Authors: Diane M Dickson
The Grave
Diane M Dickson 2013
Diane M Dickson
reserves the moral right to be
Identified as the
author of this work
All rights reserved.
No part of this
publication may be reproduced
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by any means, without
the prior permission of the author.
This is a work of
fiction.
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.
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 massive 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 assess 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 assaulting 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 shirt, 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 shifting 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 passed 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.
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 space 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
brushing, 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.
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 space, 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 passion 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.
Pushing 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 shirt, 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 gushing 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 sunshine had encouraged the trip to town, the weekly run for
provisions and a glass 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 glass 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?”
