by Shaun Hutson
The two women looked round again and this time Lambert thought about saying something. But he returned his gaze to Debbie. Her eyes were wide, searching his own, trying to find something that lay beneath his visible feelings.
There was a long silence between them. The only sound was that of many voices talking at once, each lost in their own world, making sense alone but, combined, becoming a noisy babble of nonsense. People around them chatted about the weather, their families, their jobs. The everyday monotony of life.
'I phoned the station,' said Lambert, at last.
'Why?' asked Debbie.
'I wondered if there was anything I could do, or if they needed me.'
Debbie looked at him reproachfully, 'Tom, the doctor told you to rest. You're not supposed to be at work. Sod the bloody station. They can run things without you.'
'I can't sit at home all day doing nothing,' he protested, 'it's driving me crazy.'
'Well, going back to the station isn't going to help either.'
'At least it might give me something else to think about. That's what I need, something to take my mind off what's been happening. You don't understand what it's like, Debbie,' he gripped her hand. 'I relive that bloody accident, that night, every time I visit Mike's grave. Even when I'm not there, it's still with me, you don't forget something like that easily.'
'No one expects you to. Just stop blaming yourself.' She didn't know whether to be angry with him, or feel pity.
'Shit,' he said it through clenched teeth, his head bowed.
She watched him for long seconds, a feeling of total helplessness slowly enveloping her. Finally he looked up and swallowed hard, 'I'm sorry,' he whispered.
'Don't be,' she told him.
He shook his head, moisture brimming in his eyes. He exhaled deeply, 'I asked Hayes to get in touch with me if they need me anytime.'
She opened her mouth to speak but he raised his hand, 'It's the only way, Debbie. I'll go off my head otherwise.'
They finished eating. He looked across the table at her and smiled. She glanced up at the clock on the wall of the cafe and saw that it was approaching two o'clock.
'I've got to be getting back,' she said, reluctantly.
'I'll walk you,' he said, standing up.
* * *
The town was busier as they walked back to the library. People were looking in shop windows and talking on street corners. A number spoke to the young couple as they walked, as both were well known within the town.
When they reached the steps of the building, Lambert put his arms around his wife's waist and kissed her.
'What will you do this afternoon?' she asked.
'Never mind me,' he said, smiling. 'You get back to your cataloguing.'
He turned to leave but she caught his arm and pulled him to her, her lips seeking his. He felt her moist tongue flick over the hard edges of his teeth before plunging further into the warm wetness of his mouth. He responded almost ferociously, pressing her close to him, anxious to feel her body against his own. Finally she pulled back. He ran an index finger across her soft cheek and smiled.
'See you later,' he said.
As he turned, she called after him and he stopped, listening.
'Tom,' she said, 'I love you.'
He smiled, 'I know.' And he walked off.
* * *
Steve Pike poured himself another cup of tomato soup from the thermos and watched the steam rising from the thick red liquid. He took a sip, wincing at the plastic taste, but he persevered, taking a draw on his fag to deaden the flavour.
'Want some?' he asked, pushing the cup towards Mackenzie.
The other man shook his head, and after stuffing the remains of a sandwich into his mouth, pulled a small metal flask from the pocket of his parka.
He took a hefty swing and smacked his lips, 'Stuff your soup,' he said, 'I'll stick to this.'
From where he sat, ignoring the dampness which was seeping through the seat of his trousers, Mackenzie could see the church clock. Its metal hands were at three-twenty. He glanced down at his own watch once more. Despite winding, it still wasn't working. Bloody Russian crap. Next time he'd get a Timex.
Squatting on the dark earth, Steve looked around. They were well across the clearing, almost halfway. The high grass and weeds had been cut down behind them; tomorrow they would cut down the remaining vegetation and, after that, dig it all into the soil.
'We'll go as far as that tree stump today,' said Mackenzie, pointing to a gnarled knob of wood which jutted out of the climbing grass like a beacon. It stood about two feet high but was nearly that width across the neatly cut base. Someone, many years ago, had chopped it down and, what was more, they had done it with amazing precision. The severed trunk was as smooth as formica on its darkened diameter. It reminded Steve of a table, as if it had grown in that shape for some purpose.
'That's going to take some shifting,' said Mackenzie, taking another pull from his hip flask, 'I bet the bloody roots go down for yards.' Steve looked around the clearing: the darkened area of earth strewn with chopped down grass, and that which lay beyond, rampant with clotted outcrops of weed. Not a wild flower in sight.
'I wonder why they wanted it cleared?' he said.
'Well,' said Mackenzie, 'it is a bloody eyesore. Christ, I shouldn't think it's been seen to since the fucking cemetery was opened.'
Steve wasn't satisfied. 'But it's out of sight of the rest of the place, you can't even see it from the driveway.'
Mackenzie turned on him irritably, 'What the bloody hell does it matter why they want it cleared? Perhaps they're expecting lots of people to peg out and they want somewhere to put them. How the bleeding hell should I know why they want it cleared?'
'All right, keep your shirt on. I was just curious.'
Mackenzie grunted. 'Why bother about it? As long as we get paid for doing it I couldn't give a bugger what they want it for.' He drained the last drops of brandy from his flask. He shook the flask and dropped it back into his pocket.
'I'll tell you what,' he said, 'it's getting colder. I reckon we'll have a frost tonight.'
'It is bloody cold,' said Steve, softly, almost to himself.
He threw what was left of his soup onto the ground and pushed his thermos into his lunchbox.
Grumbling, they returned to cutting down the sea of weeds and grass. Mackenzie straightened up sporadically and massaged the small of his back, groaning with the ache that had settled there. He drove his spade down hard and felt it connect with something solid. He pawed away the earth and saw a root as thick as his arm. And the tree stump was more than three feet away. He groaned inwardly. Shifting it was going to be harder than he'd anticipated. He lifted the spade above his head and brought it crashing down on the root, severing it with a powerful blow.
'Steve.'
The youngster turned.
'There's a couple of hatchets in the work bag. Go and get them. We'll chop the bloody thing free.'
Steve nodded and headed off to fetch the tools. Then he heard Mackenzie call again. 'And bring the crow bars too.'
He returned a moment later with the tools to find Mackenzie leaning on the tree stump. He took an axe from Steve and set to work, hacking through the thick roots until the sweat began to soak into his coat. But neither of them removed their jackets because it was getting so cold. Mackenzie could feel the biting iciness catching in his throat and he half expected to see his laboured breath frosting before him in the freezing air. Steve too, slashed away at the tentacles of root, watching as sap oozed, bloodlike, into the earth.
It took them nearly half an hour to free the stump.
Panting, Mackenzie picked up the crow bar and motioned for Steve to do the same. They slid the clawed prongs under two sides of the stump and, at a given signal, pressed down on the iron levers as hard as they could. Their faces turned bright red with the effort and veins stood out angrily on both men's foreheads.
'Hold it a minute,' gasped Mackenzie.
&nbs
p; Steve was fit to drop. He had never known exertion like this in his life and, if he had his way, he'd never have it again. They tried again but the stump remained stuck fast as if driven into the soil with some gigantic steam hammer. It was like trying to pull a masonry nail from a wall with your fingers.
'Couldn't we both try it from the same side at once?' offered Steve, not really caring now whether they moved the bloody thing or not. He didn't know why they just couldn't have gone round it.
Side by side, they prized the crow bars deep beneath the stump, Mackenzie eventually shouting in angry frustration.
'Fuck the bloody thing.' He threw his bar to the ground and stood, hands on hips, staring at the recalcitrant stump which seemed to grin back at him as much to say, you might as well forget it.
'Does it matter that much?' Steve asked timidly.
Mackenzie exploded, 'Of course it matters, you stupid little bastard. How the hell are they supposed to turn it into a fucking burial plot with that stuck in the middle?'
He retrieved his bar.
'Come on,' he snarled and they set to Work again. To Mackenzie, it had become a matter of pride; he intended moving that stump if he had to stay there all night and do it.
There was a slight creak and it lifted an inch. They pressed down harder and it lifted a little more.
'It's moving,' shouted Mackenzie, triumphantly.
Inch by agonizing inch, the tree stump rose, bringing with it more thick roots which hung like hardened veins from its dirt encrusted base.
It lifted a foot. Then eighteen inches, a great sucking sound filling the air as it began to come free.
Then they noticed the smell. A fetid, choking stench which smelt like excrement and made them gag. Steve felt his muscles contract, the hot bile clawing its way up from his stomach.
'Keep pushing,' shouted Mackenzie, tearing the lump of wood from its earthy home until the many-rooted base was at a ninety degree angle to the ground. Both men put their shoulders to it, preparing to push it over.
It was then that they looked down into the hole.
Mackenzie opened his mouth to scream but no sound would escape. The cry caught in his throat and rasped away. His eyes, riveted to the sight below him, bulged madly, the blood vessels in the whites threatening to burst. Steve made no attempt to stop himself and vomited violently, not quite daring to believe what he saw.
Lying in the hole, its body coated in thick slime, was a slug the size of small dog. Its body was a sickly greyish white colour, covered from head to tail with thick slime. As the horrified men stood transfixed, its twin antennae slowly grew towards them, lengthening like car aerials, until they had reached their full height. The bulbous eyes waved gently at the end of the antenna and the abomination slithered forward.
With a scream of sheer horrified revulsion, Mackenzie snatched up the crowbar and struck the creature. It made a hideous gurgling noise, the antenna retracting swiftly. Mackenzie struck again but, seeing that the blows were having little effect, he grabbed the axe, lying discarded by the tree stump and brought it down with terrifying force on the monstrous thing.
His blow split it in half and, a shower of virulent pus-like blood spouted into the air, some of it spattering him. Screaming like a maniac he brought the axe down again, this time splitting the thing lengthways. A reeking porridge of blackened entrails spilled onto the ground, the stench nearly making Mackenzie faint. Sobbing now, he brought the axe down once more, this time slicing off one of the antenna. He sank to his knees, the slimey mixture of yellow blood and dark viscera covering him. He gripped the axe and screamed.
Steve Pike lay unconscious behind him.
* * *
It was a full hour before Mackenzie was able to think clearly, or even to look at what remained of the thing in the hole. God alone knew how long it had been there, what it had fed on. And only now did he see that it had been lying on something. A box of some sort.
Steve had come to about twenty minutes ago, seen the creature's body and thrown up again. Mackenzie didn't blame him. Now both of them sat looking down into the hole left by the torn up tree stump, wondering what was in the box on which the slug had been lying.
'It looks like a coffin,' said Steve, quietly.
Mackenzie nodded and leapt forward, tentatively touching the wooden lid. It was soft to the touch, like mildew. He poked it with the crow bar and a lump fell off. Both men stepped back.
'What if there's another one of those things in there?' said Steve, apprehensively.
Mackenzie ignored him and stepped down into the hole. Christ, it was deep, a good three feet deep, the rim of it level with his waist.
The sky above was growing dark and he had to squint to read what was on the lid.
'It's a name or something,' he said.
Steve swallowed hard and looked around him. The wind had sprung up and the trees were rustling nervously. 'For Christ's sake hurry, Mack,' he said. Night was drawing in fast, clouds gathering like premonitory warnings above the cemetery. Birds, returning to their nests, were black arrowheads against the purple sky.
Mackenzie bent and looked closer. There was a name plate but the name had been scratched out making it unreadable. Only the date was visible, caked over with the mud of four hundred years.
1596.
'Christ, it's old,' said Mackenzie.
He slid his crowbar under one corner of the lid and wrenched it open.
Both men found themselves looking in at a skeleton.
'Jesus,' groaned Steve, noticing that the empty eye sockets had been stuffed with rag. The blackened skeleton lay in what remained of a shroud, now little more than rotted wisps of linen. The mouth was open, drawn wide in a way that made it look as though it were screaming.
But the most striking thing was the medallion.
It hung around the neck of the skeleton, almost dazzling in its brilliance. As if the rigours of time had been unable to make an impression on it.
'Fucking hell,' gasped Steve, 'it must be worth a fortune.'
The medallion consisted of a single flat circle of gold suspended on a thick chain. There was an inscription in the middle, and more jumbled lettering around the rim of the circlet but, as Mackenzie leant forward, he could see that it was no language he recognized. He hazarded a guess at Latin and would have been pleased to know that his theory was right.
'Shouldn't we tell the vicar about this?' Steve wanted to know.
Mackenzie shot him a warning glance, 'You're joking. After what we've been through getting this, I want a souvenir.' Reaching down, he ripped the medallion from around the neck of the corpse. Smiling, he studied it lying in the palm of his hand.
'A fortune,' he said quietly. It was then that he noticed the slight sensation of warmth in his palm. At first he dismissed it as imagination, or the sweat of his exertions. But the heat grew stronger, the skin on the palm of his hand began to sizzle and, as he watched, the medallion began to glow.
He dropped it with a startled grunt. It stared back at him from the damp earth.
'The bloody thing burned me,' he said, looking up at Steve.
The younger man frowned and looked down at the medallion. He reached forward and prodded it with his fingers.
'Seems alright to me,' he said, picking it up.
Mackenzie snatched it from him, holding it for a moment or two. Nothing happened. Perhaps it had been his imagination. He looked down at the palm of his hand. There was a scorch mark the size of a milk bottle top on the flesh of his hand. He dropped the medallion into his pocket and picked up his spade.
'Let's fill it in,' he said.
'I still think we should tell the vicar,' Steve persisted, shovelling earth.
'Shut up and keep digging.'
They buried the coffin and its skeletal occupant and the slug, then set off back to the cemetery proper. Mackenzie was quiet, staring ahead of him as he walked, and Steve had to hurry to keep up with him.
'What are you going to do with the medallion?' the
youngster asked.
'Mind your own fucking business,' rasped Mackenzie.
Steve swallowed hard, disturbed by the tone of the older man's voice. What he had just seen had caused him enough trouble, he didn't want to end his first working day with a fight.
When they reached the van, parked outside the cemetery, they dumped their tools in the back and Mackenzie threw the ignition keys to Steve.
'You drive,' he ordered, 'I've got a blinding headache.'
Steve didn't argue. He got in, started the van and drove off towards Medworth. Mackenzie sat silently beside him, head bowed, his breathing low and guttural.
The youngster put his foot down. He would be pleased to get home.
* * *
Debbie Lambert turned the big master key in the door of the library and smiled at the three women behind her.
'Another day, another dollar,' she grinned.
The women said their goodnights on the steps of the library then went their separate ways into the chill night. Although it was only six-fifteen, frost was already beginning to speckle the roads and pavements. It would be black ice by ten that night.
Debbie shivered and walked around the side of the building to the car park. She was struggling under the weight of a large plastic carrier bag she held. It was jammed full of ledgers. Reluctantly she had, as expected, been forced to take some work home with her.
After dumping the carrier on the passenger seat she slid behind the wheel and started the engine of the Mini. It spluttered a little then burst into life and she guided the car out into the street in the direction of home.
The journey didn't take her long. Their house stood on a small private estate about ten minutes from the centre of town, in a street with only six houses on each side of the road. As she turned into the street she could see lights blazing from the living room windows of their house. She parked her Mini behind Lambert's Capri and walked around to the back door.
The smell of cooking met her as she entered the kitchen, and she sniffed appreciatively. Lambert, dressed in a plastic apron with a bra and knickers drawn on it, was standing by the cooker stirring the contents of a large saucepan.
