Resurrectionists by Kim Wilkins

been long then, all wild black ringlets. He had almost wept the day she cut it all off. “It’s all a bit flat without you here.”
    “If you’re joining Churchwheel’s, we’d better get used to being apart.”
    “I suppose. Though I could put in a good word for you. Who knows, the next time they need a cellist . . .”
    “I don’t want to think about that now. Perhaps I’ll have a change of career when I come back.”
    “But what would you do?”
    “I don’t know. That’s what I’m here figuring out. I’m supposed to be finding myself.” She yawned. “Though I haven’t the faintest idea where to start looking.”
    “I should let you go back to sleep,” he said gently.
    “I miss you so much,” she said.
    “Me too. Want me to call again tomorrow?”
    “Would you? Would you call every day until you go away?”
    “Sure,” he said. “I love you, Maisie.”
    “I love you too. Bye.”
    The phone clicked. He hung up and lay back, looking at the ceiling and daydreaming of crowded concert halls.
    “We’re a special community,” Constable Tony Blake was saying to Lester Baines as they leaned against the boot of his car. “We have special needs.”
    The Reverend hurried up to them. He had expected to arrive first, but it was taking him longer and longer to get out of bed and dressed at this time of night. It frightened him a little, because it made him aware of how old he grew. He hated being outside in this weather: the black sky, the black icy wind coming off the sea, and the distinctive emptiness of three a.m. lying over the streets.
    “Tony,” the Reverend said in what he hoped was a stern voice.
    “Reverend,” Tony replied, stepping back from Lester and looking chastened. He was under orders not to get into conversation with the crook. Lester asked so many questions, and the Reverend knew Lester had the kind of mind which could figure things out eventually, given enough snippets of information.
    The Reverend turned to Lester. “This is very quick work.”
    “I got a call just after I’d seen you. This one’s from Manchester.”
    “Well, let’s get him to his final destination, shall we?”
    “Her. It’s a lady.”
    The Reverend nodded, hoping his distaste wasn’t apparent. A lady. He didn’t like it when the bodies were female. A male body was generic, such a known quantity that he did not think about identity. But a female body was a mystery, full of variables. It made him wonder who she had been.
    Lester opened the boot of his car. She was in a bag, but the Reverend could still make out the mounds of her breasts as he peered over the top of the open boot.
    “You two get her to the door of the abbey. I’ll have to take her the rest of the way.”
    Tony and Lester took an end of the corpse each and lifted simultaneously. It was a sight to make a social worker smile, the crook and the police constable working in such happy co-operation. The Reverend followed as his two assistants carried the body to the iron door which was inset into the remains of one of the abbey spires. It led down into the foundations. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door, and Tony and Lester took the body in and laid it by the rusty trapdoor. They helped the Reverend to get the trapdoor up, and then turned to observe him expectantly, and, in Lester’s case, curiously.
    “Do you put them down there because it’s cold?”
    Lester asked, even though he’d asked exactly the same question a dozen times before and never got an answer.
    The Reverend ignored the question. “Thank you for your help.”
    “Can you manage alone?” Tony asked, sizing up the body against the Reverend’s tiny frame. Clearly the Reverend’s conviction that he was growing old was shared by his colleague.
    “Yes. I have to. Tony, pay Mr Baines what he’s due.”
    Tony reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a roll of money. They were sheltered enough from the wind for him to count it out without it blowing away.
    “And