realised I’d been carrying eased from my frame almost immediately.

“We’re just messing with you, lad,” my grandad said softly, giving me a squeeze.

I nodded in understanding and glanced back over my shoulder, offering him a small smile. It widened when I saw the laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

Despite spending more than sixty years working with the dead, Maurice Adler was still one of the most soft-hearted people I knew. Positive, jovial, and kind. The sort of man who’d stop to help a stranger change a tyre, then invite them round for tea afterwards.

His great-great-grandfather had opened Adler & Sons in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and it had remained in the family ever since. Each generation had inherited the business from the one before and ran the home until they were ready to hand it on.

At least, that had been the tradition . . . until my grandad.

He’d started training under his father at eighteen and worked as a mortuary technician until I took over seven years ago. He was the reason I’d wanted to become one myself. As a kid, I’d spent countless hours poking my head around the embalming room door, fascinated as he prepared people for their final journey. Usually right up until he caught me and sent me back out front to sit with my grandma.