Reckon I'd still be there now if I hadn't turned and looked through those gates, seeing what those men had done. I'd have shit myself that those men would come back, but I don't think I'd have left town if—
Yeah, he'd gone back into the graveyard once the men had gone, finding Toby buried in mud, still alive. And thank fuck he had, because Russell would never have found the guy dreams were made of and started a new life with him. Well, Toby wasn't exactly dream-guy material, everyone had their idiosyncrasies, but he was close enough to perfect for Russell.
He smiled, flicking his cup free of coffee droplets and screwing it back on the flask. His break was over—"Only fifteen minutes, and make sure you don't go a minute over!” Reginald, his co-worker always said—and he needed to dig down a few more inches before this grave was done. Reginald was just as bad as George, the old fella Russell had worked with before, except Reginald was younger.
“You'd think he was fifty the way he acts. Tosser.” Scowling, Russell climbed up into his digger and stuffed the flask into his rucksack. Not long now until lunch, and today he had a tuna baguette, packed to bursting with the stuff.
His mouth watered at the thought, and Russell shut the image of food from his mind. No sense in thinking about what he couldn't eat yet. Reginald would undoubtedly know Russell had eaten before his actual lunch break. The bloke had a habit of knowing shit like that. Had a habit of knowing many things he shouldn't, come to think of it.
Starting the digger, Russell went about finishing the grave on autopilot, his mind wandering back to the past. He'd told himself he wouldn't do this, harping on about what had gone before, but finding Toby's flatmate, Sasha, stabbed to death with a carving knife the night he'd rescued Toby from the grave wasn't exactly something you could forget in a hurry. Especially when whoever had killed her had never been caught. Especially when you still had nightmares about it.
The blood. The shape of her body on the floor. The blood. They way the knife handle stuck out of her. The blood...
It could have just been some random killing, couldn't it? A coincidence that Toby had been beaten up the same evening after he'd tried to stop some men bullying a young kid. That when they'd caught Toby, they'd drugged him with something or other and dumped him in that grave.
Could it have been coincidence?
Russell huffed out a breath. He didn't know, and not knowing was what always got him thinking back. They'd moved to Wraxford, him and Toby, wanting to start afresh, where no one knew them as the blokes in the newspaper, the one with the article about them finding Sasha. Some prick reporter had snapped their picture without them knowing as they'd left the police station after giving statements. The following day, their faces had been splashed in full colour on the front page. Toby had almost shit himself at that. Reckoned whoever had killed Sasha, and whoever had drugged him, would never let sleeping dogs lie.
They could hardly stay in town then, could they, so they'd done a moonlight flit, letting the coppers know where they'd gone in case the men were caught and Russell and Toby were needed for any resulting trial.
No policeman had contacted them, and each day Russell checked the local paper of their old town online, coming up blank on any news the men had been caught.
It wasn't good to always have to look over your shoulder, but what else could they do? Also, Russell had wondered if it'd been a good idea that he'd gone straight back to work as a gravedigger. If those men were on the lookout for them, if they were really bad blokes, it'd stand to reason they'd have contacts in various towns, ones sent to check out the cemeteries for signs he worked there.
“Fuck all I can do about that now. If they come, they come,” he muttered, reversing the digger away from the now-finished grave and driving it onto a pathway that separated two expanses of grave-dotted grass.
Reginald would be along shortly to make sure Russell had finished in the allotted time he'd given him. Like George, Reginald was a lazy bastard, leaving all the hard work to Russell. All the guy did was mow the damn grass, lay out the fake grass around the graves, and place huge boards over the top so no one fell into the hole while it was left unattended. Russell dug the graves, weeded around all the plots, ensured the gravestones were set in the correct place when they arrived, and everything else their bloody job entailed. Paperwork, orders, and whatnot.
Once a mug, always a fucking mug.
He smiled at the thought of what Toby would have said to that: Only you can stop people taking the piss. You let them, that's what the problem is. Tell them to fuck off, and they won't keep doing it.
I'd like to see Reginald's face if I told him to fuck off, but I don't want to lose my job. And I would. No way would his dad allow me to speak that way. Probably why Reginald gets away with what he does, having his dad as our boss.
Sighing, Russell drove the digger up the path and over the mounded edge of grass to his left. He had another grave to dig before he could even think about lunch. He headed toward plot five hundred and nine, cursing the cold weather, because shit, there'd be an influx of dead folks in the coming weeks. Always were during the winter. Car crashes due to icy roads; old folks who couldn't afford to put the heating on; house fires where people placed their clothing to dry in front of a real blaze.
Damn depressing.
Parking the digger, Russell jumped out of the cab and pulled a ball of string and a tape measure from his pocket. He measured out the grave—an adult one, longer than the average—and marked the size by tying the string to small wooden stakes at each corner. Back in the cab, he started the engine and began again, digging yet another last resting place for some poor bastard who already lay in the morgue fridge, the probing inspection from the medical examiner long finished, life long finished.
Tell me why I chose this profession again?
He'd been unemployed for six months when the agency came up with his first grave-digging job. He hadn't exactly chosen it—he had no choice but to take the damn thing, being behind on his rent and finding what was left of his savings wouldn't quite stretch to keeping him fed for another week. Still, he'd found it wasn't so bad—and neither were the wages.
Rain splatted the windscreen in fat, intermittent plops, and he turned on the wipers at slow speed. The sky darkened, one minute light the next a ghastly dark grey that promised the rain would soon be a deluge. He could keep working for now—the rain would help soften the earth—but he'd rather be at home in the warm. Cold weather was one thing, but adding rain to it just made him feel miserable and downright pissed off.
Russell switched the wipers to high speed as the deluge he'd predicted came crashing down. Christ, the water oozed over the windscreen in one solid sheet, the wipers fighting to make their triangular peepholes and losing the battle. Unable to see to work, Russell switched the engine off and decided to wait it out. The weatherman had predicted rain, and although he hadn't quite got it right—"A light smattering of rain mid-morning, folks, then sunny skies all the way!"—Reginald could hardly expect Russell to keep working when he couldn't see what he was bloody doing.
Eating that tuna baguette tempted him. But if he couldn't see out the window, he couldn't watch for Reginald if he happened to come by ready to catch Russell. He leaned down to the footwell and fumbled around inside his rucksack, fingers skating over the clear wrap covering his lunch. It rustled. Lured him to rip it off. Instead, he grabbed his flask and poured out some coffee, telling himself if Reginald had a problem with that, then he could go fuck himself. The cab had already grown cold without the shitty heater on, and Russell needed to keep warm.
As he sipped, Russell wondered what Toby was doing in his warm office. Filing probably, or answering the phones. Toby did a bit of everything at Jacob & Sons, the local fruit and veg supplier. His lover didn't like his job either, but like they told one another almost once a week, at least they had jobs. Sometimes, Toby even drove the trucks delivering produce when they were shorthanded, walking the short distance from the high-rise office building to the warehouse a
couple of streets away. Jack-of-all-trades, him, and that was handy. If he lost his job he could apply for another in any number of professions, providing work was available in Wraxford. Mind you, if they had to, they could apply for work in the nearby town of Malton if—
A shadow flitted past the windscreen. Russell necked his coffee and quickly screwed the cup back on his flask. Despite telling himself Reginald could go fuck himself, Russell didn't fancy an argument over him drinking coffee when he'd already had his break. He leaned down and jammed the flask in his backpack, sitting upright to find the shadow flicking back the other way, toward the cab door on his right. Bracing himself for Reginald to fling the door wide expecting to catch him at some misdemeanour, Russell held his breath.
A figure drew close to the side window, fuzzy through the slanting sheets of rain. He was sure Reginald had worn a red coat today and he wondered why the bloke hadn't got it on now. Maybe he'd put one of the cemetery-issue wax jackets on over the top when the rain had started. Maybe Reginald had been listening to the radio in their “staff room", an ancient, grey-bricked building on the other side of the graveyard, and heard that the weather wasn't going to let up and turn into sunny skies all the damn way. If it kept up like this, there was nothing much either of them could do until the rain stopped.
Reginald came closer, and the cab swayed as he hoisted himself up onto the outside step, pressing his nose to the pane. The end of it looked like a circle, rain lashing around it, and Russell held back a laugh. If he let it out, Reginald would hold that against him too. Anything to get him into trouble. The door handle rattled, and Reginald drew his face back before opening the door.
Except it wasn't Reginald standing there on the step.
A man, wax jacket and trousers covering his large frame, and a waterproof fishing hat on his head, stared at Russell. Rain splashed off the hat's brim, bouncing onto Russell. Heart thumping harder, it took him a moment to get to grips with the fact a stranger occupied the step. Was this man visiting a grave, hoping for respite in the cab until the downpour ceased?
“Uh, who are you?” Russell asked, shifting over a little due to the rain coming in and wetting his jeans. A cold wind whipped inside, swirling around the cab and stealing all the warmth Russell had cultivated.
The man continued to stare, his black eyes narrowed, black eyebrows like furry slugs. A bushy beard grew around a mouth with fleshy lips and beneath a nose that looked like it had been punched a fair few times. In short, the man appeared a thug. Someone who had been in many a fight and was handy with his fists.
Shit.
“Look, mate. There isn't room for you in here. If you need to get out of the rain, you can go over there to the—”
“Get out.” The man's accent was pure London. He widened his eyes, and the furry slugs arched.
What the fuck? London?
“I can't leave the digger, mate,” Russell said.
“Get out. Now.” The man reached out a leather-gloved hand and gripped Russell's wrist.
“I can't. Honestly, I'll lose my job if I let you get in here.” Russell considered starting the engine and shoving the man off the step, but the digger moved so bloody slowly this bloke would catch up with him if that was his intention.
“You won't be needing your job where you're going. Now get out.”
Yanked hard, Russell jerked forward. The man's words only just registering, Russell pulled back and reached for his rucksack. His phone was in there. Sliding his finger through the top loop, he lifted the bag just before the man tugged harder.
“All right, all right! I'm getting out.”
The man let him go, and Russell climbed out, cursing himself for the missed opportunity of kicking him in the chest, given his higher vantage point while sitting in the cab. Too late now. Rain smacked into him, needle-like and vicious, and his cheeks stung already from the assault. He gripped his backpack tightly—as tight as the man's hold on his upper arm—and stumbled along by his side toward the far corner of the cemetery. A gate there led into a small housing estate via a long, winding, tree-lined path. They would vanish among the buildings in no time, and seeing as the sky was so dark and the rain would have kept people inside, Russell had no doubt his entry into the estate would go virtually unseen.
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* * *
Chapter Two
Toby was bored shitless. He hated his job, hated this bloody town, and hated the men who had forced them up here. Never thought he'd miss the south, but there you have it. Everyone sounded so alien; no trace of the London brogue around this neck of the woods. Unless you counted his and Russell's.
Stabbing at the teabag floating in one of the many cuppas he was making, Toby sighed. Fuck, if he'd known he'd be chief teaboy when he took this job...
But at least it's a job.
God, he annoyed himself by saying that all the damn time. He said it to Russell, too, more to assure him that everything was fine, even when it wasn't. He hated worrying him. Still, they were alive. Safe. That counted for a hell of a lot, didn't it? If they'd have stayed at home, God only knew what would have happened. Wouldn't have been long before those men found them.
He never regretted helping that kid get away from those men, though. They'd looked intent on doing him some serious harm, roughing him up like that. It was on the news all the time, wasn't it, kids going missing, kids finding themselves in a bit of bother, and that kid had looked scared shitless as Toby approached. Stared at him with the kind of fear in his eyes no kid should have.
They'd told the kid to fuck off out of it, get going, and Toby had gone home, content he'd helped the boy out. Until the men collared him at his flat door, shoving him inside. They'd given him a pasting, telling him he'd never get the chance to poke his nose into someone's business again, and mentioned his girlfriend—that was a laugh, that was—pointing to Sasha's handbag hanging on the door handle. He hadn't put them straight that she wasn't his bird. He reckoned they'd have beat the shit out of him there and then if they knew he was gay.
They left Sasha a note written on the bathroom mirror—in blood. The blood from where they'd punched him in the face and made his nose bleed. Then they took him to this massive house in the middle of nowhere, down in a dank basement at the end of a long corridor. He'd been given a glass of lemonade, or so he thought, was urged to drink it, and then they jabbed a needle in his arm. His brain had fucked off a little while after that, short-circuiting and refusing to play ball. The men questioned him—what have you seen, what did you hear, what the fuck did you think you were playing at, you fucking ponce?—and Toby had been hard pressed to answer. His tongue hadn't worked, and the words he wanted to say backed up inside his empty head like a trapped crowd pressing against a door.
I didn't see anything except you lot getting in some kid's face.
I didn't hear anything except you telling him he should go with you if he knew what was good for him. You said something about Sasha, but fucked if I can remember now.
I'd been playing at being a fucking hero. Doing the right thing.
Fists had rained down on him, and the skin split above his eyebrow. Mustn't forget the burning pain on his palm and the feeling of something sharp scraping beneath his fingernails. Or someone biting him—hard. Toby had blacked out, waking to find he couldn't breathe. He'd opened his mouth to suck in air, and mud filled it. Damp. Disgusting. And what the hell was so heavy on top of him? He knew now it was the same mud he'd tasted, but back then his head had been so fuzzy he couldn't tie it all together. He'd shook his head, some of the mud slipping away, lifted a hand—that had been a fucking struggle and all—and reached out. Something heavier than the mud had thumped down on his shins, and he waved his arm as a spear of pain shot up his legs.
“Fuck! Oh, shit!” someone said, frantic and out of breath.
The extra weight lifted, and Toby sat up, gasping in a deep breath, looking up at a man standing at the bottom of what looked like a grave.
; Russell. The poor bastard had appeared scared to death, and the sight of another frightened human being made Toby smile.
“Shit. I bet I look shocking, don't I?” Toby said. And wasn't that such a normal thing to say considering the circumstances.
“What the...? How? Wh...?” Russell shook his head and held out an arm for Toby to grasp his hand.
“How did I get here? Fuck knows, though I have a good idea.” Toby frowned and took Russell's hand, hauling himself upright. Staggering to the side, he put his hand to his temple and winced. “Jesus, that hurts.” He blinked. “Anyone out there?” he whispered, his free hand gripping the grave edge. “You know, like two hefty blokes?”
Russell swallowed. “They were, when they...when you... Hang on.” He reached up and patted the ground. Fingers meeting with the ladder, he brought it between them and leaned it against the side. “Let me just check.” He climbed up three steps and peered out. “No. Can't see anyone.”
“Good. Then let's get the fuck out of here. I feel like shit.”
Russell glanced down at him. “You look like shit too. Those men. Give you a good going over, did they?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You could say that.”
Out of the hole, Russell studied the cemetery. “Need a hand?” he asked, holding one out.
Halfway up the ladder, Toby nodded. Russell helped him up then lifted the ladder and turned it on its side, holding it beneath his arm. Bending down, he picked up the torch and switched it off.
“D'you, uh...d'you have somewhere to go?” Russell had kicked at the pile of mud beside the grave. “I mean, you gonna be all right?”
“Um, difficult one, that. I could go home, but they know where I live, so uh... Might be best I get off...somewhere. Don't want you getting into any shit because of me.” He'd glanced around. “Well, thanks for, you know, helping me out, but uh... Yeah. Thanks.”
Toby smiled now at the recollection and dumped the squeezed teabags in the bin. He added milk and sugar to the cups, making sure to stick to the list of who took what and which cup belonged to whom. It wouldn't do to get the cups mixed up. He'd done it before and got a right bollocking from that bitch Martha Lewis, who stood guard over the photocopier as though her life depended on it.
Scared Page 2
