Mum was always going on about germs and diseases and other nasties, those microby blighters you can only see under a supersonic microscope, that breed on toilet seats and door handles and dirty money. But the germs she hated were the ones that feasted on dead bodies. Every day she used to study the funeral notices in the paper so she could work out what time a hearse would be on the road and make sure we avoided it. Once when I was about seven or eight, we were driving back from Shoppingtown, the boot packed with the week's groceries, when a huge black hearse slid past in the other direction. I could see the coffin inside, shiny walnut, covered in white lilies. It gave me a chill just thinking about the cold dead body, laid out stiff as a pencil in its Sunday best. Mum went all silent and when we got home she chucked all the groceries straight into the wheelie bin. She dragged me down the side of the house to the backyard and ordered me to strip off my favourite frilly dress. 'But it's not dirty, Mummy' I said, hands on hips, stamping my foor. 'It's contaminated' Mum stepped towards me arms outstretched ....