‘This’ll be hard,’ he says, taking a light hold of the grey wool, wondering how long he should give it before removing the blanket. He finds her direct gaze easy to meet. ‘First there’s the slurry, and then we’re working on the last ones to be recovered. They’re in a bad way.’ Betty’s red lips are a firm, straight line, her eyes on him unwavering. She nods once and swallows, and William notices a pulse at her throat. He needs to show her he knows what he’s doing, give her confidence in him. ‘We’ll take off the clothes. I’ll check the state of the body. Then we’ll clean it. Together.’ Betty’s eyes shine suddenly; two sapphires. ‘I’ll show you how.’ She nods again, blinking at him. ‘Right then,’ William says.

He pulls back the blanket in one swift yet gentle move, letting it fall off the end of the table. Betty’s compact body starts, but William doesn’t show he noticed. Together, they look. Together they smell blood and tar and the beginning of something putrid.

In the strained, yellowy light from borrowed lamps, Betty groans and rests her hand on the undamaged side of the girl’s face. ‘All right, Helen,’ she whispers, ‘Betty’s here.’

The room is still and silent; William knows the other embalmers are watching. Betty straightens, breathes deeply, so the movement of the cross at her throat catches the light. ‘Now, sweetheart,’ she says, louder, matter of fact, her rubber fingers resting on the girl’s arm, ‘your mam and dad are coming to see you, so me and this lovely young man are going to get you ready. It’s all over now, sweetheart.’

When Betty’s oval face, at once resolute and bewildered, finally turns back to William, he has to fight to keep his own expression impassive, so potent is the rush of intimacy she has brought into the room.

‘You cut the clothes’ – he hands her the scissors – ‘I’ll get them off.’

With steady hands, Betty snips through the cotton skirt’s waistband and then diagonally across the shirt. Soon, only streaks of yellow shine through the black tar that covers her gloved hands. In a fraction of the time it has been taking him, William drops the fabric onto the pile at the foot of the table. He worries that the left foot will detach itself from the body when they come to clean it.

He takes the freshest bucket of water brought by the volunteers and dunks the sponge in it. ‘At least now we’ve got hot water.’ With firm, long strokes he goes to work on the left arm, wiping, pulling at the sludge, soaking and squeezing the sponge again and again. Betty watches.