Wake Wood

by K. A. John

  A light was burning on the landing above her. She drained her glass, left it on a windowsill and walked up the steps. When she reached the first floor, she saw that all the doors were closed except one. She went to it and looked inside.

  The room was large and she guessed it was the master bedroom of the farmhouse. It was furnished with a massive old-fashioned oak bedroom suite that gleamed black from the layers of polish that had been applied to it over the years. The bedspread and curtains were gold and crimson tapestry. Beeswax candles had been lit and placed on the mantelpiece of the carved oak hearth surround, on the bedside cabinets and also in front of the mirror on the dressing table. But their light did little to illuminate the room and the overall effect was one of Jacobean gloom.

  Mick had been laid out in the centre of the ornately carved, oak-framed bed. He was covered to the chin, but his arms and hands were lying free on top of the bed linen. There was no sign of the wounds he’d suffered or the blood he’d been drenched in, and Louise reflected that whoever had washed, dressed and composed Mick for death had done a masterful job of concealing his massive injuries.

  An elderly woman was crouched over Mick’s corpse; her back turned to Louise. She was manicuring Mick’s nails, scraping the dirt from beneath them and trimming them with nail scissors. Louise watched in silence as the woman carefully and meticulously slipped each sliver of nail clipping into a white envelope.

  Sensing she was no longer alone with Mick, the woman turned and faced Louise. Grief was etched deep in the lines around her mouth but her eyes were bright, glittering with unshed tears.

  Surmising the woman was Mick’s wife, Louise offered her condolences. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs O’Shea. Please accept my deepest sympathies.’

  ‘You were there, in the barn when it happened.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘I was,’ Louise admitted.

  ‘You’re the vet’s wife.’

  ‘Yes, Louise Daley.’ Louise offered her hand and Peggy O’Shea took it. She didn’t shake it, but she held it for a moment.

  ‘Martin said you cleaned and dressed the injury to his hand.’

  ‘Yes, I did. How is it?’

  ‘It’ll mend, in time. There’s no real damage done. He’ll survive, unlike my poor Mick.’ Peggy set the scissors and envelope on the bedside table, moved a straight-backed chair close to the bed and sat down.

  Unable to bear the silence, Louise blurted, ‘Mrs O’Shea, I really am so sorry. I know how awful the pain is. I really do.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  Louise moved a chair away from the wall and sat at the foot of the bed.

  Peggy looked down fondly on Mick’s corpse and smiled. ‘In my mind’s eye, he’s still the dashing, handsome boy I met all those years ago. And now there he is, all creased up like an old man. It went too fast. Our lives went far too fast,’ she echoed despondently.

  Louise was suddenly aware of noises in the room, harsh scratching and muted whisperings out of her field of vision that set her teeth on edge. She peered beyond the candlelight into the shadows gathered thickly in the corners of the room. She thought she glimpsed movement but it was difficult to tell in the flickers of the candles.

  ‘Don’t look at them,’ Peggy warned sharply.

  Louise shivered, wondering if she’d heard the old woman correctly.

  ‘It’s better not to look at them,’ Peggy reiterated.

  ‘Them?’ Louise ventured bravely.

  ‘Things that cannot be named. Death excites them, you see. Ignore them. Behave as if you’ve seen and heard nothing.’

  Terrified, trembling, Louise looked back at Mick. Compared to whatever horrors were lurking just out of sight, the corpse appeared strangely reassuring.

  Patrick pushed his way into the kitchen and looked around the throng of people for Louise’s blonde head. He couldn’t see his wife but he noticed that the liberal helpings of whiskey were beginning to have an effect on the mourners crammed into the house. As glasses were emptied and refilled, voices were becoming louder and more animated. To add to the din of conversation a woman was playing traditional Irish airs on a button accordion in the dining parlour and a couple of men, well-oiled by alcohol, had taken it upon themselves to sing an accompaniment.

  He only backed out of the kitchen when he was certain that Louise wasn’t in the room. He was in the hall when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and found himself looking into Martin O’Shea’s eyes. They were sombre, bruised by grief and pain.

  ‘My father was proud of that bull, Patrick,’ he slurred. Patrick couldn’t tell whether Martin’s impeded speech was down to a surfeit of whiskey or grief.

  ‘With good cause, Martin. It’s a fine animal,’ Patrick complimented.

  ‘And the beast is out there in the bull house now, standing large and fit as life. His temperature came down anyway. As did my father’s,’ Martin said bitterly. ‘He’s upstairs laid out cold and stiff for the grave and the bull is alive and well.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened to Mick, Martin,’ Patrick said sincerely.

  ‘I know you are, Patrick,’ Martin relented.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do …’ Even as he said the words, Patrick knew from bitter experience how useless they were. There was nothing anyone could do to assuage loss on the scale that Martin was experiencing.

  ‘Thank you, Patrick. I know you mean it. You tried to stop Dad from climbing into that pen. But there was no stopping Mick O’Shea once he’d made up his mind to do something.’

  ‘No, there wasn’t,’ Patrick agreed. ‘He was a good man, Martin. And he’ll be missed by more than your family in Wake Wood.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Patrick.’ Mick looked around the crowded room and acknowledged Arthur, who was signalling to him. ‘If you’re looking for your missus, Patrick, she’s upstairs with my mother in the bedroom. You’d best go in to them.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. I need to pay my respects to your father.’ Patrick needed no second prompting. He was anxious to leave the house, the rowdy mourners and all the reminders of Mick’s tragic and untimely death.

  He climbed the stairs and saw Louise and Peggy O’Shea sitting in silence in the candlelit master bedroom. Both women were gazing at the corpse.

  Patrick bowed his head in respect before approaching Peggy. He held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs O’Shea.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Daley.’

  ‘Patrick, please.’ After Peggy shook his hand he picked up a chair and sat beside Louise.

  Louise took courage from Patrick’s presence. She turned to Peggy. ‘Our daughter died suddenly last year. Our only child,’ she emphasised. ‘When she was born things didn’t go very well. I’ll never have another baby.’

  Patrick reached for Louise’s hand. The pressure of his fingers on hers spurred her to continue.

  ‘Even though I know this is a time of great sadness and tragedy for you, I want to ask if we can use your husband’s remains to help bring back our daughter.’

  Peggy glared at Louise. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’

  ‘You’re right, Mrs O’Shea. I don’t know what I’m asking,’ Louise conceded. ‘But what I do know is that I ache every minute of every day to see my little girl again,’ she pleaded.

  Arthur entered the room behind them. He lifted his hand to Peggy in acknowledgement but remained behind Patrick and Louise in the shadows that shrouded the doorway.

  Peggy looked from Louise to Patrick. ‘You two may live in Wake Wood now. But it’s not part of you. It’s not your home. You’re just visiting and, maybe one day, one day soon, you’ll move on and go elsewhere. I can’t imagine what that’s like; moving on, wanting to live in another place, one that’s full of strangers. The rest of us, well, we’re all born here, rooted here in this land and in the woods. We couldn’t survive outside of Wake Wood.’

  ‘Mrs O’Shea,’ Patrick interposed. ‘Louise and I are happy here in Wake Wood and I promi
se you we intend to stay here.’

  Peggy pursed her lips disapprovingly before she declared, ‘The ritual is not for outsiders. Only those born and bred here, in Wake Wood.’

  Arthur stepped forward. ‘Not usually, Peggy, but when people want to join us and contribute to the community the way Patrick and Louise have done, we can make exceptions …’ His voice trailed when she left her chair and confronted him in amazement.

  ‘How can you say that there can be exceptions, Arthur? Patrick’s success in running your veterinary practice has blinded you. There’s never been an exception in the past. The people wouldn’t have stood for it then and they won’t stand for it now.’

  ‘Without exceptions the town will never grow, Peggy,’ Arthur replied. ‘Do you want Wake Wood to wither and die for lack of young people, like so many other small towns in this part of Ireland? Please, Peggy, you know we can’t do anything without your permission.’

  Peggy took a candle from the bedside cabinet. She stood in front of Patrick and Louise. ‘All right, Arthur’s had his say. Now stand up for me. Both of you.’

  Patrick and Louise obediently rose to their feet. Peggy held the candle very close to Patrick’s face and studied him while three full minutes ticked off the bedside clock. Moving the flame even closer, she stared into his eyes for another minute before moving on to Louise and repeating the procedure.

  Louise stood unflinchingly as the old woman examined her face, her eyelids, her skin, her hair.

  Peggy finally lowered the candle but she continued to stare at Louise for a long time before turning back and replacing the candle on the cabinet. ‘No, Arthur. It’s not right,’ she declared finally. ‘The ritual is for people born and bred in Wake Wood only. There can be no exceptions. Certainly not for incomers who haven’t even lived out a full year in the town.’

  ‘Peggy, haven’t you listened to a word we’ve said to you?’ Arthur pressed.

  ‘I listened,’ she snapped.

  ‘Louise has explained to you about her daughter?’ Arthur checked.

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Then how can you say the ritual’s not for them?’

  ‘Because it’s the truth,’ Peggy insisted stubbornly. ‘It’s not for them.’

  ‘You must have a reason for saying that. What is it?’ Arthur questioned.

  ‘There’s a reason, a good reason, but I can’t see what it is, so I can’t explain it.’ Peggy returned to her chair. ‘I can only say that Patrick and Louise aren’t right and I won’t give them Mick’s body. That’s my last word on the matter.’

  Arthur moved close to Peggy and laid his hand on her arm. ‘Peggy, they have to ask. Everyone who begs the return of a loved one has to ask, we both know that. But I can see that now is too soon for you. It’s not a good time. You’re upset.’

  ‘Of course I’m upset, Arthur. My Mick is dead,’ Peggy retorted. ‘But there’s something else. Something I don’t like about them,’ she reiterated.

  ‘They have to ask,’ Arthur repeated. ‘But as you know, you have to be amenable. It’s the only way that the ceremony of the return can continue. Don’t you want to see Mick again yourself, Peggy? I thought that you’d have wanted to spend those last days with him.’

  Peggy’s eyes rounded in alarm and her voice rose in anger. ‘Surely you wouldn’t deny me Mick’s return, Arthur. That’s my right as a resident of Wake Wood. The last three days with my loved one so I can say goodbye, properly.’

  Arthur shrugged. ‘Patrick and Louise need your help, Peggy.’

  ‘I see. That’s the way it is.’ She looked from Arthur to Louise and Patrick.

  ‘That’s the way it’s always been, Peggy,’ Arthur pointed out calmly. ‘A life to bring back a life. You know that.’

  ‘And you’d blackmail me over this?’

  ‘Blackmail’s an ugly word, Peggy. I’m merely pointing out that Patrick and Louise feel the same way about seeing their daughter again as you do about seeing Mick. Everyone here in Wake Wood has a right to a last goodbye. What’s it to be, Peggy?’

  ‘Seems you’re not giving me much choice, Arthur,’ Peggy answered ungraciously. She turned to Louise. ‘All right, you can have Mick’s corpse. But I don’t mind telling you, I still don’t like it. It’s not right. I can’t tell you why.’ She shook her head. ‘I can only say it isn’t. And mark my words, no good will come of it.’

  Subdued by Arthur’s intimidation of Peggy O’Shea, Patrick and Louise made their way back down the stairs, through the hall, where the wake was in full, noisy swing, and pushed their way to the front door.

  Martin was holding it open for guests who were leaving. Patrick shook his hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming. It was good of you to pay your respects.’ Martin spoke automatically. Patrick had heard Martin repeating the phrase to every departing guest as he’d walked down the stairs.

  Louise held out her hand. To her surprise, Martin didn’t shake it. Instead he hugged her and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Goodbye, Martin. Take care of yourself and look after your hand,’ she murmured.

  ‘I will, Louise. And thank you.’

  Arthur joined them and Louise allowed him to usher her out of the door. The three of them walked down the lane to Arthur’s car. The light was poor and it wasn’t easy to negotiate the pools of mud. Arthur didn’t say anything until they were all safely closeted in the car, and even then he glanced around for potential eavesdroppers.

  ‘Now listen to me,’ Arthur said solemnly when he was sure he couldn’t be overheard. ‘Now listen to me.’

  Just like in the barn, Arthur’s voice had taken on a mesmerising quality. ‘You will need to produce a relic of Alice for the ritual.’

  ‘A what?’ Patrick asked in bewilderment.

  Louise thought she understood. ‘Something like her favourite teddy bear? I’ve kept everything that belonged to our daughter. Her toys, her clothes, all her books and drawings. Just tell me what you want, Arthur, and I’ll find something suitable.’

  ‘The relic needs to be more directly connected to Alice than one of her possessions,’ he said decisively. ‘A lock of her hair would normally do, but we’re very close to the time limit when we can bring her back. So it needs to be something far more personal.’

  ‘A pillowcase or pyjamas that haven’t been washed since she died?’ Patrick suggested.

  Arthur stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Eyelashes often adhere to the inside of a death mask. Still, the more I consider it, the more I don’t think eyelashes or even eyebrows would suffice in this case. And speaking of a death mask – I don’t suppose you had one made?’

  Stunned by the suggestion, Patrick muttered, ‘No, it never occurred to us at the time.’

  ‘Some people keep children’s baby teeth.’ Arthur was trying to be helpful. ‘That would probably work.’

  ‘We didn’t keep any,’ Louise revealed.

  ‘I see.’ Arthur jammed his car keys into the ignition. ‘Well, whatever you provide, it must be personal to Alice. Very personal in a corporal, physical way. I hope you understand.’

  ‘We do, but we need time to think of something,’ Patrick pleaded.

  ‘Not too much time, Patrick. That’s the one thing that’s in desperately short supply. Whatever you find, you will have to deliver it to me tomorrow evening at sunset. I’ll have everything arranged by then. If we decide to go ahead at that point, tomorrow night your daughter will sleep under your roof. You have my word on that.’ Arthur turned the key and drove slowly down the track towards the main road.

  Eleven

  THE CLOUDS BURST and rain began to fall when Arthur drove Patrick and Louise from the O’Shea farmhouse to their cottage. Large drops thundered down on the roof of the car, making conversation impossible. Louise wasn’t sorry. Preoccupied with Arthur’s demand for a ‘relic’ of Alice, she was racking her brains, trying to think of something they could use.

  By the time Arthur dropped them off at their door, the winter chill had iced the ra
in to sleet. They didn’t invite Arthur in. He drove off quickly and they went into their living room.

  ‘The relic,’ Patrick began.

  ‘Yes?’ Louise looked expectantly at him.

  ‘I have an idea where we can get one.’

  She listened in silence while Patrick outlined his suggestion.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered briefly when he had finished speaking.

  ‘Yes,’ he repeated, shocked by her reaction. ‘No argument, no protest, just “yes”?’

  ‘It’s a ghastly, horrible prospect and I would argue with you if I could think of a single alternative, but I can’t.’

  ‘What we’re about to do will be illegal as well as ghastly, Louise. If we’re caught we could be imprisoned—’

  ‘I know,’ she cut him short.

  ‘Yet you still want to go ahead?’

  ‘We have no choice, Patrick. Not if we want to see Alice again.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  She made an effort to concentrate on the practical. ‘We’d better change out of these clothes.’

  ‘Given the weather, into something warm and waterproof,’ he advised.

  They went upstairs, hung their funeral clothes away and donned thermals, flannel shirts, thick sweaters, slacks and boots. While Louise piled their warmest waterproof coats, gardening gloves and her handbag into the car, Patrick went to the garage. He switched on the light and left the door open. Louise sat in the passenger seat and watched him pack a holdall with tools he picked out from his wall racks. When he’d finished gathering what he wanted, he zipped up the bag and carried it to the boot of the car. After depositing it inside he returned to the garage, brought out a spade and pickaxe and tossed them alongside the holdall. He switched off the light inside the garage, locked the door and proceeded to check all the doors and windows on the cottage.

  After he’d disappeared around the side of the house, Louise pulled down the sun visor above her seat and hit the car’s interior light. She’d taped the last photograph that had been taken of Alice to the back of the visor.

  She ran her fingers over the contours of Alice’s face, so beautiful and so heartbreakingly familiar. Slowly, lingeringly and lovingly she traced the smile on her daughter’s lips with her forefinger. What had Alice been smiling about? She recalled taking the photograph in the garden of their old home. She remembered that they’d both been laughing beforehand but, try as she may, she couldn’t recall why. Had they been playing a game? How could she have forgotten?