by Frazer Lee
They turned a corner in the street, and Alex stopped walking for a moment. They had reached the first of a row of houses. Alex knocked and waited. No answer came.
Mike saw the net curtain of the ground-floor front window twitch, then fall still. Some old dear was probably hiding inside, scoping them out.
“Someone’s inside,” Mike said to Alex. “I saw the curtain move.”
“Perhaps they’re worried we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“That would’nae put them off. The old folk round here love a bit of old-timey religious banter.”
Alex knocked again and waited a little longer this time. Still no answer. Then the curtain moved once more, and a fat white cat revealed itself in the window. It stared at Mike for a moment, then appeared to ignore him, as cats so often do.
“Let’s see what that fat cat makes of poor old Oscar,” Alex said, rolling up the poster and shoving it through the letter slot.
The little metal flap of the letter slot swung on its hinges, squeaking hysterically. The cat looked around and jumped down from the windowsill, making Mike and Alex laugh. Meggie could count one reader for her leaflets, at least, albeit a feline one.
“One down, about twenty more to bloody well go,” Alex said. “Why don’t you head down to the church while I finish off the houses? It’ll be quicker, and you’ve got me thinking about a pint, you sly bastard.”
“Ah, so you are a mere mortal after all, Alexander Buchanan,” Mike chuckled. “Meet you outside the church in a bit then?”
“Aye,” Alex said. “Just make sure you get a couple of posters on the community noticeboard. Then you can buy me that drink, Michael Carter.”
“Will do,” Mike said with a chuckle and, tucking his roll of posters under his arm, he headed off toward the church.
Saint Andrew’s was a small, low building, the brickwork weathered and worn from many a Scottish winter. A saltire flag fluttered in the breeze atop the tower. Mike recalled Alex telling him that the main part of the church dated from the twelfth century, with the red-brick extension a twentieth-century addition. Alex had said that congregations must have peaked back then. The population of Drinton was now mainly elderly retirees, and Mike supposed they still attended services. But the rest of the dwellings, particularly the detached cottages on now disused farmland on the outskirts of the village, had been bought up by city workers and property developers keen on supplementing their pensions with holiday rentals. Alex often lamented how the community had become divided into those who never left and those who profited by their absence.
Mike thought his friend’s position on this was hypocritical to say the least, though he’d never risk saying it to Alex’s face. Hearthstone Cottage was only in use by Alex’s family for a few weeks, sometimes only a few weekends, out of the year. The rest of the time it could be booked via a ‘holiday cottages in Scotland’ website, operated by the company that Alex’s parents paid a handsome commission to in return for their services. To add insult to injury, the letting company was not a local business either. As far as Mike could recall, it had its head office in Glasgow and employed cleaners and contractors from outside of the local area. In truth, Alex’s family were really no different than all the other out-of-towners who were buying up and renting out for a tidy profit. Still, Mike knew that even if Alex’s family was to try to source locals to do it, there weren’t any young local people left to physically do the work. All the people Alex and Mike’s age had moved to the city years ago, no doubt to set up profitable businesses of their own. Mike understood why they would want to make the transition from Nowheresville to the city. And he fully intended to be among their number.
The plan was simple – earn enough money to be financially independent, then develop a couple of properties to sustain his lifestyle into old age. He wondered if he could ever retire in a place like this, with its half-empty church, single pub, and random shops. Mike couldn’t see it, somehow. He fancied somewhere more exotic, where he could idle his winter years away in a hot tub overlooking some tropical paradise. If he got bored not working, maybe he could open his own expat pub at a beach resort somewhere.
Daydreams of beach pubs spurred him on to complete his task at Saint Andrew’s, and he pushed on down the lane to the church gate. The vicar was clearly trying to keep up with the times – a garish poster beside the gate displayed a picture of a smartphone with the caption ‘YOU DON’T NEED ONE OF THESE TO HEAR JESUS CALLING YOU’. Mike unrolled one of Meggie’s posters and tucked it into the frame, overlapping the main poster. As he did so, he began to chuckle at the humorous possibilities that careful poster alignment might offer. Sliding the missing dog poster farther across underneath the loose Perspex covering, he managed to obscure one word on the church poster. It now read, ‘YOU NEED ONE OF THESE TO HEAR JESUS CALLING YOU’.
Amen, Mike thought as he stepped past the gate and up the winding path to the main entrance of the church. The outer doors were open, giving access to a small foyer within. Mike tried the doors leading to the interior of the church and found them locked. He guessed that Jesus was not calling him today, after all. To the left of the locked doors, a community noticeboard was wall-mounted above a bench housing three vases of flowers, each in varying stages of decomposition. Mike perused the little flyers and handwritten notices on postcards that had been affixed to the board with rusty drawing pins and saw that they advertised everything from counselling to gardening services. One particular postcard gave Mike a pang of guilt. It advertised dog-walking services for those too elderly to cope with long walks anymore. He thought of poor Oscar, buried under his mound of rocks and dirt. Grimacing at the memory, he quickly set about his task.
Mike cleared a poster-sized space on the board by removing, then repositioning, a couple of the classifieds cards. He prized away a couple of unused drawing pins from the board and liberated two more from a poster advertising beginners’ Pilates classes. Missing dog poster affixed to the board in pride of place, Mike stepped back to look at it. Something about the vivid fleshy color of the dog’s tongue on Meggie’s painting made his stomach churn. He backed away from the church entrance, feeling suddenly cold. Something whipped past his legs, and he heard a sharp ripple of childish laughter. Whirling around, Mike caught a glimpse of a little figure in white dashing around the corner of the church.
“Hey!” he called out, giving chase. A narrow, tarmacked path led around the side of the building, flanked by flower beds to one side and the steep, weathered outer wall of the church to the other. The building loomed, casting its shadow over him as he followed the half-glimpsed figure around the back of the church. Mike reached the edge of a graveyard, dotted with gnarled, old trees and bordered by unruly hedgerows to the back and sides. Dozens of gravestones poked out above the unkempt grass of the graveyard, each with a different hue of moss or whatever lichen had grown on it over decades. He slowed to a crawling pace, scanning between the low branches of the twisted trees and the maze of headstones, looking for the child.
Another mischievous giggle came from the rear of the cemetery, and Mike’s eyes searched out a large tombstone atop a plinth of weathered stone. The perfect hiding place, especially for a child. He darted between the grave markers, intent on finding out who was teasing him. Hearing the giggle again, he thought the child could be no older than five or six. Mike wondered why one so young was running about in the churchyard alone. Perhaps the kid was from a tourist family and had gotten lost in the village. Mike tried to ignore the way in which his arms had become pinpricked with goose bumps, and walked around the side of the large tombstone.
“Hello? You all right, kid?” he said in a wavering voice.
The giggle came again but sounded different somehow. It had taken on a disturbing, rasping quality, as though the child had learned to mimic the laughter of an elderly man. Mike did not like it one bit. His fear becoming indignation at the horrible sound, he dashed around to
the back of the large tomb, intent on startling whoever was hiding there into a respectful silence.
The horrible laughter stopped, and Mike found nobody there. Only an upturned glass jar of dead flowers indicated that anyone could have been. Mike wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sighed. His mind was playing tricks on him again. He felt cold sweat at his back, and his legs turned numb. Concerned he might actually faint, Mike sat down on the tomb. A breeze rustled the leaves on the branches above him, and the sky darkened, adding to the chill that crept across Mike’s skin. He reached out a hand to steady himself against the solid structure of the tomb. Only then did he notice the engraving in the stone. It was perfectly carved, and fresh, as though it had been made yesterday. The lichens he had seen covering the tomb had retreated from the carving, revealing the words to the subdued, cloudy daylight.
HERE LIES MICHAEL CARTER.
He blinked at the words, aware that his vision was becoming blurred and watery. They were still there, plain as day. He extended his fingertips, running them along the contours of the engraving. Mike could feel the sharp edges of the stonemason’s work. It was real to the touch. He stood up as if in a dream and wandered away from the tombstone. Drifting through the long grasses, that cold sweat still at his back, and his heart pounding, Mike became aware of the other headstones all around him. There were many more of them than he had seen when he’d first arrived at the churchyard, but how could that be? They stood at insane angles, some jutting out and scraping against others like rows of crooked teeth. As he drew nearer to one of the headstones, he saw it too was carved – HERE LIES MICHAEL CARTER.
No, that couldn’t be. He was losing his mind, and he wanted it to stop. He tried to work his way between the headstones, each and every one decorated with the self-same mocking words –
HERE LIES MICHAEL CARTER.
The more he stumbled, the farther away he seemed to be from the church building, which loomed dark and distant as a vague memory. He heard the horrid childish laughter again, echoing around the graveyard, until he could not be sure whether the sound was coming from without, or within, his head. The roll of posters slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. He clamped his hands to his ears and charged through the ranks of headstones, feeling them closing in on him, the hideous sound of stone tearing through grass and soil adding to the dreadful cacophony of the man-child’s laughter. Tears streamed from his eyes, and mucus dripped from his nose as he fought to endure the invasion of noise and deathlike stone all around him.
And then, no sooner had he thought he might succumb to the tumult and fall into the wet grass to be swallowed by stones, each bearing his name, than Mike found himself at the front of the church building. He clasped his hands to his knees, drawing deep breaths into his lungs and focusing on the welcome normality of the street beyond the church gate. He did not look back until he had passed beyond the gate and onto the pavement – and only then to close the gate firmly shut behind him. As he did so, a little flutter of white caught his eye and made his heart skip a beat. It was one of the missing dog posters, being carried away by the wind. He watched it snag on a tree branch before disappearing from view, into the graveyard.
Chapter Ten
The pub was perfect. Even more perfect than Mike remembered. The lounge bar still had the same old fusty, burgundy carpet that smelled of the cigarette smoke and spilled drinks of decades past. The old wooden beams of the ceiling framed expanses of yellowing paint that had presumably been white at one stage of its lifespan, many years ago. A faulty CD jukebox stood, lights blinking spasmodically in the corner, near to a scuffed old pool table. The last time Mike and Alex had been in the pub, Mike recalled, the jukebox would only play one CD – Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi. Now it wouldn’t even perform that basic service to patrons’ musical requirements. All it was fit for was to be used as a handy receptacle for Mike’s pint of beer as he lined up his next pool shot. Alex was losing, for once, and Mike felt he owed it to himself to become the victor before he had too much to drink. He always hit his losing streak on the second or third pint. He’d try to pace himself as he enjoyed his first.
Mike took his shot. The ball he had been hoping to pot rebounded off the corner pocket. He had cut the cue ball a fraction too tight.
“Ah, bad luck, old chum.” Alex smirked at him over his cue as he chalked the tip and surveyed the arena of the pool table, looking for openings.
“Going easy on you today, man,” Mike replied, “as you’ve yet to pot a single bloody ball.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Alex groaned before taking his shot. The ball thundered into the center pocket, making a decisive clunk as it dropped into the glass-windowed ramp inside the table. “You were saying?”
It was Mike’s turn to groan now. He crossed to the blinking lights of the broken jukebox and took a sip of his pint.
“Winner stays on?”
Mike hadn’t even seen the old man enter the pub, let alone the games area. Before either he or Alex could answer, the old man slammed his hand on the side of the pool table. When he removed his hand, Mike saw that he had deposited a coin there – muscling in on their next game. Mike was used to placing money on the table back at the students’ union in Edinburgh, but he hadn’t felt the need in the pub. It had been deserted, until now.
“Aye, all right,” Alex said. “I will’nae be long,” he added, winking at Mike.
The old man’s eyes twinkled as he looked from Alex to Mike, as though sizing up his potential opponents. He was around seventy years of age, with a portly belly that was stretching the buttons of his check work shirt to the limits. He had the aspect of a farm laborer about him. His well-worn beige corduroy trousers were held up by braces and were tucked roughly into his Wellington boots. Wisps of white hair were visible beneath the peak of a tweed flat cap. He held a pint of stout in his left hand and took a sip, the thick white foam of the head coating his upper lip. He licked it away, the flick of his tongue lizard-like and, Mike thought, entirely unappealing.
“You boys on your holidays then?”
Another man, this one in his late fifties to early sixties, appeared at the pool table, carrying a tumbler of whisky. He was similarly attired but with a heavy waxed jacket over the top of his clothes. Mike glanced down and saw he was also wearing grubby wellies.
“Aye,” Alex said, chalking his cue again.
“We just graduated from university,” Mike offered. “We’re taking a break to celebrate.”
“Hear that?” said the first old man. “University graduates.”
“What did you boys study at?” asked the second.
“I read law,” Alex said, leaning over the table to take a shot at an easy green ball. “Mike there studied business.”
Mike saw a flash of something unpleasant in the first old man’s eyes. Then the old fellow blinked, and it was gone. “Well, well, two proper intellectuals we have here.”
A sarcastic edge to the man’s tone made this sound like an insult. Mike shifted on his feet, feeling uncomfortable. Couldn’t they just fuck off and leave him and Alex to their game?
“Don’t put him off his shot,” the second man said, just as Alex miscued, sending the cue ball into a corner pocket.
“Oh, bad luck,” his friend said.
Alex frowned and took solace from his pint while Mike stepped up for his turn. He had the freedom of the baize now, adjusting the placement of the cue ball until he got a clear potting angle, with the potential for another on the rebound. He leaned low over the table and tried to ignore the whispers of the old men as they stood hunched in the shadows over the far end of the table where he was aiming his shot. He exhaled slowly, feeling the cue slide back beneath his chin as he prepared to strike. Taking a sharp breath, he made the shot and the ball he had been targeting dropped into the corner pocket.
“Not bad for a young ’un,” the first old man allowed.
“Studied business, he said.” His friend sipped his drink and glanced over the table through narrowed eyes. “Where you fellers staying?” he asked Alex.
“Over at Hearthstone Cottage. You know it?”
“Know it? I should think so, son,” the old man said through his whiskers. “We’re going over that way tomorrow. For the grouse shoot.”
“I thought shooting season was over. Usually runs October to January, doesn’t it?”
“We have a special permit,” the old man said boastfully, “from the landowner.”
“Do you now?” Alex said.
“Aye. You met him, I suppose, if you’re renting his place?”
“That’d be my dad.”
The old man smiled through his rheumy eyes. “Of course! You’re the Buchanan lad. Fancy that, Edward, the lawyer’s son is a lawyer himself.”
“Only a law graduate,” Alex said, “not practicing yet. Though I hope to be soon enough.”
“Oh, aye, you will be, no doubt about that,” the first old man interjected. “Your father’s well known around here. You’ll be following in his footsteps. Do you wish to join us, ladies? Oh, my old brains, I meant to say laddies!”
The old man guffawed and made a show of correcting himself, though Mike felt sure his ‘slip of the tongue’ had been intentional.
“On the shoot?” Alex asked.
“Aye. It would be an honor to have such fine young fellows as yourselves along with us.”
Mike made his way around to the other side of the table. His next shot was trickier than he had hoped it would be. The cue ball had traveled farther along the cushion than planned. He would have to put a bit of spin on the ball, or else risk giving Alex the advantage.
“And ye can keep whatever game you might be lucky enough tae bag,” the other man continued. “Make a fine supper at that there cottage of yours.”
“Aye, a traditional crofter’s supper, for sure,” his friend added. “Real men bring home the meat!”
