Part 1 (1/2)

The Grave.

By Diane M d.i.c.kson.

Thanks are due to the community of authors at Authonomy whose encouragement and help was, as always, invaluable and especially to fellow author Rachel Florence Roberts for help and advice with research into coma and trauma and to E M Delaney and Lisa Rutledge for their continuous patience and encouragement and to Lilian Kendrick for reading the ”squishy” bits.

I would also like to thank the members of Shortbreadstories, for their encouragement in my writing endeavours.

Chapter 1.

Samuel struggled through the roots and brambles; he tripped often and grovelled in the dark tearing his trousers on the thorns. In time he reached the place, down on the bank, where the ground was damp and smelt of moss and decay. At the base of a ma.s.sive willow he threw his load to the ground and paused to catch his breath.

When he knew for sure that he was untracked he bent to the task. The moon shone silver through dark branches as he turned the sod. With each swing of the long-handled pick a grunt escaped his gut, deep and guttural in the quiet. Muscles in his back and shoulders flexed and strained and he stopped often to wipe the dirty sweat that ran across his brow and stung his eyes. He stood back occasionally to a.s.sess the work shaking his head at the small results of his efforts.

Though time was short he had to have it deep enough to deny access to the wild things. The arc of the pick glinted as it caught the moonlight over and over and the ground opened a great maw that took him in further than his knees, further than his hips. He was getting there. Now he used the spade, the better to scoop the dank soil and toss it onto the growing heap.

A shrill note tore into the silence, sharp and shocking. He thrust again with the blade and again the noise rang out a.s.saulting the silence as metal struck stone. He peered into the murk to see a boulder gleaming, bone white, like a half-erupted tooth in a blackened and decaying gum-line.

With a grunt of impatience he knelt in the soggy pit and groped at the boulder digging and pulling till his nails tore and his fingers bled. The mud and the blood congealed clubbing the ends of his fingers and he wiped them on the tail of his s.h.i.+rt, cursing as the sticky gobbets smeared the sweat drenched fabric.

At last it was deep enough and he dragged the bundled tarpaulin to the lip of the grave. Kneeling in the mud he half pushed half lowered the thing s.h.i.+fting and dragging at the bulk, fighting with the cascading earth and the crumbling edges. Finally, dizzy with exhaustion he threw the last measure of earth back onto the grave thumping and flattening it with the back of his shovel.

It still wasn't enough, now he went upstream a little to find small shrubs. Bringing them back with great clods of earth still sticking to the shocked roots he planted them onto the mound. It was not some bizarre parody of funeral ritual but a ploy to further disguise the new dug earth and to consolidate the disturbed ground.

Hours had pa.s.sed and the dawn was threatening but the job was finished. He dragged his bent and aching body through the mists and the damp and left his terrible secret in the unmarked dene amongst the willows, beside the river.

Chapter 2.

He turned to home; before he regained the shack the sun had risen and the first day of his altered world had begun. The next task was to take the tools to the small lean-to and wash the blades as river mud flowed in brown streams across the wooden boards. He polished and dried the metal and hung the equipment back in its proper place, all in order, all as it should be. No sign of the turmoil and terror of the dark hours.

The house was cold, the fire had long deadened and he had left the door open, allowing ingress for the damp and dew of early morning.

A galvanised bucket stood beneath the sink and Samuel ran water into it, adding bleach from a big plastic bottle. He reached back into the dark s.p.a.ce feeling around for the scrubbing brush. The tender parts at the end of his fingers caught on the rough wood causing him to let go a hiss of pain and a curse that echoed through the quiet of the old rooms.

The stain was extensive, it had missed the rug but had spread and run along the grain of scuffed floor boards, pooling at the skirting. First he dipped a large rag into the water and slopped it into the congealing gore. The glutinous mixture splashed back at him, he felt the wet sliminess on his face and dashed at it with the back of his hand. The smell of the bleach was strong in his nose but it was a clean scent after the muck by the river and the cloying sweetness surrounding him now kneeling on the blood-stained floor. He sloshed more water from the cloth but it simply spread the contamination and it was obvious to him now he would need to sluice the entire surface.

He dragged the chairs and table to the rear of the room and rolled up the rag rugs, throwing them through the open doorway out onto the porch. Too late he realised he would need to brush the liquid out that way. Anger drove him on and for a moment he was overwhelmed by the whole thing. It was unbelievable to him that he had allowed this to happen, he had worked hard to escape such stuff and yet here he was again wallowing in the detritus of death.

After a long moment he took a sharp breath and squared his shoulders. Reaching for the cheap floor covering he grabbed at the fraying edges and heaved the bundle as hard and as far as he could, it thudded into the bushes by the well. He turned his back on it, let it rot.

He picked up the pail of cooling water and flung it across the floor. The mix spread painting the boards pink now with small clots caught on the rougher edges. It had been left too long, had taken a hold, wanting to become a part of the fabric of this cursed place.

The stiff brush was in the lean-to and, as he made his way through the yard, clouds of condensation swirled around his head, the cold, sharp morning mocked him with normality.

After many minutes of effort, scrubbing, sluicing and brus.h.i.+ng, the floor was darkened with moisture, but cleared of the obvious signs of brutality. Taking a bottle from the dresser he dragged out the cork and stomped to the front steps where he dropped onto his behind on the damp wood. The rough whisky burned in his throat and seared a river of heat all the way down into his gut where it swilled with the bile and threatened reflux and nausea. He swallowed another mouthful and it settled his stomach and flamed in his blood deadening the sharp edges of his nerves and stroking and soothing his rattling senses. He had to think now, he had to be logical and calm, be sure, absolutely sure there was no trace, no trail and if need be he must be ready to act again.

He could see no way the body would be found, not where it lay beside the river, deep in the wood, only a very pernicious fate would reveal it. He knew though only too well just how malign chance could be and he acknowledged the risk, accepted it was probably only a question of when, not if.

Chapter 3.

Physical exertion, stress and despair blended now with the alcohol wrapping around his brain, clouding his thinking and stupefying him. Samuel reached out and, grabbing the door frame for support, he dragged to his feet. With a yell, part animal, part human and wholly anguish he drew back his arm, the empty whisky bottle flipped end over end through the morning air to land with a thud and a sharp crack. By the time the sound reached his ears he had already turned to stagger back into the dank living room.

The furniture was piled haphazardly against the back wall of the s.p.a.ce, he ignored it except where he leaned to aid his unsteady progress. The banister creaked with the weight dragging up the bare stairs towards the tumbled and untidy bed. He threw himself across the tangled sheets and turned onto his side. Drawing a pillow across he buried his face and was lost in the smell of her, the sweetness of manufactured perfume and the natural stench of animal fluids mixed as they could only be after the pa.s.sion of barely hours ago.

He was swept with anger and bitterness and beneath it all disappointment that even one small loosening of the grip he had on his life had betrayed him so catastrophically. He knew though that to rail against fate was pointless. With a deep sigh he closed his eyes and let exhaustion and alcohol carry him away. He drifted into uneasy slumber, tossing and mumbling on the bed as the world wound down the day.

Scarlet streaks banded the darkening sky before he woke. Pus.h.i.+ng up from the bed and making his way stiff-legged and robotic to the bathroom he relieved himself. He turned to the wash basin and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror.

There was blood and mud streaked across his cheeks and chin. There were scratches there too, great wheals torn by the thorns of the forest. The skin had become puckered and was reddened already with small infection. He tore off his s.h.i.+rt, ran water into the bowl and sluiced his face and head having the cool liquid run down his back and chest to wet the waist band of his filthy trousers. It was no use though he needed to strip, to shower and clean himself. With a sigh he dragged the clothes away from his aching body, flinging them into a stinking pile in the corner of the room. He turned the water to hot and waited until steam billowed from the tub before stepping under the deluge.

It helped, sore muscles softened and relaxed and his brain cleared a little. The gus.h.i.+ng water isolated him from the sights and sounds in the house and allowed his mind to go back for the first time to yesterday morning. Bright suns.h.i.+ne had encouraged the trip to town, the weekly run for provisions and a gla.s.s of beer in the company of other people. He knew he would have to look at it, revisit the event and then put it away for the rest of his existence and so why not start now, in the comfort of warm water and behind the screen of steam and the plastic curtain.

He should have ignored the woman, had always done so before, why then did this one who was barely more than a girl manage to draw him in, ”Buy me a drink, mister. Do you want some company? I'll sit with you, talk, not talk, up to you.”

Normally he would turn away, they would get the message and move on but this one, this time, he simply threw some coins across the counter and jerked a thumb towards her for the benefit of the bar-man.

She slipped onto the high stool, sipped the gla.s.s of white wine and then slid around to gaze with round, blue eyes at him. First the big hands, work worn, permanently ingrained with dirt, finger nails torn and cracked. Then up to his sullen, lined face.

”You're Samuel aren't you?”

He nodded, a sharp jerky movement, already regretting the drink and the unspoken invitation.

”You live in the woods yeah, out there on your own. I've seen you around, you seem lonely, are you lonely Samuel, do you need company?”

Her thin hand had moved to his thigh, rubbing a little against the denim. He reached down and, not roughly but definitely, he moved it and placed it back in the girl's lap. He slid from the stool and without another word walked out of the bar. That had been a mistake, had spoiled the trip and now he needed to get back home.

He walked to the builder's yard, to collect a roll of wire to repair the fence, then he crossed the street and strode back to the car park. She was standing beside the truck, one foot up against a tyre, her knee bent, bony in the tight pants. She was smoking and as he approached she threw the unfinished cigarette to the ground scuffing it with the sole of her knee-high boots. ”Will you give me a ride Samuel, I need a ride?”

Chapter 4.