shell-shocked. ‘This can’t…’
I turn back to the door. It’s now halfway open, and my stomach clenches into a sick, hard knot. Even with his blurred vision, there’s no way Farrell could have mistaken what’s
in front of us. I realise I’m looking straight into the back of a huge refrigerated truck that’s backed up against the doorway. There’s not enough space to slip around it, but,
even if there was, I’m not sure I want to get any closer. The truck’s floor is piled with more of those black body bags, seemingly chucked randomly one on top of the other. To one side
there’s a stack of bulbous transparent plastic bags, smaller, sealed with tape. I don’t want to think about what they contain.
I wait for the nausea to wash over me, but it doesn’t. All I feel is that strange detached calmness, as if my brain has decided that it’s not actually going to process what my eyes
are seeing.
‘What the hell is this?’ Farrell says to the Cuban guy. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘The accident – it is very bad. There are too many people to deal with. The city morgue is backed up as it is. We have to store them somewhere for now. It is standard
procedure.’
‘You store them in a truck?’
The man nods. ‘Yes.’
‘But that’s disgusting. That’s not right!’ Farrell rubs a hand over his eyes. ‘How many bodies
are
there?’
‘There are many.’
‘Christ.’
The man shrugs. ‘You should not have been here. I now have no choice but to call security.’
‘Please,’ I say to him. ‘Please. We need to leave.’
‘How do I know that you are not thieves? Burglars?
Ladrones
?’
‘We’re not. You have to trust us.’ My cheeks are cold, and I rub my palms over them. Tears have leaked from my eyes without my being aware of them. ‘Please.’
He sighs. He looks from me to Farrell again, and seems to come to some sort of decision. ‘This way.’
We follow him back to the locked door. He pulls a bunch of keys out of his pocket, inserts one in the lock and opens the door. The hinges scream as if they haven’t been oiled in
months.
‘What’s through here?’ Farrell asks. He squints his eyes and shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear his vision. ‘It’s too dark for me to see.’
The door opens into a dim, sloping concrete walkway that seems to go on forever. It looks dusty and unused.
‘It is the old service corridor. You go up here, yes? Take the elevator to the third floor.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘We’re very grateful.’
‘You don’t tell anybody you were here. Okay?’
We head through the door, and it slams behind us, the lock clicking with finality. Farrell stumbles, bangs heavily into my side.
‘Christ,’ he says. ‘Can’t see a thing.’
I hold onto his elbow and guide him forwards. There’s something not quite right about the camber of the slope, the angle feels awkward. It’s slow going, but I begin to make out the
lift doors at the end. They look old-fashioned, purely functional, larger than the kind you see in malls and parking lots. Made specially to accommodate the gurneys containing… But I
don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about what we’ve just seen. I can’t. I tentatively touch the bandage on my face.
Farrell sighs, runs a hand through his hair. ‘Lisa, you think we’re doing the right thing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, don’t you think we’re blowing this out of proportion?’
I pause and turn to look at him. It’s not warm in here, but sweat beads his forehead. ‘No. There’s something weird going on here, Farrell. What about that freaky guy who was
spying on me?’
‘I know all that.’ He sounds irritable again, pissed off with me and I’m tempted to just agree with him. But I can’t. I can’t go back. ‘Say we get out of
here,’ he continues. ‘What then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You got any money?’
‘No.’
‘So what are we going to do when we do get
I turn back to the door. It’s now halfway open, and my stomach clenches into a sick, hard knot. Even with his blurred vision, there’s no way Farrell could have mistaken what’s
in front of us. I realise I’m looking straight into the back of a huge refrigerated truck that’s backed up against the doorway. There’s not enough space to slip around it, but,
even if there was, I’m not sure I want to get any closer. The truck’s floor is piled with more of those black body bags, seemingly chucked randomly one on top of the other. To one side
there’s a stack of bulbous transparent plastic bags, smaller, sealed with tape. I don’t want to think about what they contain.
I wait for the nausea to wash over me, but it doesn’t. All I feel is that strange detached calmness, as if my brain has decided that it’s not actually going to process what my eyes
are seeing.
‘What the hell is this?’ Farrell says to the Cuban guy. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘The accident – it is very bad. There are too many people to deal with. The city morgue is backed up as it is. We have to store them somewhere for now. It is standard
procedure.’
‘You store them in a truck?’
The man nods. ‘Yes.’
‘But that’s disgusting. That’s not right!’ Farrell rubs a hand over his eyes. ‘How many bodies
are
there?’
‘There are many.’
‘Christ.’
The man shrugs. ‘You should not have been here. I now have no choice but to call security.’
‘Please,’ I say to him. ‘Please. We need to leave.’
‘How do I know that you are not thieves? Burglars?
Ladrones
?’
‘We’re not. You have to trust us.’ My cheeks are cold, and I rub my palms over them. Tears have leaked from my eyes without my being aware of them. ‘Please.’
He sighs. He looks from me to Farrell again, and seems to come to some sort of decision. ‘This way.’
We follow him back to the locked door. He pulls a bunch of keys out of his pocket, inserts one in the lock and opens the door. The hinges scream as if they haven’t been oiled in
months.
‘What’s through here?’ Farrell asks. He squints his eyes and shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear his vision. ‘It’s too dark for me to see.’
The door opens into a dim, sloping concrete walkway that seems to go on forever. It looks dusty and unused.
‘It is the old service corridor. You go up here, yes? Take the elevator to the third floor.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘We’re very grateful.’
‘You don’t tell anybody you were here. Okay?’
We head through the door, and it slams behind us, the lock clicking with finality. Farrell stumbles, bangs heavily into my side.
‘Christ,’ he says. ‘Can’t see a thing.’
I hold onto his elbow and guide him forwards. There’s something not quite right about the camber of the slope, the angle feels awkward. It’s slow going, but I begin to make out the
lift doors at the end. They look old-fashioned, purely functional, larger than the kind you see in malls and parking lots. Made specially to accommodate the gurneys containing… But I
don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about what we’ve just seen. I can’t. I tentatively touch the bandage on my face.
Farrell sighs, runs a hand through his hair. ‘Lisa, you think we’re doing the right thing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, don’t you think we’re blowing this out of proportion?’
I pause and turn to look at him. It’s not warm in here, but sweat beads his forehead. ‘No. There’s something weird going on here, Farrell. What about that freaky guy who was
spying on me?’
‘I know all that.’ He sounds irritable again, pissed off with me and I’m tempted to just agree with him. But I can’t. I can’t go back. ‘Say we get out of
here,’ he continues. ‘What then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You got any money?’
‘No.’
‘So what are we going to do when we do get
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