Dorothy wondered what kind of man Simon was, what kind of father he would’ve been to Natalie. She thought about what Archie said he did.

‘Would that be acceptable?’ she said.

Rebecca took a breath. ‘Yes.’

Dorothy pressed her hands together and stood up. ‘Well, that’s all I came for.’

She walked to the door and turned. Rebecca stood there, arms trembling, blood risen to her cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘I wish you and Natalie all the best,’ Dorothy said, and she meant it.

The pump gurgled and thrummed as it pushed embalming fluid into the body. Archie tapped the gauge, checking the flow into the carotid artery at the collarbone, the blood sliding out the other side and draining away through the hole at the bottom of the table.

Dorothy glanced at the names of the dead on the refrigerator, either waiting for treatment or to be dressed and viewed, then moved on into the next life. The business of death never stopped. People are always going to die and we’re always going to grieve and it’s always going to hurt. All you can do is keep going, because what else is there?327

Archie noticed her as she came to stand by the body. He didn’t speak, just raised his eyebrows. She hadn’t spoken to him much since that night, didn’t want to cloud her thoughts. He’d kept his head down, put coffins together, done embalmings, helped at services, driven the hearse, done his job as well as he always did.

‘I went to see Rebecca,’ she said.

Archie stroked his beard, gave the embalming tube a shake. The colour was coming back into the man on the table, skin turning from old leather to a more healthy pink, the dehydration wrinkles filling out, artificial life returning to him. It was a trick, all of this. Dorothy preferred what they did with Jim’s body, it was more honest.

‘I didn’t tell her,’ she said.

‘OK.’

‘I didn’t think it would do any good. As long as what you told me was true.’

‘It was.’ Archie’s blue-gloved fingers tapped the deceased’s hand to massage the veins, bringing the dead back to life. ‘I swear.’

She wished she was sure, but the truth is no one is ever sure about anything, not really.

‘OK,’ she said, turning to leave. ‘I’ll let you get on with your work.’

She stood outside 11 Hermitage Drive and waited. She looked at nearby Blackford Hill, thought about all the neighbourhoods of the city you could see from up there, the tendrils of life spread out like a single organism, each reliant on being part of the greater whole for its continued existence. And the graveyards, cemeteries, mortuaries and crematoriums that linked the city too, the network of the dead, just as important as the living.

Amy opened the door.328

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, and waved Dorothy in.