SEPTEMBER 30TH, SUNDAY. MID-AFTERNOON. A LOCAL MORGUE. FT. @theundertakcr.
Andy didn’t know if it was his lack of sleep or something else, but he wasn’t quite sure if anything he was seeing right now was real. Running on a mere six hours of sleep—sleep that had been so restless that he considered it four—he was more than a little bleary-eyed as he made his way into the cramped East End morgue he had been assigned to visit, photography equipment in tow. He was dressed presentably, of course, his normally tousled black hair slicked back in a way that he hoped looked smart, but probably just looked like a bumbling attempt at trying to look like he had it all together. Because he most certainly did not.
Last night had been, in a word, wild. Drinks with a former work chum had spiraled into a late-night hunt for Jack the Ripper, which had then been interrupted by Andy being pulled aside by two policemen who had said, “Andy Sharma? You’re wanted.” His brief moment of panic and confusion—He wasn’t the Ripper! But, wait, was he?—had turned into relief at the officers’ hurried clarification—but less than a quarter of an hour later, it had shifted into dread upon arriving at Mitre Square, chills running down his spine as he witnessed one of the most disturbing scenes he’d ever seen—and, breath coming out as fog in the dark autumn cold, crouched down to photograph it. Every inch of it.
So he could probably be excused for jumping out of his skin when he heard a young voice ask, “Sir? Are you here on official business?”
With a start, Andy blinked up at the woman standing in front of him. Petite and mousy, she looked like a new receptionist—certainly not the one he’d met before—and, at a glance, he could tell that this hadn’t been her first choice of profession. And, tired as he was, that made him want to make her feel better. Nobody wanted to be here. He could at least help make this exchange easier.
“Er, yeah,” Andy laughed, flashing a white smile at her—it was second nature to him, always wanting to make people comfortable—and gesturing in the general direction of the rooms he had visited before. “I’m just waiting for Mister Zaman. I’m the photographer who’ll be helping document their latest cases. Actually, are they in there? You can tell them Andy is here to see them.” A pause. “Erm, Andy Sharma. Mister Sharma? Whatever you want to call me, I’m not very particular.” What did Rahat Zaman call him? All he knew was that whenever they did, he jumped a little—and of course listened.