The Butcher of St Peter's

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In the grey light, the winding sheet looked thin, as though it had been stretched by the heavy deluge that fell all about. The shroud was so sodden that it lay tight across the flesh beneath, and Estmund could see every curve and projecting bone of the body it covered. Water pooled where it might: in the eye-sockets, between the breasts, in the soft hollow of her empty belly, her groin … This was his woman — and yet it wasn’t. Emma was dead, her soul was gone. Truly, this was a husk, nothing more.

The shame! He was discarding her carcass with as much ceremony as a man throwing away some worthless trash. If she had died even a year ago, he could have afforded a coffin. It was wrong for her to be out here like this, on view to all passers-by, the thin cloth showing off her body as plainly as though she were naked. He wanted to cover her up, hide her from the people who wandered about the place, their dull, uninterested eyes glancing at him before surveying Emma’s corpse. Two urchins appeared and stood silent, staring fixedly. In the end he grabbed his cloak and threw it over her. It was wrong that she should be the subject of such attention here on the boundary of the cemetery.

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