Cemetery Lake

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Blue fingernails.

They’re what have me out here, standing in the cold wind, shivering. The blue fingernails aren’t mine, but attached to somebody else-some dead guy I’ve never met before. The Christchurch sun that was burning my skin earlier this afternoon has gone. It’s the sort of inconsistent weather I’m used to. An hour ago I was sweating. An hour ago I wanted to take the day off and head down to the beach. Now I’m glad I didn’t. My own fingernails are probably turning blue, but I don’t dare look.

I’m here because of a dead guy. Not the one in the ground in front of me, but one still down at the morgue. He’s acting as casual as a guy can whose body has been snipped open and stitched back together like a rag doll. Casual for a guy who died from arsenic poisoning.

I tighten my coat, but it doesn’t help against the cold wind. I should have worn more clothes. Should have looked at the bright sun an hour ago and figured where the day was heading.

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