I remember hearing of the people in my country leaving to find gold in America. None of them realised that the most gold could be found under their feet.
It's strange how quickly you adapt to the sorrow of a graveyard. When your days and nights are filled with watching the grief of others, you eventually slip into it - you let it consume you. And once that has happened they don't even notice you; it's as if you're already dead.
Which, given my line of work, I'd say is pretty convenient.
All it takes is patience. Soon enough, the next funeral party marches along to put a loved one in the ground. These people have the audacity to presume the body is worthless! They bury the souless shells as if they are worth no more than the dirt they are lying in.
But of course, a new corpse can be very valueable, as long as you know who wants one.
Sure, the digging is endless. Your feet will bruise from the shovel, your hands will tear from the handle, and your back will ache from the exhaustion. But it's all made worthwhile when you see that first glimpse of freshly dead flesh.
The body over one shoulder, the shovel in one hand, I head to the laboratory, knowing that Doctor Knox will be happy with me. I enter with a corpse and leave with a purse of cash almost as heavy as the shovel under my arm.
I do not know what know what Knox does with the bodies, and I have no desire to find out. All I know if that I can put food on my dinner table.
So when I hear of those going to America on the slim chance of gold, I laugh. Why go anywhere when the Scottish soil has a goldmine of its own?