Ray reads it out. It’s the same one William had on his first day.
‘Where’s your Scudamore?’
Ray waves his hand under the bed till it bumps against the book. He pulls it out and bats away the dust on it.
William takes it from him, leafs through it and lays it open on the right page. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘I visualise the arteries like branches of a tree.’
Ray looks from the book to smile at William.
‘What?’ William says.
‘It comes so naturally to you.’
‘I’ve watched my uncle, so it makes sense, and anyway, I had this question last week.’
Ray stubs out his cigarette on a saucer next to his bed. ‘I know you think I’m useless. I probably am, but it gets on my nerves how smug you all are.’
‘Just write down this bit. I’ve got to go.’
Ray starts copying out the paragraph William has highlighted. ‘Drink your beer then.’ He points at the bottle on the floor. William knocks it back in five gulps.
Ray’s handwriting is thankfully fast and neat. It’s 6.50. They’ll be sitting down to eat in ten minutes and he thinks it will take him at least half an hour to get there.
‘What’s the problem?’ says Ray. ‘So you’ll miss tea. How old are you, ten? Stay here and we can have another beer, get fish and chips.’
‘Laugh at me all you like, but I want to sit down for a meal with a nice family and, if you must know, their daughter.’
Ray’s sly smile and knowing look make William regret what he’s just given away.
‘Now that I understand!’ He finishes his beer. ‘Bugger off then, I’ve got this now.’
‘Thanks,’ says William, feeling sheepish, getting up and putting on his jacket. ‘Make sure you include all of the arteries and veins that are relevant; you lose points for every one you miss.’ Ray doesn’t move to open the door or say goodbye. He just watches William with a smile that makes him uncomfortable.
‘Bye then,’ William says as he backs out of the door. Ray merely raises the empty beer bottle.
He runs full pelt back to the college and then to the Finches’， not trusting himself to navigate the route from Ray’s. It takes thirty-five minutes and by the time he bursts into their dining room, he’s out of breath, sweating and a little light-headed. Mr Finch is serving apple pie. All three of them turn in surprise. His sausage, mash and peas are on his plate, with a hint of white where the fat has congealed on the gravy.
‘I’m so sorry!’ he says, chest heaving. ‘I was helping someone with their homework.’ Unable to speak, he breathes heavily. ‘He lives further away than I thought.’ He unbuttons his coat. ‘I came as fast as I could.’
‘Well, you’re here now,’ Mrs Finch says, ‘eat up. It’ll be cold but I’d rather it not go to waste.’
‘Of course not.’ William dashes into the hall to hang his coat up. He pulls his sweater close to his face. It reeks of smoke. He takes it off and leaves it over his coat.
Mrs Finch inhales noisily as he sits next to her. ‘If it wasn’t too early, I’d think you’d been doing your homework in the pub, William.’
‘No!’ he exclaims. ‘I was at Ray’s.’ Before he can do anything about it, a burp rips from his mouth. He looks at his hosts earnestly, feeling his face flush. ‘Mrs Finch, Mr Finch, please don’t think I’d ever take your hospitality for granted. Ray’s not from an undertaking family and he’s struggling with the work. He asked me to help him, and I thought I ought to. He offered me a beer.’
He finally steals a glance at Gloria. Her lips are clamped together, her eyes sparkling.
‘Apology accepted, William,’ says Mr Finch, ‘but be here on time for meals in the future, unless you’ve told us otherwise in advance.’
Mrs Finch pats his hand. ‘It sounds as if you were trying to do the right thing.’
‘What’s this chap’s name again?’ Mr Finch says, before blowing on his apple pie.
‘Ray Price,’ William says, lifting a fork of cold sausage and potato to his mouth. ‘I’m not sure he’s going to make it,’ he says as another burp explodes from his mouth.
It’s too much for Gloria; her full-throated laugh fills the room.
‘Sorry,’ William says again. Gloria flings her head back. Her abandon is irresistible and soon they are all laughing.
36
William wonders if he will always be reminded of uncooked chicken at this moment; the slack, loose skin, the absence of urgent blood that you expect when flesh is sliced open. It’s their first post mortem case. A fifty-nine-year-old man.