by Ivan Blake
You’re making headway, so don’t screw things up again, the voice in his head bellowed. Besides, you’ve already taken on one troubled student! You’re on thin ice with that kid, you can’t afford any more entanglements.
Still, as Malcolm watched Chris disappear down the stairs, he couldn’t help thinking there was something intriguing about the Chandler boy, maybe even something of his own younger self—articulate, independent, curious, intense, a young man with a spark and perhaps some promise—now poised to throw it all away.
* * * *
Chris expected the worst as he got on the bus. Neither Balzer nor Mallory was aboard, however. Then he remembered, Floyd had driven his truck to school. Even so, word had already gone round the school that Chandler had crossed Balzer and was going to get the crap kicked out of him. Everyone had heard about the layoffs earlier that day at the plant, and there were kids on the bus going home to some pretty desperate parents, so it was open season on Chris.
As usual, he was tossed off the bus in the middle of nowhere. The shouts from every window seemed more vitriolic than ever. The only person not hurling abuse at him was the Willard girl. She seemed genuinely concerned, but he could have been mistaken.
Standing there, in the middle of nowhere, it occurred to him that he might have been set up. Had Balzer arranged with the Gobbler to toss Chris off the bus somewhere isolated where he could be beaten to a pulp without witnesses? Chris half expected Balzer’s truck to suddenly come barrelling down the road with the entire hockey team and their sticks all crammed in the back. Taking no chances, he left the road and headed through the woods in the direction of the abandoned rail line.
An hour later, Chris was seated on the fence, by the two Willard graves, in the cold and gloom, cursing himself for insulting Floyd. He rocked back and forth, hands clutching the top rail for balance. Head bowed and eyes closed, he tried to quiet the pounding in his chest and the icy dread in his gut. All he’d had to do was keep quiet, but no. “Christ! What an idiot!” he bellowed over the wind and the surf. “What the hell was I thinking?”
He opened his eyes and stared down at the two small headstones. “That’s the trouble. I wasn’t thinking.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Oh well, what’s done was done; he couldn’t change that now. He’d just have to see what tomorrow brought, and be ready. A cold drizzle began to fall. Okay, then why should he go quietly? If he had to go down, then maybe he should go down swinging, maybe take a knife or a crowbar to school…maybe even his dad’s gun.
* * * *
Getting a corpse out of a grave was a lot more difficult than putting it in, and this one was going to be more difficult than most. Against all reason, on such a bitter November afternoon, the Coyne family had insisted on watching their mother’s grave being filled. He hadn’t been able to cover the pit with plywood and a few inches of soil to create the illusion it had been duly closed. Normally, he could have left a new grave open like that for several days and then removed the body at a more convenient time. But not this one. No, tonight, he had to get the earth out of Mrs. Coyne’s grave fast, before it compacted and froze like concrete, and he had to be careful doing it.
Six o’clock, and there was still traffic on the nearby main road. He worked in the dark, in a biting wind, and in silence. Only the thought that Mrs. Coyne would make a good specimen kept him at it in spite of the risk and the miserable cold. As he dug away at the grave, his mind wandered.
It occurred to him that every grave has similar layers. First, there are the flowers and the gifts of remembrance. Then there’s the fill, sometimes clean, but more often in an old cemetery like this one, the earth is mixed with debris from other graves: shards of bone, bits of casket, hinges, locks, and the like. Then there’s a layer of grave diggers’ detritus: cigarette butts, chip bags, sandwich wrappers, and plastic cups. Then there are the tokens of affection placed on the casket or dropped in the pit by family and friends: the framed photos, the notes, the dolls, the trinkets, and so on. Then, if there is any kind of water course in the cemetery, there’s all the fetid ooze that has leached from the adjoining graves, ooze filled with God knows what. And then finally, there’s the casket.
Families might like to believe their loved ones lie cocooned in silk in some fine wooden box. The truth is cheap laminate peels away within weeks, the pressed board swells, the box ruptures from the weight of the earth, and then it simply crumbles away. After that, in the damp earth, the satin lining and the clothes rot quickly until the corpse is, at its end, as it had been at its beginning—lying naked, on its back, in a pool of filth.
Fats and fluids leach away from the body first. Then the flesh shrinks about the bones. If the soil is dry, minerals draw moisture from the flesh even more rapidly and the corpse shrivels and becomes leathery. In damp soil, the corpse swells, ruptures and its fluids stream into the surrounding soil to mingle with runoff from other graves. Either way, in a matter of months the shrivelled remains are entombed, not in some fine piece of furniture, but in an envelope of polluted soil and every sort of wriggling insect—insects which will labor on until all that remains of a loved one are bones, picked clean. Dust to dust? There had never been anything even remotely resembling dust at the bottom of any grave he’d ever opened!
He’d never understood how people could let their loved ones lie for years in such corruption. It had always seemed more dignified to treat the departed the way people in Medieval Europe had honored theirs. They’d put their loved ones in the earth only long enough for nature to clean the flesh from their bones. They’d even hastened the process by pouring water over the grave at regular intervals. Then, after two or three years, they’d disinter the bones, wash them, and place them lovingly in a charnel house, there to rest, clean and dry, until the end of time.
If he’d ever felt the need to justify his activity, he could easily have convinced himself he was liberating people’s loved ones from the ignominy of sleeping in a cesspool. No rationalization was needed however; science was all the justification required.
At last, he broke through the flimsy lid of Mrs. Coyne’s coffin, widened the hole with a crowbar, reached in and grabbed her by the hair and pulled hard. She emerged from the jagged hole like a long, gray sausage wrapped in pink lace. He quickly tore the dress and undergarments from the body and pushed them back into the box. Then he took a large sack from the edge of the grave and stuffed the corpse inside. He heaved the sack up and out of the pit and climbed out himself. For the next twenty minutes, he refilled the grave, tidied the site, and hid his tools, then slung the sack over his shoulder and headed out of the cemetery.
He took off at a run across the lot, Mrs. Coyne bouncing against his back. Twenty yards, ten, and then he was clear of the asphalt and back in the dark woods again. He walked down to the abandoned tracks that ran through town and along the bay shore. There he found his cycle, under a tarp on a small spur.
An hour or so and he’d be home. He was starving; goddamned woman better have dinner ready. It had been a productive night, however, and Mrs. Coyne would make a good specimen, of that he was confident. He’d examined her neck and spine while she’d been in the funeral parlor, and both were in good shape.
Movement! Up ahead, something in the long grass at the side of the rail bed. An animal? Coyote maybe? They could be trouble if they caught the scent of death. He stopped pedalling, turned off his lamp, and peered into the darkness. There, something moved again, near the old Willard family graveyard.
Then he smiled: the Chandler boy.
* * * *
It had to be well past supper, perhaps even past his parents’ bedtime. Chris had stayed at the Willard graveyard far later than usual. He guessed his dad was happy about that. Of course his parents knew where he was since he hung out at the graveyard practically every night. Besides, they didn’t much like the inevitable arguments whenever Chris came home on time, so they probably welcomed the peace and quiet. And there would certainly have been a battle ton
ight. If Chris had tried to explain what had happened at school, his dad would have blamed him, and he sure as hell would have stopped Chris taking a weapon to school for protection. He’d just have to stay out here until everyone was asleep. He pulled up his coat collar against the drizzle and chilly air.
A noise, faint, far away. A kind of squeal, like a door hinge or some idiot with a squeaky voice trying to stifle a laugh.
Chris’s blood ran cold. Oh crap, Balzer is here, with his buddies!
His mind raced. No, not likely. Balzer couldn’t possibly know I’d be outside this late.
Okay, so were they up at the house? Maybe they’re planning to break in, maybe rough up my dad? Again, no. That would be too stupid, even for Floyd Balzer. Perhaps it isn’t Balzer. Maybe it’s the guys dad laid off! Maybe they’re going to egg the house or spray paint something…or worse! Christ, if they start a fire! The Willard place will go up like a bomb!
Oh hell! He had to warn his family!
The noise grew louder. Metal scraping against metal, and sort of regular like some kind of machine. Not so far away this time, and certainly not up at the house. It seemed to be coming from along the shore.
And now a light! Faint, like a penlight, moving slowly toward him along the old rail line.
Chris slipped off the fence, moved quietly through the tall grass, and waited. The light and the sound drew closer still. For a moment the moon peeped through the heavy cloud and Chris glimpsed the approaching device. Some sort of four-wheeled cycle squeaking rhythmically was being pedalled slowly by someone along the rail line, its axles as wide as the rails, and its four wheel rims shaped to grip the inside edge of the tracks. To add to this peculiar sight, the cycle was hauling a shallow wagon with two similar wheels, and in the wagon, a heap of something.
Chris was so relieved to discover he was not under attack that he almost stepped out of his cover to greet the rider. Then he recognized the silhouette and dropped back into the grass. The goatman.
The bike stopped for a moment. The rider switched off the small handle-bar lamp and sat there, not moving, as if waiting for something. Then after several seconds, he turned the lamp back on and resumed pedaling.
What the hell is the old man up to? The strange machine trundled past the graveyard and away into the night. Chris slipped out of the grass and watched the goatman disappear in the darkness. What the hell…why not see what he’s doing? Never been down the tracks in that direction, and besides, the walk might help to warm up.
Twenty, maybe thirty minutes later, the cycle came to a halt. The rider climbed off the bike, wiped his brow, stared up and down the rails, and smiled. Chris remained concealed in the weeds and long grass crowding the edge of the abandoned line. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been seen.
The goatman’s small house was a hundred feet or so up from the tracks, . Silhouetted against the night sky, the place looked like it was leaning to one side. One dim light shone through a tiny window near the back corner. Suddenly, an arc lamp, high up on a pole at the corner of the house, came on illuminating the back door, some rickety old steps, the backyard, and an outbuilding maybe fifty feet back of the house.
A tangle of abandoned farm equipment and rusted tools filled the yard, and a blackened metal barrel stood in the center of a large patch of charred ground. The outbuilding wasn’t large, not much more than a double garage, but it had a covered porch, raised just a few inches out of the dirt and cluttered with old milking stools, rusted wash tubs, a broken bench, a wheelbarrow, and what appeared to be an enormous meat grinder.
The back door of the house flew open and a squat, little woman shrieked, “I’ve got a gun!”
“It’s me, you stupid cow!” the goatman shouted as he lifted the bundle from the wagon.
“Well, your dinner is ready.” Judging by their accents, neither the goatman nor the woman was from Maine; from England most likely.
“Unlock the barn!”
The woman disappeared into the house, then reappeared with a large ring of keys. She stomped down the steps and across the yard to the outbuilding, rattled a lock, pulled open the double doors, and switched on the lights inside. Goats began to bleat in chorus.
“Get them out of there! Put them in the shed!” The goatman arranged the sack on his shoulders and started up the path.
The woman shuffled the dozen goats across the yard, around the corner of the house and off into the darkness. Moments later, she reappeared and shouted, “What’s that you’ve got?”
“It’s for my work,” the goatman grumbled as he wrestled his load across the yard.
“Oh Christ no, not another one. I’m sick of this.”
“Shut up. Stay out of it.”
The old lady retreated into the house and slammed the door.
At the barn door, the goatman shifted the sack on his shoulder again, and for an instant, something poked out of the top. Oh, jeez, is that a leg?
Chris must have gasped or cursed or something, because the goatman turned to look back down the path. The old man strained to see into the darkness beyond the pool of light. “Who’s there? What do you want? Are you spying on me?” he shouted.
Chris broke from the grass and raced back along the tracks in the direction of home.
“Maude! Turn out the light, turn out the light!” By the time the light went out, however, Chris had already disappeared around a bend and into the darkness.
* * * *
Gillian heard Chris running toward her before she saw him through the mist and the gloom. When at last he came into view, he was winded, looking scared. Without giving herself away, she watched him bend forward to catch his breath, then draw himself up, leave the tracks and start up through the orchard toward the house. After a moment, Chris stopped again and looked back down the rail line. He appeared to be listening for something, but what? What was he up to? What was he afraid of?
Gillian wasn’t outside in the dark and the damp simply to spy on Chris Chandler, not really. She wanted to help him. Over dinner, she’d come to a difficult decision. She was deathly afraid for him, and for that reason, had decided to share with Chris a secret she’d never told another soul, a secret that could deeply wound a former friend…if it was misused. But what choice did she have? And if she couldn’t trust Chris with the secret, well then….
After she’d cleaned up the dinner dishes and helped her grandfather to bed, Gillian had left the house saying she needed some air before getting down to her homework. She’d expected to find Chris at the graveyard because he was always there. Not that night however; his absence confused and concerned her. For no particular reason, she’d hung around, waiting, and hoping he might still show up. Then she’d heard footsteps racing along the gravel rail bed.
In truth, this wasn’t the first time she’d spied on Chris Chandler. She’d been doing so for a while. Not because she was nosy or anything; she wasn’t looking for secrets or ways to hurt him. She wanted desperately to understand him. Wherever and whenever she saw him—on the bus, at school, walking along the road or in the woods, in the largest crowds, or sitting by the graves—he seemed completely alone. As the weeks had passed, he morphed before her eyes, from a brooding, selfish idiot whom she could barely stand, then into a sad and lonely victim who took all the abuse the idiots at school heaped on him without so much as a whimper, and finally into a quiet, complex and strangely thoughtful soul whose pain nearly broke her heart.
So tonight she was going to offer Chris Chandler her friendship, and her help.
She stepped from the shadows.
* * * *
As Chris walked through the orchard, he listened for sounds of the goatman’s pursuit. Nothing. Then—
“Hi.”
His heart leapt into his throat.
“It’s just me,” someone said softly, “Gillian.”
“Gillian?”
“Gillian Willard.” She appeared through the mist.
“Oh, yeah right. What are you doing out here?”
“For me, why?”
“Because I heard what happened at school today.”
“And I suppose you’ll be happy like the rest of them when Balzer and his friends beat the crap out of me.”
“No, not at all. I hope everything turns out okay for you.”
“Oh…” Chris was taken aback by her apparent concern.
“Would you like to sit for a while?” she asked.
“Okay.”
“Over here.” She walked off into the mist. Chris followed.
Deep in the orchard, they came to two old Adirondack chairs. She wiped the damp from their slats with a rag from her coat pocket, and they both sat.
“My dad and I used to come here every evening. There’s a beautiful view down through the trees to the bay.”
“Huh.” Then silence.
“You know,” Gillian said, then hesitated, like she was weighing something painful before going on; and then out it all came. “Floyd Balzer can go nuts sometimes. He once almost killed a guy, one of his closest friends in fact, in the locker room at school after some game. He beat the guy senseless, and Floyd never explained why. The boy’s parents wanted Floyd arrested, but his dad got the police to drop the charges.”
“You’re not making me feel much better.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just you need to know some stuff about Floyd if you’re going to take him on.”
“Like how crazy he is?” Sitting there, in the dark and the damp and the cold, barely able to see each other, it seemed weird to be talking to this strange girl now, after their months of silence.