Even the Dogs: A Novel (21 page)

And we see Ant. Stretched out on the floor nearby, his works arranged carefully on a square of black cloth between them. His body stiffening and slackening again even while we watch. The flies already arriving to lay their eggs, in his mouth, in his eyes, in the weeping needle holes up and down his arms.

And Mike strides off again, turning to beckon us on and muttering Will you come on now then will you, and we follow him further along the canal, past the arches, up to the train station and the bus station and the multi-storey carpark where we clatter down the concrete stairs to the basement. Did you think there would be answers. Did you think there would be reasons given. We hurry along the rippled concrete floor, past the glass-walled booth where the staff take their breaks and watch the cctv, down to the far end and the goods lift and the heavy-wheeled bins. Did you think anyone would know all these things or be able to explain. And Mike stands there and waits and then we see Ben. Curled up on the floor like he’s just gone to sleep. Like he’s tried to put himself in the recovery position but not quite managed. A puddle of sick beside his stone-cold face. The empty pin flung away. This is all just a coincidence, is it. All these. In this short little span of time. Come looking for reasons if you want but there’s nothing to it. This was always going to happen some time and it don’t mean nothing now.

And we keep walking through the empty streets, and we get to another whitewashed room where no guests are allowed, with the long white curtains blowing in across the bed and a carrier bag of shopping on the floor. We stand in the kitchen area at one end of the room, and we see another bag of shopping on the worktop. Toast crumbs spread across a board. A postcard and a magazine. A cold cup of tea, the surface bubbling with mould while we watch. And we see Heather and we turn away. The rot set in and the awful smell of death. Kneeling stiff by the side of the bed, her face sinking into the mattress. Her hands, black with blood, hanging heavy by her sides. That’s everyone then, is it. That’s all of us accounted for.

And Mike says Eh now then la I’ll be off. I got some things I need to do. I got a bus to catch. And we turn and watch, and we see Mike, still talking into his phone, his long coat flapping around his knees, striding out into the middle of the road. We see the bus coming, slowing but not stopping and Mike turning with his arms outstretched going I feel much better now thanks. The look on the driver’s face. We see an ambulance, and a police car, and a hospital bed. We see Mike going Eh now pal will you come and look at this, will you come and see the things I’ve seen. Got a bus to catch. Couldn’t even get that right.

They wash him again, and comb his hair, and slide him on to a long metal trolley. They cover his body with a thin cotton shroud, tying it at the neck and the wrists, and they wrap him in a long white sheet. They wheel him back into the other room, and put him away behind one of the heavy steel doors. They sign more forms. The technician’s assistant takes the trolley of bagged and packaged samples – slices of Robert’s brain, heart, liver, kidney and lungs, the clippings of his hair and nails, vials of his blackened blood – and pushes it out along the corridor to a table by a hatch in the wall, to be collected and sent on to the labs. And then they all disrobe, peeling off their gloves and sleeve protectors and aprons and scrubbing their hands for a long time at the deep stainless-steel sinks. They go to the shower rooms next door, and we hear the pound of steaming water, shouted conversations, the flap of clean white towels. And while the others are still getting dressed, the doctor comes out into his office and begins to write up his notes. We look over his shoulder, but we have trouble reading his writing, and trouble understanding what we can read. He looks up through the window at the comments on the whiteboard, and carries on filling in forms. We look through the window at the empty steel table, clean again now, with its coiled hose and drainage channels and silenced extraction fans. The doctor stops writing, and puts away the file, and goes upstairs to join the others for lunch.

We wait, days and weeks in that lifeless room with Robert behind the heavy steel door. The reports come back from the labs, and we stand over the doctor while he fills out the blanks in his reports. We should go now. There should be something more we can do. We hear more footsteps in the long corridor outside. Keys, voices, the door being unlocked. They open the steel door and slide Robert out on to another trolley, folding back the white cloth so that only his face can be seen. They wheel him into another room. We go with them. The lights are turned low. There are thick curtains, and comfortable chairs against one wall, and a box of tissues beside the chairs. They lay a heavy embroidered cloth across his body. It hangs down and touches the floor. What is this. They step outside, and step back in, and we see Laura, and a policeman, the younger policeman from the flat. They stand at the far side of the room, talking. And Laura comes forward, and we move aside to let them pass. Is she ready for this. She sees him and she stops and she moves closer and she looks and she nods and says something. She says something to the policeman and he thanks her and steps back. We all step away. We leave Laura there beside him. She looks at his cold blank face. She glances along the length of his body. She reaches out her hands, and they hover above him. She says something. She lifts a hand and holds it in the air and she says something. One of the men standing by the door glances at the policeman and gestures with his eyes. The policeman moves forward and touches her arm and she turns away. And then they’re gone, the door closing behind them with a quiet click. And Robert lies alone on the trolley, the room echoing with the small movements of her hands, her staggered breaths, the whisper of her voice saying Yes, that’s him.

five

They carry his body to the edge of town and throw him into the fire.

What do we do now.

We go with them and we stay with Robert and when someone fetches the doctor’s report we follow to see where they go. And we come to an empty room. Push our way in and sit at the back. What is this place. Long and narrow. Rows of soft blue chairs. A raised platform at the other end of the room with a panelled desk and a heavy carved chair and some coat of arms like a lion and unicorn. A table on one side with a tape machine and a pad of paper. A large wilting spider plant and some spare chairs in the corner. Another table in front of the platform with another pad of paper and a box of tissues. One tissue sticking out ready. A clock on the wall behind us. We shift on our seats. Someone comes in through a door at one side with a jug of water and some plastic beakers and a stack of papers. She arranges the jug and the beakers on the table with the tape machine and she lays the papers out across the panelled desk. Light pours in through the arched windows down one side of the room. Striped by the slanting blinds. Buses rattle past along the main road outside. We hear voices and the door opens and the same woman comes back with the policeman who first found Robert. She shows him where to sit and she leaves. He looks around. He holds a notebook in his lap and crosses his legs. The door opens again and the woman comes in with Laura and shows her where to sit. And she says All rise for the coroner, will the court please rise.

coroner
: Thank you. Please be seated.

Before beginning this morning, I’d like to give you some explanation of the inquest process, and of my role as coroner.

This is not a criminal court: no one is on trial today, and no one will be found to be nor accused of being responsible for Mr Robert Radcliffe’s death.

We are here to investigate the facts, and to record them, and to answer four questions which I am legally required to ask: who the deceased person was, where he came by his death, when he came by his death, and how he came by his death. The answers to these questions will constitute the verdict of this inquest. In the course of reaching that verdict I shall be asking witnesses to come to the stand and answer any questions I may have about the circumstances surrounding Mr Radcliffe’s death. The law also allows me to invite what are known as Properly Interested Persons to ask their own questions of those witnesses, should they so wish. For our purposes today Laura Radcliffe will be recognised, as a relative of the deceased, as a Properly Interested Person.

Are there any questions at this stage?

What do we do now. Where do we go. Did any of us think it would be like this. When we started. When Laura started did she think this would. Did she think it would end up here. When she started. When she would try anything. What was it. When she thought she could do anything just to prove that her mum and Paul couldn’t say. When they said We’ve got your best intentions at heart. And all that. But what was it was it that. Takes more than that. Easy to find blame some place but it don’t mean nothing now.

coroner
: . . . is to ensure that the deceased person is granted a full and open hearing of the facts in a public manner. You may note the absence of journalists or members of the public in court this morning; nevertheless, this is a public court, and what we say here today will be a matter of public record. [Could I just ask, Ms Radcliffe: do you have any objection to me calling you Laura? (
Inaudible response
.) Thank you.]

We have a responsibility towards the deceased, and I trust that as his daughter, Laura, you will feel that we at the coroner’s court are doing our utmost to uphold that.

I might also add, of course, that whilst we are here to perform an important task we are doing so in the context of the sadness of Mr Radcliffe’s death, and I would like to extend the sympathies of the court to you, Laura, and to thank you for being here at what I know must be a difficult and distressing time.

What do we do now. Where do we go. We sit at the back of the court and we listen to everything they say. We sit in the cold dark room and we wait until someone comes back for his body. They will come back. They have to. Someone has to do something with him now. Take him away. Now they know. We read the reports and we look at the notes and the photographs and we read the transcript of the inquest tucked away in the files. We sit and we look at Laura. In the court. In the front row of these soft blue chairs. Sitting with her hands pressed into her lap, leaning forward to look at the judge. Coroner, judge, whatever. We hear more footsteps in the long corridor outside. Voices. Keys. The door being unlocked. A long metal trolley is pushed into the room and the men who drove the darkened van away from Robert’s flat come to take him away again. Rolling him out from behind the heavy doors and sliding him on to the trolley and signing more forms before they push him out down the corridor to the shuttered doorway and the new day’s sunlight pouring in down the long concrete ramp. We go with them. What else can we do.

coroner
: . . . on to the first of our four questions: who has died? I quote here from a report prepared by one of my officers.

The identity of the deceased was not immediately apparent upon the discovery of the body: although he was found in his own flat, there was nothing to confirm that he was the listed tenant, nor were any identifying documents found on his body. A number of papers were found in an envelope under the mattress in one of the bedrooms, principally documents connected with the claiming of benefits; however, as they were in more than one person’s name they were of little immediate value.

The next-door neighbour said that she didn’t know any of the names of the people who lived or congregated at the flat, and declined to identify the body. The council housing department stated that the flat was unoccupied and awaiting repairs, the last tenant having been evicted some years previously. The name of this supposedly evicted tenant matched the name on one of the benefits claims documents which had been found in the flat, that of Robert John Radcliffe.

At this point my officers sought the dental records of said Robert Radcliffe, which proved to be unobtainable. Meanwhile, a matching set of fingerprints had been found on the criminal records database, but under another name; a name similar but not identical to another of the names on the benefits claims forms found in the flat.

It was beginning to appear that whilst dying without an identity in a modern bureaucratic country such as ours is exceedingly difficult, dying with multiple identities is all too easy, and equally problematic.

However, further enquiries did eventually lead us to make contact with Laura Radcliffe, who was at that time attending a residential drug rehabilitation centre, and Laura was then able to attend the public mortuary and identify her father’s body, for which difficult duty the court now thanks you, Laura.

So we have the answer to our first question: the deceased’s full name was Robert John Radcliffe, and he was resident at Flat 1, Riverview Gardens, and he was born, according to his birth certificate, on November 12th 1961, in Leeds.

Where did she go. Why did she never go back to the flat when she knew he was waiting. How could she just forget. How could she just let someone else. Was she trying to. Was she making him. We sit and look at his body in the back of the van. We want to ask him but we can’t. Did she go back. Did she see him again. Did she climb in through the window one more time and say Dad I’m back but I didn’t bring nothing I aint got nothing for you. You’ll have to wait for someone else. Is that it. Is that what happened. Did he look up at her and plead with her and say Laura, what the bloody hell is wrong with you I need you to help me. Did she what. Did she look at him for as long as she could bear and say Dad I needed you for a long time didn’t I and where were you. What were you doing. You were just sitting here feeling sorry for yourself and drinking yourself to death with your so-called fucking mates. Or did she only wish she had said that. Is she glad now she didn’t. Did he say Laura love I aint dead yet. Did he say Laura don’t go. Did he say You watch I’ll stop drinking right now. I’ve done it before. If it bothers you that much I’ll stop right now. You watch. Did he. Did she climb back out the window while he still said Laura don’t go what you doing. Was that the last thing she ever saw ever heard him say. Is that it. Can she get that out of her mind now. Can she ever get that out of her.