Ashes

Alan Hillery

Ashes to Ashes

Doctor Frank Morrow raised his head wearily from his microscope and sighed; the day had been warm and as the hands of his expensive watch crept round to seven-thirty, the effort of the day's work weighed heavily on his brain. Joyce Williams, his assistant, had long since left the building, leaving Morrow alone in the laboratory, with nothing to break the silence save the scratching of the caged animals he used in his work.

  He was a tall man, gaunt, whose greying hair betrayed his fifty-five years, his hands small, neat, nimble, a surgeon's hands, as indeed he had been for fifteen years before forsaking the scalpel to concentrate on a study of a different nature, the application of anaesthetics to organ transplants. So successful was he in this field that it was now possible for him to totally immobilize, in its living state, any organ of the human body, for an indefinite period, to be used in future transplant operations, and all this at a cost to the authorities of half the deep-freezing technique he had outdated, but now he was tired - God! he was tired.

  Straightening from his bench, he gently removed his spectacles and cupped his hands over his weary eyes.

 It had, he reckoned, been going on for some six months now, six long months since that first night he had worked late at the hospital. He had decided to stop taking the car to the laboratory, partly because of the amount of traffic in the town, and partly because he felt he needed the exercise. After calling at his club for his usual hour's relaxation with a whisky and The Times crossword he made his way home to the rambling Georgian house he shared with Melanie, his wife.

 Morrow had married late in life, most of his early years being spent in study, the truth be#ing that until he met Melanie, women had not figured in his existence at all, except as face#less beings behind surgical masks at countless operations, or peroxide blondes serving him whisky and sodas from behind leather-clad bars.

 Melanie had been different, true she was his junior by twenty-five years, but somehow this age gap seemed immaterial, they were irresistibly drawn together and for the first and only time in his studious life, Dr Frank Morrow was in love - hopelessly, completely, and totally in love. Their marriage had received the blessing of the Church and the happy pair had settled into a life of domesticity in which Morrow found complete happiness. A new dimension ope#ned to him - parties, dinners, social functions of every description through which the rejuvenated doctor glided with consummate ease.

 As he had walked up the curving drive to the front door, he had been surprised to see that it was already open, and a young man was standing on the steps speaking to a figure silhouetted in the light from the hall beyond. Melanie's voice floated over the night air.

 'Yes, Robert, thank you, it was wonderful. Yes, please come tomorrow night again. He won't be home till nine, so we can have three hours alone.'

The words had cut deep into Morrow's soul and, standing rooted in the rhododendron bushes, he watched numbly as the youth crunched past him along the gravel path, his steps echo#ing the pounding of the wretched doctor's heart as he disappeared into the darkness.

 That had been the first time, and since then there had been others - many others, nights of torture for Morrow, alone in his laboratory, his mind wracked by thoughts of Melanie and the youth - alone in the house - his house - his home. Nights when the doctor had lurked in the garden and watched as the youth and Melanie said their goodbyes; but now he had suffered enough, and slowly a new resolve took possession of him. He dimmed the laboratory lights, retired to his small office and began making notes. One hour later he left the building, a new spring in his step, and a satisfied smile on his face.

 It was a week later that Melanie saw it. She and the doctor were having breakfast, and after scanning the fashion and society pages in the morning paper her eyes fell on the Births, De#aths and Marriages column. She read it three times, unbelieving, her eyes were playing tricks surely, yet no! there it was, under the heading Deaths:  MORROW - MELANIE, aged 30, suddenly, at home, beloved wife of Dr Frank Morrow Funeral 11 am private, 15th, no flowers by request.

 'Frank,' she said in a small voice, 'have you seen this?'

 'Certainly, darling,' he replied absently, 'it was I who inserted it.'

 'But Frank,' panic rising within her, 'what does it mean? Is it some sort of joke?'

 'Oh no, Melanie my sweet, it's no joke,' purred the doctor.

 'But why? What does…' The words were cut off by the sharp snap of breaking teeth as Morrow's fist smashed into her mouth.

 He carried his wife's unconscious body into his study and laid it gently on a couch, then with great deliberation he took a hypodermic syringe from his desk, and, after checking his watch, he carefully filled it and injected the contents into a vein directly above the heart.

 'There, my faithless little bitch,' he murmured 'that should keep you quiet until the time is right.'

 The undertakers arrived a short while later and after a few words of consolation for the bereaved husband, methodically set about their macabre duties. Morrow, waiting in the next room felt a pang of anxiety lest they should find something amiss, but the injection had done its work well, and all the two sombrely-dressed figures saw was a rigid corpse with the usual pallor of death upon it, as indeed, too, did the ancient, drink sodden medical practitioner who interrupted their work to issue the required death certificate.

 Presently, their work completed, the undertakers left, and Morrow, alone again, looked upon his wife, now wrapped in her shroud, her copper hair framing her pale face amid the white drapes of the casket. He smiled to himself and, after gently drawing back the silken sheets, using thick surgical thread, proceeded to stitch her arms across her breasts, and her thighs, feet, and lips together. He was quick, as though completing a successful operation, and after expertly snipping the protruding ends of thread, replaced the sheets, and poured himself a drink.

 The funeral itself was quiet, a few friends, mostly the deceased's, who shook their heads, wrung their hands, and dried their eyes, in the best manner of mourners, and at the conclusion of the short service the cortege moved two miles into town to the municipal crematorium. Here the casket was placed on the catafalque, the minister's voice droned the required words, and at the appropriate moment an invisible hand set the retracting machinery in motion and the coffin sank from view. Deep below in the cremating room the seedy little attendant watched the coffin sink towards him.

 'Business is brisk', he wheezed to himself. 'If the damned authorities put me on piece work, I'd be a rich man.'

 He cackled at his own joke, and, spitting on his hands, wheeled the coffin to the gaping do#or of the oven, pushed it inside and slammed the steel door shut with a resounding clang which was heard throughout the now-empty building…

 Melanie heard it; it was in fact the first thing she did hear as the effects of the injection wo#re off and her mind swam back to consciousness. At first she did not comprehend, she felt restricted - her arms, mouth, legs, and feet, the darkness, and the confines of the wooden box in which she lay. She tried to open her mouth to cry out, and as the stitches pulled at her lips the revolting truth stabbed through her - the obituary in the morning paper - her husband's fist in her face - the ever-increasing heat. Great God! she was in a coffin and being cremated alive! Blind panic possessed her, she writhed and struggled like a soul in torment, breaking and tearing her skin, ripping great gouts of flesh from her body where the stitches held, bathing herself in warm blood which sizzled in the now-intense heat within the coffin. It was too late, the flames by this time had eaten through the thin wood, and were attacking her body -blistering, reddening, blackening, charring her once milk-white flesh - her last conscious experience was of two thick viscous streams edging their way down her burning face as her eyeballs melted.

 One hour later, the attendant laid aside his newspaper and, singing to himself, switched off the gas jets, opened the oven door, and casually raked out the ashes.

 The hall clock was chiming five as Dr Frank Morrow poured his fourth double whisky of the afternoon. It had, he told himself been a very successful day - rid once and for all of the unfaithful woman he had married - now he could really get back to work -after all, who could really concentrate on important things with a wife who couldn't be content with one man? He took a sip at the golden liquid, lay back in his chair, closed his eyes, and smiled. A sharp rap on the front door startled him, who could be calling at this hour, not another busybody neighbour offering condolences?

 On the steps stood Robert, Melanie's secret visitor, with a long, flat square parcel beneath his arm.

 'Good evening, Doctor,' the youth smiled stepping into the hall. 'I think this is what you’ve been waiting for.'

 'Waiting for?' snapped the doctor. 'What on earth do you mean?'

 'Why, your surprise birthday gift from your wife.'

 He unwrapped the parcel to reveal an exquisite portrait of Melanie, every feature perfect, every dancing highlight in her copper hair shining.

 'You see,' the youth explained. 'I'm a freelance artist and your wife commissioned me to paint her portrait for you as a birthday gift - I had to work at night while you were at the laboratory so that you wouldn't find out. It's taken me six months, but it will be worth it if you’re satisfied.'

 The room spun crazily before Morrow's eyes, he opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so, his eye fell upon the inscription in the bottom corner of the painting, it read:

 To Frank, my only love, from Melanie.