The Burying Ground

by David Mark

  I turned right. Back towards Gilsland. Back towards home.

  Felicity wasn’t going to help. John neither. Chivers had his own reason for ignoring me and Fairfax’s soul was battering at the glass of the fragile world in which I had found myself. I couldn’t leave it alone. John was right in what he said. It was distracting me from Stefan. But there was more to it than that. I felt like I’d been shown the body in the blue suit for a reason. I felt, to my very bones, that the body had been put there for me.

  As I walked, I made a decision. I was alone here. I had nobody whom I could lean on or ask for guidance. But the reason for that was because I came from a very different background. I was an outsider here because of my associations elsewhere. I knew people. I had friends in high places, or at the very least, a husband in Whitehall. He owed me like I owed him. And he had influence to spare. It would not be a failure, an admission of inadequacy, to use all the tools at my disposal. And my husband was most definitely a colossal tool.

  I quickened my pace, lost in my thoughts.

  I didn’t know it then, but I was watched all the way home. And the eyes that burned my back were as pitiless as rain.

  FELICITY

  Transcript 0007, recorded October 30, 2010

  He were standing by the church. Had to be, didn’t he? Smoking a cigarette under the branches of the big evergreen by the gate.

  ‘What yer running for, Mam? Yez’ll hurt yerself.’

  He looked so pleased with himself. Looked like a bad lad. If he weren’t my own I swear I’d have been frightened of him. Too cocky for his own good, curling his lip and smirking at me in his vest and his jeans and his boots with the laces undone. He looked like he were made of bone. Pure white, he seemed, like a statue come to life.

  ‘Why’d you run?’ I asked, and my voice sounded like a penny whistle; all high and trembly and out of tune.

  ‘I never ran. I said I were off. Thought we’d finished talking.’

  ‘You know that’s not how it was.’

  ‘No? Ah well, I’d stopped listening then.’

  Twelve years old and talking to me like that? My dad would have given me a wallop for it and I’d have had no cause to complain. Maybe I hadn’t walloped Brian enough, or maybe too much. Or maybe all the wallops in the world would have made no difference.

  ‘You should have been at school,’ I said, and it sounded proper pitiful.

  ‘Aye,’ he smiles, all swagger. ‘And then you’d be flat under the wheels of that Paddy’s truck.’

  ‘But why weren’t you?’ I asked, and I felt the tears stabbing at the backs of my eyes again.

  He ground out his cigarette on the damp trunk of the tree and turned to me as if I were wasting his valuable time.

  ‘I weren’t feeling well,’ he said, like I should have known. ‘I had one of me headaches.’

  ‘Did you tell the nurse?’

  ‘That bitch? She couldn’t care less. Just wants to put her fat hands on you.’

  ‘So you just walked out?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye. Got an early bus. I only missed a bit of spelling and I can spell good enough.’

  I felt a sudden stab of pain down the side I’d landed on. It showed in my face and suddenly his whole self changed.

  ‘You hurting?’ he asked, and though he didn’t come toward me he did move aside to allow me under the protection of the branches. Up close he smelled different to how he used to. It used to be biscuits and soap and that earthy scent you get when you pull back the bark from a silver birch. Now he smelled like them. A man. Cigarettes and sweat and a rancid, unscrubbed tang that caught the back of my throat.

  ‘Me old bones,’ I said. ‘Came down a-clatter.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, and maybe he meant it. ‘Didn’t have time to put a pillow down.’

  I was holding my hands in fists. I wanted to put out my hand and rub his hair but the mood he was in he could have reacted like my hands were on fire.

  ‘It were good timing,’ I said.

  ‘Aye,’ he says, smiling. ‘Just saw the truck and then saw you, running like you’d got dogs after ye.’

  ‘I’d had a fright,’ I said, and I felt sick at remembering the bird.

  ‘At Fairfax’s?’ he asked, and I could see his brain working things out.

  I nodded. He was looking at me with eyes like conkers and it went through me. I had to look over his shoulder or I’d have given in to a shiver. Harper were right – they’d tidied up sharpish. The slabs of the old mausoleum were laid out on the long damp grass around a large patch of dirty earth. The churchyard looked a little bare without the old tree. What remained of the broken trunk stood where it always had; a finger that had pointed skywards for centuries now cut down to the first knuckle.

  ‘Bird came in,’ I said, quietly. ‘Gave me a turn.’

  He nodded, understanding. ‘Doesn’t seem right, does it? He were OK, was Fairfax.’

  I nodded. There didn’t seem much else to say about it. Fairfax had known the boys their entire lives. I should probably have talked to them both about his passing but it just wasn’t what you did. People lived and people died and you got on with it because tomorrow it might be you that did the dying. That’s changed now, of course. Folk can’t lose a pet without acting like they’ve had their whole family burned to ash. Maybe it was the war that made us hard or maybe we just knew that death was as much a part of the circle as life was. You get that in farming towns. You see the changing of the seasons; crops rising and leaves falling; berries bursting into life then being crushed in the beaks of the birds who need them for their own squawking, desperate young. I suppose you don’t weep much for the death of one tree when you’re standing in an orchard.

  ‘You really think it weren’t an accident?’ asked Brian. ‘You and Lady Muck?’

  I was going to say something that would answer his question without really giving anything away. But I was no good at that. My face let me down. And if I’m honest, I wouldn’t have known the difference between my truth and my lies at that moment. So I shrugged and said I didn’t know.

  ‘I heard what she was saying,’ he said, scratching his chest. I noticed how filthy his fingernails were. ‘Last night. About the camp and the tapes and stuff. Sounds like she’s mad.’

  I understood, then. That’s why he’d come home early. He’d heard us talking and wanted to snoop. He wanted to know what we found. He’d sneaked away from school to come and spy on his mam and her new friend.

  ‘We found nowt,’ I said. ‘There was nowt to find.’

  ‘You didn’t look in the right places then,’ said Brian, and his smirk was back. It got my back up and I wanted him to know it.

  ‘That tooth,’ I said. ‘Where’d you get it?’

  He didn’t even blink. ‘Just found it, I told ye.’

  ‘Found it where?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t remember?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘While ago. Mebbe longer.’

  I got frustrated then. Started on at him. ‘Brian, you can’t go around with a tooth in your pocket. It’s worth something. Somebody might be asking questions …’

  ‘Doubt that,’ said Brian, with a look I didn’t like. He was staring past my shoulder and I suddenly knew there was somebody behind me.

  ‘Go get a coat on, Brian,’ said Pike. ‘Ye’ll catch your death.

  I turned around. Pike was standing with his feet in a puddle; his welly boots covered up to the ankle. He had on tight jeans and his bomber jacket, open at the waist. He was bare-chested. No hair on him. Not a single one. He had a gold necklace, like twisted rope, at his throat and an ugly patch of skin below his belly-button, like he’d had an operation. He’d got dressed in a hurry. Pulled his jacket and boots on without bothering with owt else. I felt my thoughts catch fire. What had got him so excited? And why was he talking to Brian like they were old pals?

  ‘Pike,’ I said. I hoped more words would come out of my mouth but nothing happened. He just stood looking at me with t
hose eyes I could never read.

  ‘What were that about a tooth?’ he asked, angling his head like a bird who has heard a worm. ‘You have something, lad?’

  ‘Nah, Mam’s off her rocker,’ said Brian, and the lie didn’t even make his voice waver.

  ‘Mucking about, were you?’ he asked, while I stood there like a lemon, wondering what to say.

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ said Brian. ‘You see the wagon in the wall? Mam were almost under it.’

  Pike nodded. Pulled at his necklace. I noticed that his neck and the skin on his chest were almost different colours. His face was all grimy and stubbled but the other parts of him were pale, like a young girl.

  ‘Games,’ he mused, chewing his cheek. He turned to me. ‘Saw you limping past the window. You hurt?’

  ‘Scrapes,’ I said, shrugging.

  ‘Bumps and bruises,’ said Brian.

  ‘Me mam heard the wagon hit the house. Fucking Paddy. Can’t drive.’

  ‘It were my fault,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ decided Pike. ‘It were Paddy. You want me to have a word? I saw he were still up there. Not right. Could have hurt you.’

  ‘Honestly Pike, it’s nothing. I ran out.’ I was gabbling. Wanting it all to be right again. Nice again.

  ‘This tooth,’ said Pike, rolling his eyes back in Brian’s direction. ‘Were it gold?’

  ‘There’s no tooth, I told you,’ said Brian, and he sounded impatient. Pike didn’t like it.

  ‘Don’t be answering back, lad. I’ll put you over my knee.’

  ‘We were finishing off anyways,’ I said, and I realized that I still had the tooth in my hand, digging into my palm like it were trying to bite through.

  ‘They rebuilding the tomb, are they?’ asked Pike, staring at the patch of dead earth and not seeming to hear what I’d said. ‘I’ll be watching ’em. Mekking sure they do right by Fairfax.’

  I couldn’t help but ask him what he meant. ‘Fairfax? But it’s the Kinmont plot.’

  He looked at me like I was daft. ‘Fairfax were the only one gave a damn about the place. He let me mow between the stones when I were little. Me and Christopher. Meant summat to him.’

  I gave him a proper looking over. There were raindrops landing in the muddy puddles at his feet. There were dozens of ruts in the shabby, muddy track and the one that ran behind him caught my eye. It weren’t big thick trenches like you’d get from tractors or proper cars. They were fancy thin treads, like you’d get on a modern car. In places they were filled with rainwater but elsewhere it was clear to make out that a snazzy, sporty car had driven down the muddy track and then reversed out the same way.

  ‘We’d best get in before it starts again,’ I said, and it was an effort to sound like meself.

  ‘Nah, ye’ve got something to do first,’ said Pike. ‘Brian, give us that tooth, lad.’

  Brian shook his head, all cross again. Exasperated. ‘I haven’t got a tooth. It were a game.’

  ‘We’ll not be having any more games, then,’ said Pike.

  I’d seen him like this before. He were no different to the lad he was at school. He could turn on you like he had rabies. One minute he’d be quiet as a mouse and the next he’d be trying to get his thumb inside your eye.

  ‘All right there, Pike? You dressed for it? It’s gonna be coming down.’

  He turned at the sound of the voice. Harper’s lad. Big smile on his face and a box of tools in his hand.

  ‘Away now, Paddy,’ said Pike. ‘The bogs are over the river if you’re feeling homesick. Nowt here for you.’

  The lad kept the smile in place. I looked at Brian and saw, for the first time in years, a look of fear on his face. I swear I wanted to hold his hand but the tooth were all I could think of. I don’t know why I didn’t just give it to him, now I think on it. Maybe it was fear of what would happen if Brian was caught out in a lie. Or maybe it was because there were some things that were better off in anybody’s hands but Pike’s.

  ‘Mrs Goose, you look soaked through,’ said Harper’s lad. ‘Will I walk you both back up the road?’

  That set Pike off. ‘You got potatoes ’tween yer ears, Paddy? I said there were nowt for ye.’

  ‘Da’s just parking the wagon,’ he said, ignoring Pike. ‘Bit better parked than an hour ago, eh? Shall we be ganning along?’

  The lad was only a few paces away from me. He was bigger than Pike but it didn’t matter. If Pike went for him it would be like watching a terrier with a rat.

  I felt Brian’s hand touch mine. For a second I felt a kind of warmth in me – a feeling of connection. It meant a lot to me – him wanting to hold his mam’s hand. Then his little dirty fingers prised open my own and he seized the gold tooth as if his hand was a beak. I looked down, and my lungs betrayed me. I gave a gasp, loud enough for Pike to hear. And then Brian was off. He could move fast when he needed to and next thing he was just a streak of white, dodging through the gravestones and over the fallen tree then disappearing over the iron railings into the field beyond.

  ‘Little bastard,’ says Pike, proper livid. He turned his back on Harper’s lad. He stomped past me, fury on his face and it wasn’t in me to stand in his way. He reached into his coat pocket and he started moving fast as he approached the church door. Then he pulled a big silver key from his pocket and stuck it in the lock.

  I looked at the young lad and he were as dumbstruck as me. Then Pike was coming out of the church with a shotgun over his arm.

  ‘No, Pike, don’t …’

  He glared at me as he climbed over the iron railings and stamped away across the grass. The field sloped down to the river and beyond it was the forest that sloped up to the Roman fort a mile away. If he followed the river right he’d reach Gilsland. He’d have to pass Halpin’s place. The Heron had Pike’s number, there was no mistaking it. He was a big old hardcase and he would see Brian safe home. And Pike were just after scaring him. If I’d gone running down that hill after him he’d have shot Brian just to show he were the type that would. Better to stay put. Let the boy lose him in the woods. He would be twice as nippy as Pike. He’d be grand. I told myself that. Told myself like it was a prayer as I watched Pike vanish into the gathering dusk as the hunter’s moon started to rise above the trees.

  I only had one thought in my head, truth be told. Not for Brian – I knew he’d be safe enough in the woods. No, I wanted to know why Pike had a key. He’d entered the church without a gun and come out holding one. He knew its secrets. Its hidey holes.

  I entered the church like it was on fire. I followed the boot prints to the third pew from the front. I felt around in the grey light and found a hole big enough to fit my finger in. The panel slid back like it had been greased. I reached inside as if it was full of mouse traps. My hand touched something cold. Metal. I knew the barrel of a gun well enough. Knew that cool sensation on my fingertips.

  I sat back like I’d been shot. Caught something with my boot. It felt like a dead thing; a rotting fox. But the rustle of paper cut through the pounding in my head and my chest.

  A prayer cushion. Red and frayed. The stitching half unpicked and a picture of a robin coming apart upon the front.

  I picked it up and felt paper crinkle beneath my hands. Reached inside and felt the familiar texture. Paper, half-burned.

  I peered at the opening page and saw Fairfax’s scribble. Date. Time. Name.

  I’d have read it all there and then were it not for the sudden sound of a shotgun blast and the terrible, terrible screaming of a thousand crows.

  CORDELIA

  ‘I want to speak to Cranham Hemlock.’

  I hesitated before saying anything else but it was part of our agreement that I always remind people of the little woman in his life.

  ‘And to whom am I speaking?’

  I bit the inside of my cheek and scowled at the wall.

  ‘I’m his wife.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Hemlock.’ The voice was Home Counties. Some skinny thing with a scrawny throat
and a ruffle-necked blouse who drank her tea from a cup and saucer and thought that young girls who seduced influential older men should be hanged from the nearest tree. ‘Your husband was in a meeting with the minister but I’m sure if it’s urgent …’

  ‘Quite urgent,’ I said, then tried to put a smile in my voice. ‘But I know how busy he is. I don’t like to trouble him but, well, it’s a personal matter.’ I dropped my voice a little and became her confidante; two wives gossiping over their hopeless husbands. ‘It’s a silly thing, I know, but, well … I could use some advice.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, understanding completely. I don’t know what she imagined but it made sense in her world. ‘I’ll ask him to call as soon as he is available. I do hope you’re keeping well. Will we be seeing you at the gala in November?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I hung up the phone. Sat for ten minutes staring at the damn thing. I was cold again. I dashed upstairs and rummaged through the horribly sensible clothes that Cranham had insisted I accept as a gift when I was pregnant. I had to keep the baby warm, he said, as if he knew anything about what I needed. I never wore a stitch of his pre-approved garments. Wore my own clothes and revelled in my own tastes and wrapped myself in a blanket instead of giving in and doing as he suggested. God but I was a stubborn thing. Unexpectedly, none of that mattered any more. I just wanted to be warm. I slipped into some crisp turquoise-coloured slacks with a neat seam down the front and a black polo neck beneath a cream, chunky-knit cardigan. I had a glance at myself in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door and didn’t find the reflection too revolting. I looked a bit like a folk singer. Stefan would have laughed.

  He called back forty minutes later. He sounded as he always did – flustered and shrill. He was constantly afraid I was going to tell him I didn’t want to do this anymore. Divorce would mean scandal and he had wed me with the sole aim of avoiding it.

  ‘Cordelia,’ he said, breathily. ‘Lovely to hear from you. Is all well?’

  ‘Fine. All right.’ I bit my lip. ‘I need a favour.’