by Tom Becker
“At least one of you is switched on, Sarge,” Mr Redgrave said approvingly. “I’d heard your youngest was a bit slow but it sounds to me like he’s the brains of the operation.”
Sarge scratched his head. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said slowly. “You want us to break into a graveyard to steal these things for you?”
“That a problem? Never had you down as a religious man, Sarge. Look, it’s easy money – if you do it right, there’ll be no witnesses except the dead, and they won’t go round blabbing. A piece of cake, unless you’re scared of the dark. You’re not scared of the dark, are you now?”
Sarge walked over to the window and looked out through the blinds into the blackness outside. He scratched his cheek.
“We’ll do it,” he said finally.
“Of course you’ll do it,” laughed Mr Redgrave. “You didn’t have any choice.”
“Hang on a minute.” Liam folded his arms. “How do we know this guy’s for real?”
“That you, Liam?” the voice enquired. “I thought you might be there. You think I’m telling porkies, son?”
“I don’t know,” replied Liam. “I could go round phoning people and saying I’m Lady Gaga but it wouldn’t make it true.”
“It’s proof you’re after, then? That’s a sensible lad you’ve got there, Sarge,” said Mr Redgrave. “Lucky for me, I had a feeling you might need convincing, so I took the liberty of leaving you a little present while you were out driving. Reckon that should prove I’m serious. I’ll be in touch.”
“Present?” echoed Sarge. “What kind of present?”
There was a click on the other end of the line. Mr Redgrave had gone. Sarge slammed his fist down on the table, startling Jamie.
“I told you we should have got out of here when we had the chance!” he yelled at Liam. “Now we’re right in it, aren’t we?”
“Calm down!” Liam urged. “The way I see it, we’ve got two options. We either do the job for this guy, or we get in the van and leave right now.”
“Weren’t you listening?” Sarge demanded. “Mr Redgrave knows that we tried to leave Alderston once already. He couldn’t have known that unless he had people watching us. They’re probably watching us right now. For all we know, it could have been him who caused that crash!”
“You think he arranged that accident? That’s crazy!”
“You saw that crash site, just as I did. Greg might have been speeding but there was no reason for that lad to go off where he did! Something made him swerve into that wall. Who’s to say it wasn’t Redgrave?”
“What about his present?” asked Jamie. “Do you think that might have something to do with it?”
His dad and brother turned and stared at him.
“I’ll check upstairs,” Sarge rapped. “The pair of you check down here. Call me if you find anything, and for God’s sake don’t touch it.”
They sprang into action, flicking on light switches until every room in the Lodge blazed with light. As he examined the front room, Jamie could hear the rattle of coat hangers and slam of cupboard doors from upstairs as Sarge searched the bedrooms. All Jamie managed to turn up was a remote control for the TV underneath the settee so he went back to the kitchen, where Liam had also drawn a blank. Sarge came downstairs to find them both peering through the window into the garden.
“Think there might be something out there?” he asked, joining them at the window.
“Only one way to find out,” answered Liam.
Jamie dug out a torch in the kitchen drawer and took it into the garden with him. There was a frosty tang in the air, a whisper of wind playing on his bare skin. The garden seemed unfamiliar in the darkness, especially against the eerie stretch of fields beyond the back fence. Jamie torch’s made a nervy examination of the shadows, its ghostly spotlight flitting from shrub to tree.
“Wait – what’s that?”
Jamie shined the torch where Liam was pointing. In the loose soil beneath a rhododendron bush, someone had fashioned a makeshift cross from two twigs and stuck it into the ground.
“That wasn’t here this morning,” said Liam, uneasily.
“Get a spade,” Sarge ordered. “Quickly.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” asked Jamie. “Whatever’s there, it was nothing to do with us.”
“Spade.”
There was no arguing with the tone in Sarge’s voice. Liam disappeared into the shed, and there were scrapes and screeches of rusty metal before he reappeared with a shovel in his hands. Sarge took the torch from Jamie and trained it on the cross as his son began to dig up the earth around it. As he watched his brother shovel the earth to one side, Jamie realized he was holding his breath.
Liam grunted, and stopped digging. “Think I found something.”
He dropped to his knees and carefully brushed away the soil.
“Jesus!”
Liam threw away the shovel and hastily backed away from the hole. As Sarge shined the torch upon the ground Jamie felt bile rise in his throat. A face was looking back at him, inhuman and twisted in rage. Although Jamie had only encountered it once before, he knew that its features were etched on his mind for ever, like the inscription on a gravestone, even though now its snapping jaws had been silenced, and its eyes locked in a glassy stare.
Mr Redgrave’s present was the corpse of Mathers’s beloved dog, Smiler.
Sarge dug Smiler a new grave in the field behind the Lodge, burying the dog in a deep unmarked hole. If he was shocked by Mr Redgrave’s unpleasant gift he refused to show it, going about his work with a grim determination. It was Liam who paced nervously up and down the front room, peering out through the curtains. Jamie had never seen his brother rattled like this before. He didn’t like it one bit.
“It was just a dog,” Sarge said firmly upon his return, as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. “A dumb mutt. Nothing to get all worked up about.”
“That wasn’t just anything,” Liam retorted. “That was Mathers’s pride and joy we just dug up in our back garden. How the hell did Redgrave get his hands on him? Jesus, Sarge, he killed a dog to prove a point. Who is this guy?”
“That’s hard to say,” Sarge said thoughtfully, drying his hands on a tea towel. “Redgrave’s always been a bit of mystery. Occasionally you’ll run into someone who claims to have worked for him, or worked for someone who was working for him, but I don’t know anyone who’s actually met him in the flesh. He’s a bogeyman, a ghost.”
“Yeah, well, whoever killed Smiler was very much alive,” retorted Liam. “And where’s Mathers in all this? He wouldn’t let anyone harm that dog of his. Are we going to find him buried in the garden too?”
“That might not be such a bad thing.”
“Sarge! This isn’t the time for kidding around!”
“You’re right. It’s the time for calm heads and steady hands, so stop squawking and take a deep breath.”
At that moment, looking into Sarge’s hard, unblinking blue eyes, Jamie was glad that his dad was there. Whatever happened, Sarge wouldn’t let them come to any harm.
“He sounded like an old guy on the phone,” said Jamie, trying to sound brave. “He can’t be that scary.”
“That’s more like it,” said Sarge. “We’ve worked for people with big reputations before. So do everything the same as normal – prepare thoroughly, carry out the job professionally, get paid and get the hell out of this place. We’ll be gone by the end of the week. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Jamie. But even though Liam nodded along with them, Jamie could see the unease shadowing his brother’s eyes.
The next evening word filtered through to the back bar of the Royal Oak that Greg Metcalfe’s funeral was taking place the next morning. Sarge returned to the Lodge insistent that his family go to pay their respects.
“You sure?” Liam
asked him. “It’s not like we knew the lad or anything.”
“Know him? We were the last people to see him alive,” Sarge said adamantly. “That should mean something.”
Although Jamie wanted to believe his dad, he couldn’t help but think that the funeral also offered the perfect excuse to scope out the church and the graveyard behind it. Judging by the sceptical expression on Liam’s face, he was thinking the same thing, but he knew better than to say anything. Instead they raided the small suitcases of clothes they carried around in the van with them. Liam changed into a black suit, and even Sarge looked smart in a blue shirt buttoned up to the neck. Jamie didn’t have a suit of his own, so he put on a dark jumper over the white school shirt and black trousers he kept at the bottom of his suitcase.
They left the house just before eleven, joining the solemn trickle of mourners walking up the hill towards the church. The wind grew stronger as they climbed, sending the flag flying above the church tower into billowing distress. A crowd had already gathered outside the front porch, waiting quietly for the doors to open. Looking through the throng, Jamie saw Keeley Marshall standing to one side with a short, dark-haired woman he guessed was her mother. Even though everyone was dressed like her, all in black, there remained an aura around Keeley that seemed to set her apart from the rest. Nearby, a group of teenagers had formed a conspiratorial huddle next to one of the gravestones; they glanced over towards Keeley, nudging each other and stifling giggles. When one of the girls laughed out loud – a harsh, unnatural sound in the subdued air – Keeley shot them a scornful look and turned away. Before Jamie could go over and say hello, the church doors opened and the crowd began to file in.
The interior of the church was wrapped up in a respectful hush, backed by the soft, mournful strains of an organ playing. As he neared the massed ranks of wooden pews, Jamie had to crane his neck upwards in order to seek out the corners of the high vaulted ceiling. In the stained-glass window behind the altar, a giant, fierce-looking man with red hair stood by the church, a pouch around his neck and a spear and chest of gold coins lying at his feet. It had to be Aldus, the Viking chieftain Lawrence had told Jamie about in Withershins. Beneath the Viking’s impassive gaze, a large framed photograph of Greg rested on an easel at the front of the nave, surrounded by bright explosions of flowers. A pair of football boots nestled amongst the bouquets. The coffin had been placed on a bier by the altar. There was something so simple and so horribly final about the white oblong box that Jamie couldn’t bear to look at it.
Judging by the welcoming nods he received from some of the men in the crowd, Sarge’s time down the Royal Oak had been well spent. As they shuffled into the church, the heavyset man from the reception of the Roxanne’s Cabs came over and shook his hand.
“Sarge,” he said.
“Don. Terrible business, this.”
“You’re not wrong there.”
“Roxanne not with you?”
“She hasn’t left Donna’s bedside since the crash.” Don’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Between me and you, it’s probably for the best. She blames the lad for what happened.”
Sarge nodded. “A mother’s grief,” he said. “Still, this is no time for a scene. I wouldn’t mind a word with Roxanne myself, as a matter of fact.”
“You might be waiting some time,” said Don. “She adores her girl. This accident has destroyed her.”
“Understand completely, Don – I’m a father myself. Just let me know when she returns to the office, eh?”
The two men shook hands and moved away. Don joined the main group of mourners in the first few pews whilst Sarge, Liam and Jamie took a seat near the back of the church. When everyone had shuffled into the seats the vicar appeared: a solemn, grey-haired man with glasses. As he began to talk about Greg – how popular he was, how funny, always smiling and making people laugh – someone in the congregation began to cry, their sobs echoing around the church. Jamie wondered how many funerals had taken place in this building over the years. How many people had cried, how many tears had been shed. Enough to fill a lake – or a pond, maybe.
An icy draught blew against the back of Jamie’s neck, sending a cold sweat of dread washing over him. He turned round to find the girl from the Moss sitting in the pew behind him. She stared at him with dead eyes, her mouth set in a surly expression, a rotting weed plastered against her cheek. As their eyes locked Jamie felt his airways seize up, as though an invisible hand had reached out and grabbed him round by the throat. The girl gazed at him pitilessly as his eyes widened in silent alarm.
It took a sharp elbow in the ribs to free him. Jamie let out a loud explosion of breath and took in a large gulp of air. He looked up to see Sarge glaring daggers at him.
“Show some respect!” he hissed. “Sit still and stop messing about!”
Blinking back tears, Jamie saw that the pew behind him was empty. The girl had vanished. It was nothing, Jamie told himself, just another stupid daydream. But then why were his hands still trembling? All he wanted to do was run out of the church as fast as possible but he knew that Sarge would kill him if he tried to get up. Jamie forced himself to sit still, trying to blank out the sensation of ice against his neck. The vicar’s speech seemed to take for ever, and there were several tearful readings and tributes from Greg’s friends before the service finally came to an end.
The congregation were shuffling to their feet when the church door banged open and there was an unsteady tick-tock of heels upon the flagstones. Roxanne walked into the nave, her cheeks streaked with tears and her eyes vague. The whole building seemed to freeze at her entrance, the quiet taking on an awkward expectation.
“I told Greg about the woods,” Roxanne called out, in a wavering voice. “I told him to keep away from them, and to keep my daughter away from them. Wouldn’t listen, though, would he? Not our Greg. Always thought he knew best, that one. And now he’s gone and my poor Donna’s…”
The crowd gasped as one as Roxanne staggered. Jamie ran forward and caught her, just managing to keep her on her feet. She leaned on him like a dead weight, her eyes gleaming with sudden recognition.
“You feel the cold, don’t you?” Roxanne asked him softly. “You know what it means. Winter’s coming. They like it when it’s cold.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jamie. “Who likes it when it’s cold?”
Roxanne smiled, tears glimmering in her eyes.
“Oh, love,” she whispered. “You’ve no idea. Get out of here while you still can.”
Suddenly they were surrounded by other people. Don took Roxanne’s elbow, murmuring comforting words in her ears as he led her stumbling towards the church’s exit. Jamie stood and watched them leave, his arm cold where she had clutched him.
The mourners followed Don and Roxanne outside the church, watching from a sympathetic distance as he helped her into the back seat of a car and hurriedly drove away.
“Look at her, poor thing,” a woman whispered to her friend behind Jamie. “I don’t think she knows what day it is.”
“The hospital must have given her something,” her friend replied. “By the looks of things she should have stayed there.”
The crowd milled about in the glum daylight, humming with excitement over the funeral’s dramatic interruption. As Sarge and Liam struck up a conversation with the landlord of the Royal Oak, a large man with a spiky black hair and a beer gut, Jamie caught sight of Keeley and her mum walking away down the church path. As their eyes met, Keeley’s widened with surprise. She whispered something in her mum’s ear and came over to speak to him.
“Well, well, well,” she said slyly. “Jamie-Not-From-Around-Here. What are you doing here?”
“My dad made me come.”
Keeley rolled her eyes. “My mum did the same,” she said. “Apparently it doesn’t matter that Greg never said a nice word to me, or that he and his cronies used to laugh at me in
the street and call me Black Maggie. Because he drove like an idiot and crashed his car into a wall I’m supposed to pretend that we were best friends or something like that. It’s stupid.”
Jamie wasn’t sure what to say back. He wished Keeley would keep her voice down – people were starting to look at them. A shaven-headed man in a dark suit was openly staring at her, a murderous glint in his eyes. Either Keeley hadn’t noticed, or she didn’t care.
“So have you been in hiding or something?” she asked Jamie. “I was starting to think you might have been a ghost.”
“I was ill,” said Jamie.
“That figures. You didn’t look very well in the graveyard. Are you going to stick around in Alderston?”
“I don’t know. For a little bit, I guess.”
Keeley reached into her bag, scribbled something down on to a scrap of paper and pushed it into his hand.
“My mobile number,” she explained. “If you decide to stay, give me a call and I’ll show you around.”
“Oh,” said Jamie.
“You do have a phone, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” lied Jamie. Everyone had a phone, didn’t they? Everyone normal, that is. “Of course.”
“Well, there you go then.” A car horn beeped impatiently from the other side of the street. Keeley rolled her eyes. “Mum’s waiting. Gotta go.”
She barged her way out through the crowd, ignoring the tuts and mutters that greeted her exit. Jamie waited until Keeley was out of sight before rejoining Sarge and Liam. Ordinarily Jamie would have expected his brother to be waiting with a smart remark about chatting up girls, but his face was serious. The funeral was over; it was time to go to work.
Sarge led his sons behind the church and down through the graveyard, his tie flapping in the breeze as he marched past the headstones. To the casual observer there would have appeared nothing untoward about their progress down the hill; just a family making their way home from a funeral. You had to know Sarge – or be a thief yourself – to know what was really happening. With little looks left and right he mentally mapped out the area, checking for potential traps and pitfalls, lines of sight from the road and surrounding houses. When they passed the watch house nestling against the cemetery wall Sarge slowed but didn’t stop, a couple of casual glances all he needed to assess the strength of the padlock on the door and measure up the iron treasure visible through the grille over the window.
