by Pat Young
‘That’s it, buddy. We’ll get this sorted, you and me. No worries.’
Once they’d loosened the first layer, the soil wasn’t so obliging. It would take a long time to make a big enough space to hide a body.
‘This is no good. We need something to dig with. You stay here. I’ll be back as fast as I can.’
From the top of the bank he stops to look back. It’s a tragic scene. A dead man and a sad little figure, digging like a toddler in a sandpit. At least they’re well hidden in that hollow. But if it hadn’t been for the hollow, the accident would never have happened. If he’d had a chance to catch sight of the hiker coming up out of the dip, he’d never have made that awful mistake. But only the top of his head appeared. That ginger-coloured hair looked so like a fuckin’ deer … Gus, well, he just reacted. Hell, anyone would’ve made the same mistake, wouldn’t they?
14
I know why this is happening. It’s the curse. I should have stayed away from these woods. I come back one time and someone else dies. What happened the last time, with Robbie, wasn’t my fault; he made me do those things.
I keep my head down and try to dig but the soil’s too hard. Think I hear a noise, coming from the dead guy. Maybe he’s still alive. I rush over to his side and touch his arm.
He stays still and silent. I want him to wake up so I shake him, gently. He doesn’t react. I shake him harder. I try to turn him over so I can give his face a slap, like they do on the telly. Or maybe even mouth to mouth. Anything to save his life. I push and heave at his rucksack. I get him turned nearly half way and I see his face, all bloody, with a hole above his eye. It’s horrible, like the 18 film my friend’s big brother showed us one time that gave me nightmares.
The hole isn’t bleeding, just kind of trickling, as if the tap’s been turned off. But it’s gross. I tell myself not to be such a baby. I try again, rolling him this time, but with the big rucksack and all, he’s too heavy for me. He flops back like a giant doll. I touch his neck. Think maybe I feel something. Not sure. I’m trembling so much my teeth keep banging against each other. Now my hand’s all bloody. I wipe it on my shorts but the redness won’t come off.
A girl in my class got hit by a car and went into a coma. Mum said people in a coma look dead but it’s really a long, deep sleep. We all had to say a prayer, every day, and it worked. Molly woke up and now she’s okay. She can dance and everything. I wish this guy would wake up and be fine too.
He doesn’t look like a hiker or a hillwalker. They’ve all got the same kind of anoraks and boots and hats with bobbles. A bunch of them come into our café on a Saturday morning.
He’s wearing trainers and he’s got no anorak, unless it’s in his backpack. Maybe he’s got a phone in there? We could get an ambulance to take him to the big hospital. Bet they fix comas and stuff.
The stranger comes back. Carrying two sticks. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘these’ll make the job a lot easier.’
I don’t move. We can’t bury this man. He might just be having a coma. I put my fingers on his neck.
‘I already did that. He’s dead, kid, and we need to get a move on. Before somebody comes along and finds us. Way up Shit Creek.’
Don’t know what that means, but his face tells me it’s not a joke. He grabs a handful of my T-shirt and pulls me along. He’s too rough. I try to get him off me and he slaps the back of my head. Hard. You should never hit someone on the head. It can give people brain damage. He shoves me in the back and I stumble into the burn. My feet get soaked and I skin my knee on a stone, but he doesn’t care.
‘Get digging,’ he growls, kind of quiet, but scary. He hands me a stick. Not sure what I’m supposed to do with it.
‘Like this, look.’ I watch him scraping away at the soil of the banking, making a flat bit. Like a mini cave.
‘You want another slap, kid?’
Stupid question.
‘Well, you better get to work.’
I dig and dig as hard as I can, moving a little bit of dirt at a time and pushing it away to the side. The stick hurts my fingers and I keep changing hands. Eventually he tells me to stop. He throws down his stick and goes over to the guy. Starts to haul his backpack off. Watch out, I want to shout. You’ll hurt his shoulders.
He throws the rucksack to the side like it weighs nothing.
Next, he pulls his T-shirt over his head. His body is all muscled, like a bodybuilder’s. He rubs the gun with his T-shirt. Rubs really hard, all over, as if he’s polishing the gun, then hands it to me.
His voice kind of nice again, he says, ‘Can you check that for me, please, buddy? Make sure it’s not loaded?’
Bit late for that but I do what he says. Exactly like I’ve seen Dad do it. I leave the gun broken.
‘No, shut it, like it was before.’
The gun clicks shut and the stranger shudders.
‘Now give it to me.’ He holds out his hand with the T-shirt on it and catches the gun at the very end of the barrel. Like he doesn’t want to touch it again. As if he’s scared of it or something.
‘Let it go. I’ve got it.’
He takes it from me, holding it in the shirt, and walks carefully to the top of the river bank. He stops, checking no one’s coming, I think. I run up to see what he’s doing. I’m not sure about this.
‘Okay. You want to take it? Give it back to your old man? Explain to him what happened when the gun was fired? Good luck with that one.’ He shrugs his shoulders, as if he doesn’t care what I do. Giving me time to think, maybe. Doesn’t take me long. I shake my head.
‘Right decision. Now, get out of the way. Stand back.’
He throws the gun, really hard and really high. It spins and tumbles in the air then disappears into the thick bracken. I can’t even see where it landed. It’s a good hiding place.
‘No one’s ever gonna find that,’ he says, picking up his T-shirt.
He gives out a big, long sigh and goes to look at the body. ‘Come on now, bud,’ he says. ‘Let’s get him hidden too.’
No way. We can’t bury him. It’s not right. I’ll get another curse on me.
‘You take his feet.’
I don’t.
‘Get his feet. Lift his legs.’
I shake my head. He can’t make me do this.
He punches me in the belly. Like a boxer. I bend over and some sick comes out my mouth. It lands on my trainers.
He holds up his two fists and says, ‘Want some more?’
I shake my head. A string of sicky spit swings back and forward. I wipe it away.
He puts his shirt back on and reaches for the dead guy’s hands. Grasps them tight and pulls. Huge muscles bulge on his arms and shoulders, even his legs. The body starts to move. The poor guy’s face is scraping along the ground.
‘Help me out here, buddy.’ He tugs again and the body moves a bit further. Slowly and not far enough. He looks at me. ‘Please.’
I could leave him here and run for it. He’s a stranger. He doesn’t know where I live. He’d never find me. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. He’s the one with a dead body in his hands and a gun hidden in the bracken.
Dad’s gun. The one I stole from his locked cupboard.
I know this is all wrong, but I need to help. For Dad’s sake. I take hold of one ankle with both hands. Try to lift. No wonder the stranger can’t manage on his own. I never imagined a thin person could feel so heavy.
‘Try again, when I count to three. One. Two.’
On three, I lift with all my might and the body moves a bit further. It takes us ages but finally we get him to the place where we made the hole.
‘This will be the hardest part,’ says the stranger, ‘but we’ll manage. On my count, ready?’
We heave on three. Heave again, then push. We’re both on our knees, shoving the guy way into his hole in the river bank. Like he’s a mole or a rabbit.
I hear a noise. He’s heard it too. He looks at me and I lip-read, ‘Shit.’
15
A black face stares curiously from the top of the banking.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ The stranger gives a funny kind of laugh. He picks up a stone and throws it. The sheep bleats as if it’s annoyed and hurries away.
The stranger blows out a big deep breath and says, ‘That was scary.’
How can a big man like him be scared of a black-faced ewe?
‘Jeez, Noddy, I thought we’d been rumbled. We’d better get our skates on or the next face looking at us might not be so friendly. Come on, give me a hand to start covering him up.’
We dig with our hands, putting back as much of the dirt as we can, but it doesn’t cover the guy.
‘This is no good. We can’t leave him like this. The first dog or fox that comes by will have him for breakfast.’
I screw up my face.
‘Sorry, Noddy, but it’s the truth.’ While he’s talking to me, he sits back on his hunkers and looks at the banking. As if a light bulb comes on in his head, he says, ‘Hang on a minute, I’ve got an idea.’
He pushes past me and climbs up the banking till he’s standing where the sheep was. ‘Get out of the way, kid,’ he says, in a kind of quiet shout. He flicks his hand at me, making sure I get it.
I move down to the side of the burn and watch. Like Andy Murray waiting for a serve, he opens his legs wide. He gets his balance, then springs up in the air. When he lands, a whole lot of soil and gravelly stuff slides down the banking on top of the dead guy.
When he jumps again, an avalanche of dirt rolls towards me. He gets ready again and this time the whole banking gives way and a huge slab of grass slides, with him falling behind it. He rolls out of the way and the landslide comes to a halt. I watch a few wee stones that seem determined to keep rolling all the way into the burn.
I look for the body, but it’s disappeared. Sealed into its own wee cave. Completely buried under the river bank.
The stranger walks towards me, dusting his hands off one another. His T-shirt is filthy and his jeans have got blood on the legs. His face is dirty too and his hair is full of soil and grass.
He claps his hands one last time and says, ‘Job done. Nobody’s ever going to find him in there with two tons of soil on top of him.’
He holds out his hand to me, smiling. ‘Good work, buddy,’ he says. Think I’m meant to shake hands, but I’m not touching him. I hide my hand behind my back.
‘Be like that then.’ He gives me a push and I stumble into the water. He drags me out of the burn and shoves me again. ‘Move,’ he says. Don’t like the way his voice sounds, so I move.
When we get to some bigger stones, he leans on my shoulder till I sit down on one.
‘Look at me, kid.’
The sun is higher now, kind of blinding me. Wonder if he’s doing it deliberately. He waits till I’m looking at him. I put my hand up like a sunshade.
‘Listen carefully. You and I are never going to set eyes on one another after today. Soon you’ll forget you ever met me. Right?’
I look away, from the sun and him.
‘Right, buddy?’ he says again. He’s waiting for an answer. So I nod.
‘Good. You’re going to head back to wherever you came from and forget any of this ever happened.’
Not possible. Still can’t forget what happened the last time and that was five years ago.
‘Right?’
No, not right. How am I supposed to forget that a young guy just got shot and I helped bury him?
‘I said, “Right?” Did you hear me?’
Nod. Only meant I heard him. Not that I’ll forget, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
‘However. There’s one thing I don’t want you to forget. Okay?’
Wish he’d make up his mind. Forget. Don’t forget.
‘Okay?’
Nod.
‘Christ. Why don’t you just answer me?’
Shrug my shoulders.
‘Never mind. Pay attention. That guy up there?’ He points upstream as if he thinks I might have forgotten already. ‘Don’t ever forget that you’re to blame for him dying. It’s your fault. You brought the gun. Didn’t you?’
Nod.
‘It’s got your fingerprints on it. Only your fingerprints. You know what that means, don’t you?’
He doesn’t wait for me to nod this time.
‘It means that if he’s ever found, even if he’s just a skeleton – you know what a skeleton is?’
Of course I know what a skeleton is. He must think I’m stupid.
‘Even if he’s nothing but a pile of bones, and they don’t know who he is, they’ll know he was shot and they’ll know who shot him. People don’t last forever but fingerprints do. They’ll hunt you down. They’re very good at that, the police.’
He stops talking. To make sure I’ve got time to think about what he just said. Don’t need a lot of time.
‘You understand what I’m saying?’
Nod.
‘So you’ll do your best to forget everything? Forget you ever saw me. But never forget you’re a killer.’
I want to ask him how he thinks I can ever forget killing people. Today makes four of them.
‘One last thing, before we say goodbye forever. You’re going to promise me you’ll never tell a soul, not a single person, ever, what happened this morning. Right?’
Nod, over and over and over.
‘No, Noddy, that won’t do. I’ve had enough of your nodding. I’m gonna have to hear you promise me.’
Shake my head.
‘What is it you kids say? Cross my heart and hope to die? That’s it.’
Please, God. Not that.
‘Say it, Noddy. Cross my heart and hope to die. So I know you’ll keep your promise.’
This can’t be happening. Not again.
‘I need you to say it. I promise I will never mention this to anyone. Ever. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
If only he knew what happened the last time. He wouldn’t want me to say it.
I draw a quick cross on my chest, feel my nails scratching.
He grabs my shirt, pulls me to my feet. Then off my feet. Right up close to his face. ‘That’s not enough. Say it!’ His spittle hits me on the cheek. I want to wipe it away. His eyes are screwed up, mean, and his face is turning red. But I can’t say those words. Ever again. No matter what he does to me.
My shirt’s going to cut my arms off. Or strangle me. A button pops off and I drop a wee bit. He lets me go. I land on my skinned knee and fall over. He kicks me, in my ribs. I curl up into a ball again. Cover my head. More kicks – my back, my bottom, my legs. Anywhere. Everywhere. Till I don’t know where.
16
Think I’ve been lying here for hours. Don’t know when the kicking stopped. Just glad it did. I’m scared to open my eyes. Scared to move. Scared to breathe. Because it hurts. But I can’t lie here all day. Mum and Dad will be worried. They’ll come and find me, or call the police.
‘Get up.’
Oh no, he’s still here. Thought he’d gone. Thought that was why the kicking stopped.
‘Get up. Now!’
I lift my head, just enough to see where he is.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you any more. For now. That was a taster of what will happen if you ever talk about this to anyone. Understand?’
Nod, very slightly.
‘Understand?’
Push myself up so I can get onto my knees. Wrap my arms round my body, like bandages. He grabs my shirt again and hauls me to my feet. Can’t straighten up. Stay doubled over, looking at his shoes. Brown leather, all scuffed and dirty now. Kind of pointy toes. Town shoes.
I nod a few times, so he knows I understand. I really, really do understand. Don’t ever want to get hurt like that again. In my whole life.
‘Right, Noddy. I’m going to help you up the bank and show you the way back to the path. Then I’m going to wait here and give you a ten-minute start. You don’t have to worry. I won’t be watching to see where y
ou go. I’m not going to follow you. I’ll be going in the other direction.’
He takes my arm and pulls me up the slope. It hurts but I try not to show it. I’m not going to cry in front of him. At the top he shows me a little sheep track through the gorse.
‘That’s the way we came. It should take you back to the footpath. Where you go from there, I’ve no idea. Couldn’t care less. Now, beat it.’
I walk away a few steps, going as fast as I can with all my sore bits.
‘Hey, kid?’
Don’t want to look at him.
‘Kid?’
What does he want now? Why can’t he just let me go? I look round.
‘See you later?’
He starts laughing and I know it’s because of the look on my face.
‘Just jokin, buddy. You’ll never see me again. As long as you keep our secret.’
I run and stumble till I’m in the gorse. Its smell makes me feel sick. Don’t remember coming this way earlier. But then, I wasn’t watching.
I reach a clearing and face the sea while I get my breath back. Rub my eyes, hard, and try to stop the tears. The sea and the sky look just the same as they did earlier, but I know everything has changed. I want my mum so much I start to run again, but my skinned knee makes me limp and my ribs hurt when I breath hard.
What about the gun? Can’t go back for it, in case he’s still there. I’ll come and look for it tomorrow after school. Or at the weekend. If I’m lucky Dad might not find out it’s missing for ages. He doesn’t shoot it very often. Getting rid of ‘pests’ himself is just another way to save money.
Nearly there. Can see my tower in the distance. Wish I could lock myself in and not see anybody ever again. That’s what I should have done, instead of taking the gun. That would have got their attention. If I’d refused to come down for days. Not even for food or anything. No one would have got hurt. Bit late now for good ideas.