by Trisha Telep
Able to breathe now, grit in my mouth, nose blocked, very cold. Broth. Warm broth.
This time she didn’t lose herself in his sensations. Was it because he was no longer panicked, suffocating? She stilled, rubbed her tingling hand. What exactly did that thought tell her? It meant she believed she felt the man’s feelings. The corpse’s feelings.
Hell. This was no corpse.
Tara’s whole body started shaking. Shock. Her mom always swore by sweet, hot tea for calming one down. With nothing to lose, the decision was easy. Tara dug out her flask, poured half a cup of steaming tea and drank it down. Then she poured another half-cup and held it over the man’s parted lips.
Drip-drip-drip.
She watched, not sure if she dreaded or desired this supposedly lifeless body to show some reaction. Long moments passed. Then the lips pressed together, his Adam’s apple moved.
“Oh. My. God.” Tara dripped more tea into his mouth, watched as he swallowed again. And again, and again. At last he’d drunk half a cup of tea, and she couldn’t stop smiling. Bugger the dig, bugger Dullaghan. She was taking this man home.
With feverish haste, Tara screwed the lid on the flask, then tossed it into her knapsack with the tools she’d brought along. She peered through the now almost solid veil of pouring rain. There was still no sign of movement from Thomas’ tent. That was normal enough. Though it felt to her as if ages had passed, it was still an hour before the normal starting time for the dig. Furthermore, he wouldn’t even have to leave his camp bed to realize there would be no digging today because of the rain. Hopefully, he’d take the opportunity to sleep in.
She got to her feet and ran past the tent, pushed open the never-locked gate and hurried to her car. The temporary fence was for keeping animals out – here, in the country, there was little if any chance of human interference with the dig. Once she was seated behind the wheel of her twelve-year-old hatchback, she flung her knapsack on the passenger seat. The engine purred to life at the first try and she drove carefully down the road, to the corner of the fence closest to her man. There was a bend in the winding, crumbly tarred path there, and she parked out of sight of the dig.
Quick as a flash, she opened the hatchback and put the rear seats down. Would he fit? How on earth was she going to carry him there? She’d make a plan, somehow.
It wasn’t difficult to undo the loosely twisted wire that kept the two sections of the fence together nearest her man. With more anxious glances towards Thomas’ tent, she stole to the former corpse’s side. This was it. From here, if she was caught, no explanation could possibly save her. Tara took a deep breath, bent down and scooped up the soil she’d loosened away from his shoulders. She grasped the man under his arms.
She did her best to support his head as she struggle-dragged him through the mud. Her heart did its best to climb out of her throat and abandon the body and mind that had clearly lost all traces of sanity. Fear gave her strength, and the rain-soaked ground helped her slide the man’s body ever closer to her car. God, he was heavy. They had left a brown trail of mud over the bright green heather once they made it from the churned ground.
Oh-God-oh-God. She was sure that at any moment Thomas would poke his head from the tent, stare straight at her and the game would be up. She was mad, mad to do this. And still she fought to drag her man to her car.
She was exhausted by the time they made it to the little hatchback. The rain had washed away much of the mud from her man’s face. She saw him squinting against the sting of the pelting drops, saw him lick his lips. The last traces of doubt that he was very much alive were blown away when he sneezed a gob of mud from his nose, then spat weakly. He opened his eyes for a moment, looked straight into hers.
Tara froze. She was convinced she’d seen those bloodshot eyes somewhere before. They seemed as familiar as her own blue ones. His were light green, like the Mediterranean Sea when the sun caught it just so. From somewhere, bizarrely, relief flooded her heart, as if something that had been missing in her soul had been returned. He smiled, then his eyelids fluttered closed again.
The car. She had to get him into the car. Would he even fit? There was no time to wonder or doubt now. She opened the hatchback, then squatted and took a firm hold of his upper body. His head rested against her breasts. She forgot about the flick of the raindrops, about the danger of discovery, about her tired muscles. For a moment, she just stayed like that, cradling him in her arms.
What was she thinking? She willed her mind back to the pickle they were both in, took a deep breath and lifted with all her might.
Weeks of hard manual labour paid off now. Grunting and straining, Tara managed somehow to struggle backwards into her car, hauling the limp body of the man in with her. One last heave and they both fell backwards into the car. Panting for breath, Tara rested for a few precious moments, hugging him to her soaked body. Was he OK? She could feel him breathing in her arms, a small tremor as if he was starting to shiver. It was the best she could hope for. Once she had him home, she’d be able to take better care of his needs.
Again it took an effort of will to remind herself that she was in deep, deep trouble, and didn’t have the luxury of time. She wriggled out from under him, lay him down as best she could and tumbled from the car. She had to bend his knees to get his legs in, but thank heaven he did fit. A picture of herself driving off with his legs dangling from her car, sporting a red flag from one toe, flashed through her imagination. She closed the hatch door, suppressing a hysterical giggle. Her mind wanted to hammer on the absolute lunacy of what she was doing, but she forced her focus back on to practicalities. Enough of her self-preservation instinct remained for her to think of ways she could cover her tracks.
Gusts of wind tugged at her sopping jacket and flung rain in her face as she ran back to the gap in the fence. There was one very, very slim chance of getting away with this. At least for the time being. She slipped into the site, crept to her man’s former grave. Each corner of the canopy was fixed to the ground by a guy rope. Tara kept her eyes on the tent as she dropped into the shallow hole. She had no tools with her, but adrenaline and fear helped her use her hands to fill the gaping hole in her dig area with loose soil. That task done as best she could, she glanced at Thomas’ tent again.
The flap moved.
She fell flat on her stomach in the hole, her heart in her mouth. Seconds passed like hours. At last she scraped together enough courage to take a peek. Thomas chose that moment to emerge, a poncho draped over his head. He jogged in a half-crouch to the Portaloo, opened its door and slipped inside. Tara ducked down when she saw him turn. She counted to ten, then risked another peek. The door was closed. It was now or never.
She sprang from the hole and raced to the first guy rope, pulled with all her might. The peg stuck for a moment, then yielded reluctantly and slipped from the ground. She dashed to the other one, coaxed it from the ground as well, then half fell back into the hole. Now she needed Thomas to come out of the confounded toilet; he seemed to have moved in there permanently. Minutes dragged by, then the door opened and he emerged. Another gust of wind tugged at the canopy and Tara’s breath froze in her chest. If the other leg fell over now, she’d be dead meat. She risked reaching out and grabbing the nearest metal leg of the frame to keep it in place.
Thomas didn’t even look her way. He crouch-ran to the mess tent, holding the poncho over his head, unzipped the door flap and stepped inside. Tara ducked down when he turned to zip up the door. She counted to ten again, risked a glance. He was gone.
She clambered from the hole, grasped the leg of the canopy she’d held in place and lifted with all her strength. It was almost a superfluous effort: another gust of wind near tore the canopy from her hands. It toppled over, leaving her man’s grave exposed to the deluge. Hopefully, all sign of foul play would be obscured by its wash. The mud trail to the fence would, with a bit of luck, also fall victim to the rain’s cleansing touch.
One last hurdle. She had to close t
he gap in the fence. Tara slipped through and pushed the fence sections back together, found the stiff wires that had kept it together before.
Why now did things have to go wrong? Her hands were too slick to grasp the wires she had to twist. They kept slipping from her fingers. How long before Thomas would turn to the plastic window to stare out over the dig as he drank his tea? His gaze would no doubt be drawn to the toppled gazebo straight away.
She couldn’t do it. The wires were simply too slippery. But who would come and inspect the fence this closely? She’d just have to remember to fix the wires next time she came into work. With that promise to herself, Tara turned and ran as fast as she could back to her car.
Her man was still breathing. He was shivering noticeably, and his skin was still as cold to the touch as it had been when she first unearthed him. She wondered what he’d been wearing when he died.
When he died! What an overwhelming thought. Had he died? What was his story? Was he even human?
She had nothing to cover him with. Her own clothes were soaked through. Though there was a bite to the air, it wasn’t that bad. There had to be more to the man’s shivering than cold. She turned the heater on full blast as she sped back home.
When she got the job on the dig, a contract that would last at least six months, Tara had found a two-bedroom detached house half an hour’s drive from the site. It would have made sense to share, but with the old place a few kilometres outside an already out-of-the-way little village, the rent was so low she could afford the luxury of keeping it to herself. She now thanked her lucky stars for this happy coincidence. With no curious neighbours around, she could take more time and care unloading the man than she had done loading him.
Whether it was the lack of fear-spiked adrenaline, her already tired state or just the more awkward job of getting the man out of, rather than into, her car, it proved much more difficult. She managed, at last, to heave him into her sitting room and lay him down on the carpet. Exhausted, Tara sank down on to the floor beside him, her back against a stuffed chair. He still shivered, but she simply had to catch her breath before she could try to do anything about that.
It looked, now that the rain had washed some of the dirt away, as if he was blond. His hair, plastered to his skull and streaked with mud, was probably shoulder length. Tara’s gaze slid down to his exposed torso. She swallowed. Whatever her mystery man had done in his former life, it must have involved a fair amount of exercise. The muscles of his dirt-mottled chest, covered with skin as pale as milk, were well developed. And lower down . . .
His eyelids flickered, opened. He looked to his left, then to his right and saw her. As if it was a huge effort, he rolled his head to see her better. Tara froze. For long moments, they stared at each other. Then the man mumbled something.
Tara leaned forwards. “I couldn’t hear you. Please, speak again.” Damn, she hadn’t even considered that he might not speak English.
He closed his eyes; she thought he’d fallen asleep again. Then his lips moved, and she had to lean right over him to hear his whisper. “Ye are very beautiful, lass.”
Warmth blossomed in her heart. She smiled. “Thank you.”
A spasm of shivers shook his body. “Broth. Warm broth.”
“Of course.” She’d have said bath, warm bath would take precedence when you’re hypothermal, but she knew little of bringing the dead back to life and would rather go with whatever he said he needed. Broth. Did she still have some of that soup her mother had made in the freezer? It was quite chunky, but if she put it through the blender, it would probably work as well.
Tara first fetched an old sheet from the cupboard in the spare room, which she spread over her man. After that, she took the duvet from the spare bed and covered him with that, too. Shivering herself now in her wet clothes, she stole to her bedroom, whipped off the wet stuff and changed into her bathrobe. Then it was off to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, she had a steaming saucepan of thin soup ready.
Tara knelt at the man’s side. She reached out to touch his cheek, to gently roll his head up so he could drink the broth, but stopped herself. Would she feel his feelings again? He still shivered. She braced herself and put her hand on his cheek.
He was so cold. Bristle and grit rubbed against her palm, but she felt no emotions other than her own. And her own emotions puzzled her. Under the excitement, fear, wonder, anxiety and curiosity, was something like tenderness. Concern. Why had she taken this man from the dig? She lived for archaeology, had worked many years to get her degree and the work experience she wanted. Why risk it all?
She stroked the man’s cheek. “Hello. Are you awake? Can you hear me?” No reaction. Would he choke if she dripped soup into his mouth while he slept? Yet she had done so with the tea earlier, and he had swallowed automatically. She decided to take the risk.
Drip-drip-drip. She watched anxiously, and yes, he swallowed the soup. Satisfied, Tara fed him some more. The bowl was soon empty, and she noticed his shivers had subsided. What else could she do for him? Would he ever wake up completely, or was this as conscious as he’d get? He was the find of the century, a man who’d come back to life after being buried for who knows how long.
Realization struck her then, and Tara felt herself pale. Yes, she’d made the find of the century, but she would never be able to prove it. Even the photos would not be enough, not considering the claim she’d be making about him. What an idiot she’d been!
Then she let her gaze rest on his muddy face and her regrets faded. She thought of him lying in a laboratory, being poked, prodded, sliced and inspected. No way. Minutes slipped by as Tara stared at him. He was shivering again.
Her phone beeped, and she checked the text message on the screen. No work today. That was to be expected. Had they inspected her squares yet? Was Dullaghan on his way right now, perhaps with the Gardai? Or no, this dig was just across the border, in Northern Ireland – it would be the police accompanying him.
“Lass.” Tara started at the sound of the hoarse whisper. The man’s eyes were open. “Broth. Warm broth.”
This time, when she fed him the soup, he was awake. He kept those light green eyes focused on her face. It was almost embarrassing. She had to look a sight, probably as dirty as he was, and she didn’t have the excuse of having been dead and buried for years.
Ye are very beautiful. Tara’s cheeks warmed.
When the bowl was empty, he still stared at her. “Thank ye, fair lass.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Aye. I am very cold.”
“I wish I could get you into a hot bath, it would be just the ticket to warm you.”
He smiled. “Ye need not drag me into yon bath, lass. I think I can move to it with yer aid.”
Tara nodded. “I’ll run a bath first, then I’ll come help you to it.”
She filled the tub with steaming water, added a dash of jasmine-scented bath oil. When she returned to the sitting room, her man was sitting up on the floor, his back against her couch. “What is yer name, lass?” he asked.
“Tara.” She smiled, awkward. “And yours?”
“I am Ulick.”
“Ah. Pleased to meet you. The bath is ready. Can you stand?”
“Nay, lass, not without yer aid.”
How was she going to do this? Ulick made the question superfluous when he struggled to pull himself up on to the couch. She hurried to his side, grasped his arm and helped. He soon slumped on her couch, breathing hard, eyes closed, as if he’d run a mile. She sat down beside him, suppressed the urge to stroke his forehead with her fingers, the even greater urge to stare at his crotch. Minutes passed before he opened his eyes again.
“Ready?” Tara asked.
“Aye.”
She slid her hand behind his back, then dragged him with her into a standing position. He leaned heavily on her, and Tara thanked her lucky stars she only had to get him to the bathroom. Step by staggering step they made their way down the short pas
sage. Holding him this close, she could still feel him shivering. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel this firm body warm against her?
He crumpled in a heap on to the mat when they made it, one hand grasping the rim of the bath.
Her mobile phone rang.
“Damn. Just wait here.” She sprinted down the passage to the sitting room, grabbed the thing just in time. It was Dullaghan. She forced words from a suddenly dry mouth. “Good morning, Doctor D. How are you?”
“I’m grand, thank you. Thomas found your note, but you were nowhere to be seen.”
“Yeah, it started raining cats and dogs, so I left. It was still early, I didn’t want to wake him up.”
“Great. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, did it?”
Oh, God, he knew. “No, nothing. I scraped away another layer before I left, but nothing came up.”
“Okay. Well, as long as you’re all right.”
“I am. Just a bit muddy. I was about to get in the bath.” She screwed her eyes shut and bit her lip. That had been a mistake. He’d wonder why she was only going to wash now. “I had to wait for the boiler to heat.”
“Mmm. I find a shower usually does it for me. So you found nothing so far?”
“Nothing.”
“Well then. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your bath.”
Tara ended the call, nothing but a nauseous hollow where her stomach used to be. He suspected something was amiss, she was sure. There was nothing she could do about it now, though. She just had to remember to fix those wires at the fence as soon as possible. Right now, she had to focus on Ulick. She plonked the phone on the coffee table, dashed back to the bathroom and froze.
Ulick sat naked on the floor, hanging on to the side of the bath, eyes closed. An unexpected heat flushed her skin. She stared at him for long seconds before she realized what she was doing and quickly closed the door. Damn! This was really awkward. She was sure he’d need help getting in the bath, but . . .
“Lass. Do not be shy, I need yer aid.”
Tara tried to swallow away the dryness in her mouth and pushed the door open again. Ulick looked up at her, unashamed. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. His body was lean, muscles sculpted but not gym-bunny over-perfect.
