The Touch Of Ghosts: Writer's Cut (Alex Rourke) Read Online Free Page B

office into the room beyond the window: the mortuary proper.
    “I know how hard this must be for you,” Dr Kingsley said. It was an off-the-peg platitude but didn’t care much about her words anyway; they didn’t seem to matter next to the awful knowledge that this wasn't some dream I was about to wake up from. “It's always terrible when something like this happens. It's cruel and senseless, and obviously we do what we can to accommodate the wishes of loved ones. Her family haven't contacted us, so if you're not sure you want to do this...”
    “Her mom and dad are on vacation,” I muttered. “They aren’t going to be back until Friday. I don't know about the others.”
    She nodded. “Well, OK then. We'll start slowly. We can stop at any time.”
    Dr Kingsley opened the file she was holding, pulled out a pair of glossy photos and handed them to me. I glanced at them, swallowed once and said, “I’m not interested in pictures, Doc.”
    She took them back. “You'd still like to see her?”
    “Yeah.”
    She pushed a button on the desk. Inside the morgue, a technician in blue coveralls drew back the screen that blocked out the window to reveal a gurney draped in white.
    “I’d like to go in,” I said.
    The disinfectant smell was even stronger in the mortuary, and the fluorescent lights in the ceiling seemed to throb and hum louder than they should. Gemma lay with her eyes closed, skin nearly as pale as the thick, heavy sheet that ran almost up to her chin. Her hair hung in limp drifts around her head. There was a faint bluish tinge to her lips, which had opened the tiniest fraction, just like they used to do when she was asleep.
    For a long, long time I stared down at her lying there, cold and sterile and dead. My mind stayed empty. Blank, fled to some happier place, leaving me alone without any thoughts of grief or comfort, sorrow or anger, anything at all. I knew I should be in tears, or railing in anger against the unfairness of the world, or doing something to express my grief. But my head stayed silent and hollow and all I had left was a gut-tightening sense of longing that could never be fulfilled.  
    I trudged out of the mortuary. Dr Kingsley said something to me in her office, and I had the vague memory of signing a piece of paper, but I don’t remember hearing the words or reading the form. I just found myself back in the corridor outside, alone, and everything was done. The hallway seemed gloomy after the stark, dead light of the morgue. Tubes spaced along its length spat out a yellow glow so dirty I couldn’t tell if the walls were genuinely beige or just badly-lit plain white. The reflection on the uneven surface of the polished floor made dark whorls and pools collect like a desert mirage. I walked up the corridor and slumped into one of the chipped chairs back where I’d originally been waiting. Dropped my face into my hands and stared emptily at the liquid blackness beneath me, wishing I could fall into it.
    Then I heard footsteps, heeled shoes rapping against the floor, the walls distorting the sound so much I couldn’t even tell if they were coming or going. “You must be Alex,” a voice said next to me.  
    I looked up to see a woman, maybe in her late twenties, wearing a thick coat over a sweater and jeans. Brown hair tied back in a ponytail, thin features and green eyes. There was a note of genuine sympathy and warmth in her voice which Dr Kingsley — and everyone else I’d spoken to since that first phone call, despite their best efforts — hadn't been able to match. The woman dropped into the chair next to me.
    “I’m Bethany,” she said. “Gemma was my friend.”
    “Oh.” I couldn't remember if Gemma had ever mentioned her to me or not. “Did you work together?”
    “No, not really. I have a job here with the OCME. I heard that she was... y'know. Dr Kingsley said you were coming and that you might like a friend to be here. Have you been in yet?”
    I nodded, slow and