by Guy N Smith
Instead of holding on to the banister, she ran downstairs. Because the phone was ringing in the hall.
‘Let ‘em bloody well wait!’ he had shouted after her.
Too late! He heard her trip. She gave a kind of startled squeal and then he heard her going all the way down the steep flight. Bump-bump-bumpety-bump. Crash!
Oh, God! He almost yelled his anguish aloud just at the very memory. He had rushed out of the bathroom, stared in horror at the petite form lying at an unnatural angle on the hall floor, her head twisted to one side. Sitting in his cell now it all came back to him just as though it had happened this very minute. Again. He had rushed downstairs, his face still lathered in shaving foam, and tried to pick her up. Her head had lolled; she had stared up at him with sightless eyes.
No, you’re not dead, Paula. Please don’t die. Everything’s going to be fine.
He had carried her through to the settee in the lounge, laid her there and gone and made her a strong cup of tea with three sugars. ‘Drink your tea, Paula, you’ll feel better then. Then we’ll go downtown and I’ll buy you that dress you wanted.’
She didn’t drink her tea. She never moved again. He stayed and comforted her for three whole days; the police said it was a week because she had started to smell when they finally came for her.
Paula went to the mortuary and Malcolm was taken to the police station. They asked him question after question but he wasn’t able to tell them much because he couldn’t remember. ‘All right, I kept her for a week, then. I was hoping she’d get better.’
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to charge you, Malcolm Palmer.’
Now Paula was dead, it didn’t matter. He gave up telling them that she’d fallen downstairs, they didn’t believe him anyway.
‘Just do what you want with me, I couldn’t care less…couldn’t care less…’
He remembered something his father told him, wagging a stern finger at him every time he said that when he was a small boy. ‘Don’t care was hanged.’ Even in boyhood Malcolm had queried that silly statement. They didn’t hang people for not caring.
Well, apparently they did.
Malcolm’s brain had switched off, nothing registered with him because it didn’t matter any longer. They were going to hang him, drop him down through the trap door and either his neck would be dislocated or else he would die from strangulation.
I couldn’t care less.
It was strange how morbid subjects like hanging fascinated small boys. When Malcolm was six his father had taken him to a church garden fete, one of the sideshows had been a miniature gallows. It cost a penny to go into the tent and when the tent was full the man tied the flap. The show lasted about two seconds, the tiny figure, a black hood over its head, dropped down though the trap door and you could just see its feet swinging, twisting one way then the other.
Everybody out. Next please! Malcolm had not got any further than that tent; he’d spent the whole shilling which his father had given him in there. Twelve hangings. Well thirteen, actually because the man let him watch one free as he was a regular customer!
A few years later he had read an article in the newspaper about hanging – “What
Really Happens.” Sometimes, when the hangman miscalculated his weights and measures, the victim’s head came off. On one occasion they had had to pull the guy back up and hang him again because they’d made a cock-up. Malcolm wondered if it was any different these days. He couldn’t care less.
***
They had drugged him, he guessed that much. Slipped something in his tea, doubtless. His vision was distorted as he stumbled out of the cell and along the corridor. He knew what they were doing, all right. The rope was rough against his neck; chafed it. They didn’t need to blindfold him because he couldn’t see, anyway. Nobody spoke, thank God!
They weren’t very expert, fumbling about, trying to get the noose right. In the end they managed it and pulled it tight. Good, and I hope my bloody head comes off, makes a right mess for you to clean up.
Frankly I could care less so you’d better get on with it and hang me.
***
The coroner’s court wasn’t even a sombre affair. Merely a formality because the law demanded it. There were neither friends nor relatives present because the deceased had neither. Just police and a local press reporter. It might make a paragraph in Friday’s Journal, depending upon how much there was to cover at the parish council meetings.
The coroner cleared his throat. He had an annoying habit of speaking quickly in a soft voice; those within the room leaned forward in an attempt to catch what he said. If it was anything interesting. Today nobody appeared interested. The clock on the wall said five minutes to one. Everybody present had their minds on lunch. Including the coroner himself.
The reporter scribbled indecipherable shorthand, often he could not read it himself when he got back to the office. Today it didn’t matter much, anyway.
‘Malcolm Palmer, late of…’ The reporter missed the address. ‘Had been undergoing psychiatric treatment but refused it a month ago. Devastated by the death of his wife… An accident but he kept the body at home for a week… charged with failing to report a death. He collapsed in court and was referred for the afore-mentioned treatment. He became a recluse; the neighbours had not seen him for weeks. Suffered from depression and delusions…’
A rustle of papers; the clock on the wall said two minutes to one, there wasn’t much time left. The coroner spoke even faster. Nobody was listening. ‘Found hanged from the stair banisters. Verdict: suicide whilst the balance of the mind was disturbed.’
Nobody could have cared less.
Sabat: The Robber’s Grave
(additional story)
1821
The small courtroom at Welshpool was crowded, mostly with sensation seekers anticipating a death sentence. Judge Winderholme’s lined features wore an expression that could only be termed as boredom. This trial had lasted for most of the day when he could have pronounced a guilty verdict hours ago. Yet he was compelled to listen to the witnesses’ somewhat garbled evidence against the accused. He stifled a yawn. Just another ten minutes would bring it to a conclusion. His fingers toyed with the black cap on his knee.
In the dock, head bowed, stood John Davies, a plasterer and slaterer, a resident of Montgomery. He was accused of assaulting William Jones, a labourer, and robbing him of a watch worth all of fifty shillings. Both witnesses, Walter Hughes and William Lewis had not actually been present at the assault but had heard Jones’s cries for help and upon going to his aid had glimpsed Davies in the distance. They had also come upon the missing watch lying on a path, the one upon which Davies had departed the scene.
Davies denied assault and theft which was only to be expected. Jones had identified the watch as being the one stolen from him. The judge stifled another yawn; it was a clear cut case in his view, otherwise this trial might well go on for several more hours.
‘I am innocent,’ Davies’s voice trembled. ‘I never touched William Jones nor stole his watch. It is a frame up because of a previous disagreement I had with these liars!’
‘Silence!’ The judge unravelled the square of black cloth and draped it over his balding head. ‘John Davies, this court finds you guilty of assault and theft. Hence, I sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.’
A small crowd had gathered in Montgomery for the public execution, an exciting event in this sleepy Welsh town. Davies stood upon the gallows and the hangman draped the loop of rope around the doomed man’s neck. Dark clouds gathered in the sky overhead and a bolt of lightning lit up the grim scene below. Thunder crashed and a heavy downpour began.
Suddenly John Davies straightened up, addressed the spectators in defiant tones.
‘I go to my grave an innocent man, wrongly executed for a crime which I did not commit. Let this wrongful act lie upon all your consciences and may God prevent grass from growing upon my
grave as a sign of my innocence.’
Another crash of thunder drowned the excited chattering of the crowd as the body of John Davies dropped and swung.
His grave was situated on the far side of the parish cemetery well clear of the rows of tombstones. It was marked by a basic wooden crucifix simply carved “The Robber’s Grave.” As the years passed, there was no sign of growth upon the ground above his burial site. It was muttered with no small amount of awe by local inhabitants that this in itself was proof that an innocent man had paid the supreme penalty upon the lying by so-called witnesses to a crime which had never taken place.
2018
Mark Sabat was tall and very agile for one in his mid to late sixties, his hair and moustache still black apart from a few wisps of grey. His long career as a private detective who investigated cases which had an occult implication was drawing to a close. Retirement beckoned, much to the disappointment of his few police associates who had held him in esteem for many years. There were others who doubted his unique findings and were glad that he would no longer be called upon to investigate crimes which had inexplicable backgrounds.
Throughout the years he had been fighting against the soul of his evil brother, Quentin, who had somehow infiltrated his own inner self. Many battles between the two had ensued but, much to his relief, Quentin had been silent recently. Mark feared, though, that the latter had not departed his own inner self forever. He was still haunted in his sleep by the other’s maniacal mocking laughter.
Mark’s London apartment was now on the market and was creating interest but so far there was no firm buyer. It seemed that everybody had a property to sell before they could invest in a new home.
Breakfast was finished and he was contemplating a day of leisure, maybe a visit to the British Museum, when the telephone shrilled.
‘Hello, Sabat,’ a familiar voice on the other end which he recognised as that of Inspector McCaulay of Scotland Yard, a long-time associate whom he had worked with on several occasions over the years.
Sabat groaned inwardly, the last thing he wanted at this stage of his career with retirement in prospect was a call from the Yard.
‘McCaulay,’ he lowered himself into a chair. ‘Much as I enjoy talking to you I’m on the verge of retirement. The last thing I need is an investigation.’
‘Well, I’d appreciate your opinion, anyway, Sabat. You know how much I value it.’ Flattery was always a good starting point.
‘I’d be happy to oblige but I really don’t want another case. As you know, retirement beckons and I’m really looking forward to it.’
‘Sure, I appreciate that. However I have had a phone call from a colleague of mine, Superintendent Jackson, of the Powys police force in Wales. We once worked together. Now he’s got a mystery on his hands and he’s heard of you and asked if I could have a chat with you. On the face of it occult forces are at large in Montgomery.’
Oh, Christ, here we go! Sabat suppressed a groan.
‘There’s been a murder up in Wales. The body was found in Montgomery churchyard. The victim, a guy in his late fifties, had been strangled. What he was doing wandering around a rural graveyard after dark is something of a mystery. The force used was so great that his neck had been completely snapped!’
‘These days there’s usually more than one murder every day,’ Sabat replied. ‘So why should you be interested in one up in rural Wales?’
‘There’s more to it than that, Sabat. Back in the mid-nineteenth century a local guy was apprehended in that same churchyard by a couple of chaps who claimed he had stolen a watch from them. The evidence was weak but he was found guilty and hanged publicly. On the gallows he swore his innocence and announced that to support his claim no grass or undergrowth would grow on his grave. And oddly that was the case, proof enough for superstitious locals until fairly recently weeds began to sprout there. Folks avoided the grave on the grounds that Davies was no longer down there and he was out and about. Nobody would venture near the site except curious holidaymakers who had read about the legend. Now we come to the weird bit and I wouldn’t even mention it except to yourself.’
‘Go on,’ Sabat was curious.
‘The guy who was murdered was a descendant of William Jones whom it is believed produced two false witnesses to ensure that Davies was found guilty. Now there’s rumours that Davies has risen from his grave to seek revenge. Of course the police dismiss this theory as rubbish. Some of the locals have applied to the Church for permission to exhume Davies’s remains, or, at least, find out if they are still down there. Needless to say their request has been refused.’
Sabat pursed his lips. His past experience of his investigations had him keeping an open mind at this stage.
And then somewhere deep within himself he heard a sneer. Quentin was stirring again after a lengthy absence. Because he knew something about this strange business far from here. Mark tensed. The silence returned.
‘What d’you want me to do about the Robber’s Grave, then McCaulay?’
‘I was wondering,’ the other’s hesitancy was unmistakable, ‘if you would fancy a trip up to Montgomery. Incognito, of course. If anybody can find out what’s going on up there, it’s you. Maybe a break from the metropolis would do you good.’
Sabat sighed. Maybe it would lead to a final encounter with Quentin, allow him to see out his final years in peace.
‘All right,’ he added after a pause. ‘I’ll take a trip up there and have a mooch around. I can’t promise more than that.’
‘Thanks,’ there was a note of relief in the other’s voice. ‘It’s out of my area but you and I have conducted numerous weird investigations. I could ignore it but Superintendent Jackson feels there’s more to this business than meets the eye. Anyway, I owe him a personal favour. So I’ll leave it all up to you and hope to hear from you in due course.’
Sabat arrived in Montgomery a few days later and booked into an hotel. Such a charming town, was his first impression. There was nothing in the way of nocturnal rowdiness here at night, mostly the younger generation travelled to either Newtown or Welshpool for their drinking, so the hotel receptionist informed him. ‘You will enjoy a really peaceful few days here, sir.’
Dusk was creeping in on a calm, late autumn evening when he set out for the churchyard. The streets were empty, the town itself was deserted apart from a couple of locals returning from the late-opening shop. It couldn’t be better for his purpose, he reflected, as he entered the churchyard. There was a full moon, its wan light penetrating the overhanging branches of the tall trees. He had no need of his torch for which he was grateful. The last thing he wanted was to advertise his presence in these holy grounds.
Suspended from his neck was the silver crucifix which he always wore on such investigations. On more than one occasion it had kept Quentin at bay. He had not, though, brought his revolver loaded with silver bullets. It could have been problematic if for any reason the police became involved. Anyway, he consoled himself, this was just a brief investigation to oblige an old colleague.
He came upon a sign indicating that the “Robber’s Grave” was somewhere to the left of the main pathway. There was no problem finding it, a heap of soil and weeks where there should have been level ground, a crude wooden crucifix lying atop it, designating “Robbers Grave.” Had somebody dug down to exhume the remnants of the corpse or else had it risen by itself?
‘Jesus Christ!’ Sabat muttered. He had no need of his torch for a ray of moonlight lit up the digging. Then somewhere within himself he heard sneering laughter. Most certainly this was Quentin’s evil work.
Sabat bent, lifted up the crude cross. It was lightweight, doubtless a replacement for the original which had rotted over the years. Maybe some local had put it there, an apology from the ancestors of those who had been responsible for the injustice.
Yet weeds had established themselves in recent times, contrary to Davies’ statement from the gallows that the soil would reject natural growth as proof of h
is innocence.
Could it be that his skeleton no longer lay buried down there and he had risen from his burial place, aided by Quentin Sabat? An icy shiver trickled down Mark’s spine and even as he looked around him he sensed his brother sneering within him.
Up ahead something moved, hidden in the shadows, like somebody was treading through the undergrowth, uncertain of their balance on the uneven ground. Sabat froze, clenched the crucifix with one hand, his silver neckpiece with the other.
‘Prepare to meet the one you are seeking, Mark. Prepare to join him. The dead shall walk again!’
Suddenly a figure moved out into the moonlight, Sabat gasped aloud at that which he saw. The features were near skeletal, strips of flesh peeling from the head; holes where there should have been eyes, glowing. Mucus stringing from the place where once flesh had covered a nose. A snarling toothless mouth agape, drool oozing down the chin. The body was bent and stooped, rotting clothing hanging from it in strips. The bare feet struggled for balance. Undoubtedly this was John Davies, a rusted carving knife clutched in a bony hand, raised from his final resting place by Quentin Sabat and seeking revenge upon those who had sent an innocent man to the gallows.
Sabat wished fervently that he had been carrying his revolver. One silver bullet would have ended the other’s zombie existence. He held up his silver crucifix but Davies only advanced another couple of unsteady steps, his knife raised. Angry grunts came from the slobbering mouth. Somewhere Quentin was sneering.
