The Dead I Know

by Scot Gardner

Aaron Rowe walks in his sleep and haunted by dreams he can’t explain and memories he can’t recover. Death doesn’t scare him—his new job with a funeral director may even be his salvation. But if he doesn’t discover the truth about his hidden past soon, he may fall asleep one night and never wake up.In this dark and witty psychological drama about survival, Aaron finds that making peace with the dead may be easier than coming to terms with the living.

  • Format: Hardcover
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780544232747
  • ISBN-10: 0544232747
  • Pages: 208
  • Publication Date: 03/03/2015
  • Carton Quantity: 24

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About the Book
About the Author
Excerpts
Reviews
  • About the Book
    Aaron Rowe walks in his sleep and haunted by dreams he can’t explain and memories he can’t recover. Death doesn’t scare him—his new job with a funeral director may even be his salvation. But if he doesn’t discover the truth about his hidden past soon, he may fall asleep one night and never wake up. In this dark and witty psychological drama about survival, Aaron finds that making peace with the dead may be easier than coming to terms with the living.
  • About the Author
  • Excerpts
    1 

     

    The office of JKB Funerals was a majestic orange-brick addition to a modest orange-brick house. It had the boxy gabled ends of an old chapel with tall narrow eyes of stained glass to suit. There were concrete urns on either side of the entry door, spilling with white flowers. I checked my front for breakfast crumbs and then rapped on the door. 

      

    It opened with the smoothness of automation, but there was a man at the handle, a round man with half a smile on his easy, ruddy face. He looked me up and down, then shielded his eyes as if my head were at the top of a distant mountain. 

      

    “You must be Aaron,” he said. “Please, come in.” 

      

    I wiped my feet more than necessary, and stepped past the man into the cool silence of the building. The door hushed shut, and he held out his hand. 

      

    “John Barton.” 

      

    We shook. It was a strange sensation. I’d never shaken hands with anybody. 

      

    “Please, come through. Have a seat.” 

      

    The chairs were deep, lugubrious leather—more comfortable than anything I’d ever sat in. 

      

    “Thank you for coming in, Aaron. Your school counselor speaks very highly of you. I’m proposing a three-month trial period, at the end of which we’ll sit here again and assess how we’ve gone. The work you’ll be doing will be varied. There’ll be some fetching, heavy lifting, and cleaning. Is your back okay? Need a good back in this line of work.” 

      

    I nodded. 

      

    “Good. Now . . . appearance. Do you have a black suit?” 

      

    I shook my head. 

      

    He snatched a pen from a plastic holder and made notes on a pad. “No matter. I’ll have Mrs. Barton measure you up, and we’ll get something tailored.” 

      

    “I have a black tracksuit,” I said. 

      

    John Barton looked up, startled. “Tracksuit? No, I mean dress suit. What size shirt are you?” 

      

    I shrugged. “XL?” 

      

    He wrote some more. “You have an accent, Aaron. Where are you from? America?” 

      

    I shrugged again. “I grew up here.” 

      

    “Is that so? What are your parents’ names? I may know them.” 

      

    “I doubt it,” I said. 

      

    The words hung in the air like a balled fist. John Barton dug no deeper. 

      

    “Right,” he said. “First things first. How would you feel about getting a haircut?” 

      

    One more shrug. “Fine.” 

      

    “The first one is my treat.” 

     

    *** 

      

    John Barton gave me a fleeting tour—office; chapel and viewing room with visitors’ bathrooms between them; display room; storeroom full of plastic-wrapped coffins standing on their ends; cool-room door—on our way to the garage at the rear of the establishment. There was a quietness and studied neatness to the whole place. The service areas smelled of flowery air freshener, with a metallic underscore of disinfectant. The garage, on the other hand, smelled of cool oiled dust. There were three vehicles parked inside—a fine silver Mercedes sedan, a white van that looked like an unmarked ambulance, and the hearse. The hearse’s chrome and black luster rendered it catlike and serious in the glow from the skylight. There was a discreet crest painted on the driver’s door containing three curlicue letters: JKB. The customized number plates echoed the starkness of the hearse’s exterior—THEEND. If I’d been alone, I might have smiled at that. 

      

    “We’ll take the Merc. Do you have a license?” 

      

    I shook my head. 

      

    “We’ll have to do something about that.” 

      

    It was a smooth ride, scented with leather and more air-freshener flowers. John Barton drove with an easy poise, as if he operated at a more precise speed than the rest of the world. He double-parked on Chatswood, in front of the barber’s red and white spiral pole. 

      

    “The proprietor is Tony Henderson. Tell him I’ll be paying. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” 

      

    I nodded once and slipped out of the car. The door shut with a quiet huff of air, and I felt . . . something. Hard to say what it was—some gray wake of a distant emotion, perhaps. 

      

    It was early in a barber’s day, but the floor already boasted small piles of gray and brown hair. Tony Henderson nodded a greeting. 

      

    “John Barton will pay,” I said. 

      

    He ushered me to a chair. 

      

    “How would you like it?” 

      

    “Funeral director.” 

      

    He chuckled. “Enough said.” 

      

    He touched my head and I flinched. 

      

    “Sorry,” he said, and then looked at his hand. “Okay?” I nodded and clenched my jaw. I hadn’t planned to flinch. I noticed his aftershave and the dark hair on his knuckles. I avoided the mirror by staring at my cloaked knees as great long hanks of hair skidded over the smock and onto the floor. I tried to remember my last haircut and could think only of a time in fifth grade when I had been forced to remove a wad of gum from my hair with scissors. It was Westy—one of the drunks now living in caravan fifty-seven—who put it there, and he’d squealed with laughter when it stuck. 

      

    Tony Henderson shifted my head this way and that. He lifted my chin, but stood between the mirror and me as he did so. 

      

     “A shave?” he asked. 

      

    A nod. 

      

    Foam and a brush that had seen better days. Sharp steel in a practiced hand. I could see my shape in the mirror, but I didn’t let my eyes focus. 

      

    Tony Henderson stood back and admired his handiwork. “I think you’ll pass.” 

      

    As if on cue, the bell on the door tinkled, and John Barton entered. 

      

    “Morning, Tony. I sent my new lad in here earlier. Did you see . . .” 

      

    Tony Henderson spun my chair, unclipped my smock, and dusted my neck and face with a soft brush. I waded through the clippings on the floor. I avoided the mirror and, in doing so, looked straight at my new employer. 

      

    He was smiling and shaking his head. “Are you sure it’s the same fellow?” 

      

    Tony Henderson seemed pleased with himself. “Who’d have thought, hey? Tall, dark, and handsome.” 

      

    “With the emphasis on dark,” John Barton added, not unkindly. 

      

    “True,” Tony Henderson said. “That’s a bonus in your industry, isn’t it?” 

      

    “Indeed.” 

      

    John Barton drew his wallet from his pocket and laid a fresh fifty on the counter. He patted it and turned...

  • Reviews

    "I have never read a book more gripping, nor a book more triumphantly alive. I love how it haunts me still. I swear, I will never forget The Dead I Know." 

    —John Marsden, author of Tomorrow, When the War Began 

     

    * "Despite the heavy topics explored in the novel . . . Gardner writes with sensitivity and in a way that is accessible to teens. With humorous interactions and their unwavering belief that Aaron is worthwhile, Mr. Barton and his daughter, Skye, help him appreciate life in the midst of death and tragedy. A darkly funny book." 

    School Library Journal, starred review 

     

    * "Each plotline is woven skillfully in among the others, and each is resolved with gravity, dignity and care. The sense of family—both found and lost—is palpable throughout. Simply told and powerfully moving." 

    Kirkus, starred review 

     

    * "Gardner's rich novel combines flashes of dark humor, an elusive narrator, and a carefully rendered supporting cast to create profound moments that will linger in readers' minds." 

    Publishers Weekly, starred review 

     

    "Gardner's descriptions of funeral work compellingly mix dark humor and a respectful tone. Aaron's mother's health, his dark past, and the question of whether he can embrace his new life combine in an engaging through line that will engross readers." 

    —Booklist 

     

    "Moments of warmth and humor lighten the psychological suspense and frank depiction of death in Gardner's engrossing novel." 

    —Horn Book 

     

    * "Despite hints of the past and hope for the future, the story remains firmly grounded in the present, with a sense of immediacy that draws the reader in . . . Readers looking for a tightly crafted character-driven story will happily find themselves making friends with the darkly strange Aaron." 

    —Bulletin, starred review 

     

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