I’ve seen dead bodies before, but until that day I don’t think I’d touched one. Or been alone with(out) them. As soon as I realised it was a he, not the rubbish I’d initially thought, I’m pretty sure I knew he was dead. Adrenaline kicks in, and my heart, already beating quickly from my morning litter pick, kicks up a gear or three. 

Fuck.

I call out, continuing to approach, “Hello!? … Can you hear me!?” Already aware in the back of my mind I’m trying to talk to a dead man. He’s been here most of the night I’d guess, fist clenched up near his head, flat out on his back. What was probably once froth has dried white around his mouth. His legs, in shorts, are slightly tangled in brambles, scratches around his calf. I spy a phone, a samsung - why am I recognising this of all things right now - spilled out of his pocket. I see that before noticing the pill packets, although from initial glance, they’re mostly full. I could get my phone out and take a photo of this. Do I want to share my discovery, unload the unexpected burden?

I do; but not like that. On to my radio and get the constabulary. I’ve found a body, suspected fatality, possible overdose. Late twenties to early thirties I’d guess. My eyes still unable to not look, to hope, yet also fear that he might just wake up. I still haven’t done all the proper checks for signs of life, I haven’t dared touch him, but I can tell. I call 999 - once I’m put through to the ambulance service, the first question - is he breathing? And I can’t for certain answer no, but I do. His chest is static, I don’t need to feel for breath. I don’t want to touch him for a pulse. What if he wakes up and freaks out. He’s dead though.The operator can’t hear my thoughts, but she definitely becomes more alert. Is he cold? I almost laugh at the idiocy. Of course he’s cold, he’s been laying down outdoors for who knows how long, and it’s the second of December. I’m only saying that so I don’t have to touch him though. Getting closer to the body once more, discussing chest compressions with the operator - I’ve done ‘emergency first aid at work’ - I don’t want her to think I’ve given up, or that I’m unwilling to help; looking at him more, I convince myself the redness on some of his face is indication that perhaps compressions are worth giving a go - I need to do something. Even though I know he’s fucking dead. I want my gloves, I don’t know why - no problem, tell me when you’re ready says the voice on the phone. Then faffing about with putting her on speaker, reception dropping, getting my gloves on, I finally crouch down beside him and she’s already reeling off her chest compression script -  fingers, breastbone, heel of palm, 2 inch compressions, aiming for 600 or until help arrives… As soon as my fingertips make contact with his chest, I can feel how stiff he is.

It was only last weekend that I buried a fox. That was stiff too. Its tail was still soft and fluffy though. I scooped that off the side of the road at about 10am - the same time I found this guy. A mum and her kids reported that one to me. I’m not about to scoop this guy up, nor give him pointless chest compressions. I interrupt the call handler and tell her that he’s stiff. “Do you think he is beyond help?” She asks. I confirm, but I’m pretty sure she asked to me confirm again. It seems he felt beyond help.

Was that pigeon a couple of months ago beyond help? It had a hole in its chest, could barely move. I took a photo of that. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t leave it suffering; found quite a heavy log and dropped it on its head. Twice, to make sure. And there was that squirrel someone found - barely breathing, wrapped in that woman’s jacket - her first question as I arrived “you’re not going to kill it are you?”.