Afterwalkers

by Tom Becker

  It could only be her; he was sure of it now. The Victorian clothing, the long blonde hair bedraggled with pondweeds. He had been told that in life Kitty had been beautiful; there was no trace left of that now, with her puffy discoloured skin and hateful gaze. She let out a long, drawn-out hiss of contempt as she stood up, her bloated body edging towards Jamie’s bedside. Too terrified to move, a cry for help frozen in his throat, all Jamie could do was watch as Kitty climbed on to his bed and lay down on top of him. She was heavy in a way that was impossible, inhuman – so heavy that he would crumble to dust beneath her…

  Jamie woke up with a strangled yell, his arms flailing around his head. His skin was clammy with sweat and he was gasping for breath. But he was alone.

  Just a bad dream, Jamie told himself. Bad dreams can’t hurt you.

  He reached over and flicked on the bedside lamp for reassurance. As he scanned the bedroom for movement, his eyes fell on the iron grating in the skirting board where Kitty’s ghost had been crouching. His eavesdropper’s ally, the gateway to Sarge and Liam’s kitchen conversation. What had Kitty been doing down there?

  Slowly Jamie pulled back his sheets and got out of bed. Lying flat on the floor, he peered through the grating, but couldn’t make anything out in the gloom beyond the ironwork design. At first glance the grating seemed to be set firmly into the wall, but when Jamie examined it he could see deep scores in the floorboards by its bottom edge. One person, at least, had been able to move it. He wrapped his fingers around the ironwork and tried to pull it free, but the grating wouldn’t budge. Jamie frowned. He could have used Liam’s help but there was no way he was going to wake his brother up in the middle of the night just because he’d had a bad dream.

  Jamie braced his feet against the wall and took another grip on the grating, pushing with his legs as he tried to pull it free. Nothing happened for several seconds, and Jamie was about to give up when gradually he felt the heavy grating give, reluctantly scraping free from its resting place. Jamie placed it carefully to one side and peered inside the opening, feeling its chill breath blowing in his face. Something was definitely there, an object wedged halfway along the duct.

  Jamie reached inside the opening and tentatively felt around, trying to fight off the inexplicable fear that something was going to grab his hand and drag him inside the duct. Then, at the very edge of his reach, Jamie’s fingers closed around a rectangular object. A small smile of triumph crept across his face. He slid his hand out from the duct to find himself holding a book wrapped in a dusty white cloth. With trembling fingers he unwrapped the volume and leafed through its pages. They were covered in tight lines of spidery handwriting. On the first page was written: The Diary of George Rathbone.

  Jamie opened the book and began to read.

  5th December, 1821

  The night sky is as black as a grave. The search party has returned from the woods carrying Kitty’s body. She fell into the pond and drowned amongst the weeds. My chest feels as though it has been pierced with a shard of ice.

  8th December, 1821

  I come to my diary having only now emerged from the mindless fog that enveloped me. For two days I staggered around the Lodge, clawing at the walls and howling like a cur in the madhouse, swigging gin from the bottle in the hope of achieving some kind of numbing stupor. No one in this accursed town can know the grievous pain Kitty’s death has caused me. Alone in the world, she was able to look beyond my crimes. I loved her as an angel, beyond life itself – and she loved me right back. But for her father’s certain disapproval, our affair would have been common knowledge. Instead our pounding hearts were compelled to silence, and we were forced to meet in secret refuges far from prying eyes. Barns, abandoned farm outbuildings, secluded country lanes.

  The woods.

  Only a month previous, I had knelt down upon the banks of Black Maggie’s pond and asked for Kitty’s hand in marriage. Unable to speak, she simply nodded, watching through tears of joy as I slipped the engagement ring upon her finger. We talked of eloping, of starting a new life afresh. But all that is gone now, burned to bitter ashes. All the future holds now is my beloved’s funeral on the morrow. The fact that my bedroom looks out over the church graveyard is a source of both untold anguish and the coldest of comforts. If nothing else, I will see Kitty’s resting place from mine: the last thing before I go to bed; the first after I rise.

  9th December, 1821

  My Kitty has been taken from me for a second time.

  I was forced to watch her funeral from my own front gate; my reputation allowed me no further. John Hawkins has been telling anyone who’ll listen that he’ll not let me near her grave – myself, Silas and Lucas are suspected of robbing a tailor’s grave in Caxton. As the mourners departed I saw John Hawkins deep in conversation with the farm boy Tom McNally, who is equally ill-disposed towards me. Little did they know I was already aware of the topic of conversation – in secret my man Lucas has been romancing the Hawkins’s housekeeper, and she had told him that the master of the house was leaving for Manchester that evening on pressing business, and that he had decided upon leaving McNally in his stead as a guard dog. As if that would stop me from saying farewell.

  That night I waited with Silas and Lucas in the back bar of the Royal Oak, warming my frozen veins with ale until it was late, and then we stepped out into the night. I led my companions to the churchyard, intent on removing McNally by whatever means proved necessary. Yet when Kitty’s headstone drew into sight I stumbled to a halt, gorge rising in my throat. Kitty’s coffin had erupted from her grave, its lid flung open. The body of my beloved was nowhere to be seen.

  As we turned and fled from the hellish scene, Silas stumbled over Tom McNally’s body. The farm boy was lying beside the grave, his throat crushed like a stalk of corn. He can rot, as far as I care. If I had been the one standing guard over Kitty’s grave, the Devil himself would not have got by me.

  10th December, 1821

  The damned butcher has been flapping his trap, telling everyone about the sharp words I had exchanged with McNally in the Royal Oak the night of his death. I had a mind to pay the gossiping fool a visit but Silas begged me not to. He says that we are suspected of being the authors of both McNally’s death and Kitty’s missing body. The Resurrection Men, they call us. Silas may fret and wring his hands but I care not a jot for the chatter of fishwives and tattletales. I care for almost nothing, now.

  11th December, 1821

  Kitty visited me in a dream last night. I was sitting in the Lodge parlour staring into the fire when she came laughing and dancing into the room. I enquired as to the cause of her happiness but she would not reply, pressing a finger to her lips to indicate that it was a secret. I rose from my chair but Kitty pushed me back down. Clutching me to her chest, she whispered in my ear that I was not to worry and that everything would be all right. Her words pulled the shard of ice clean from my heart, and I felt my spirits soar. I was so elated it took me time to become aware of the light tap of water droplets upon my head. Looking up at my love, I was horrified to see that Kitty’s smile had twisted into a hateful sneer, whilst her soft hair had become bedraggled and her skin had turned black and blue. I tried to break free but she had gained the strength of a monster, leaving me helpless in her nightmarish embrace. Prising open my jaws, Kitty forced a small metal object into my mouth. As it lodged in my throat I realized, choking and gagging, that it was the engagement ring I had given her.

  I awoke screaming in my bed, the taste of sour pond water in my mouth. I did not sleep again that night.

  12th December, 1821

  This evening Lucas and I were turned away from the Royal Oak by the landlord, who refused to serve us our usual drinks. I was prepared to tell the lumbering idiot exactly what I thought of him and his watered-down ale, but the mood in the back bar was turning ugly and Lucas dragged me away before I could say my piece. As we left I caught sight of J
ohn Hawkins amongst the gathered men, a look of grim satisfaction in his eye. He blames me for the disappearance of his daughter’s body and will not rest until I pay with my blood. What does he want from me – to sink to my knees and plead my innocence? I would not give him the satisfaction. I will own to all manner of crimes and dark deeds; in search of fortune I have descended to the lowest depths, committed the most base and brutal acts of criminality and sin. I was the author of the Caxton grave-robbing, travelling to the cemetery under the cover of night with Silas and Lucas and digging up the tailor’s body, before hurriedly exchanging it for a purse of coins with a shifty-eyed medical man. For Kitty’s sake I had sworn it would be my final criminal deed, and I have stayed true to that pledge despite her death.

  More important than my own innocence, however, is the nagging question haunting my wakeful nights – if we were not responsible for Kitty’s desecration, then who was?

  13th December, 1821

  I did not sleep this night. Some time in the small hours I was disturbed by a tremendous clamour upon the roof, and there followed a sharp rap upon my front door that echoed around the Lodge. I went down to the hallway and threw open the door but there was no one waiting for me upon the doorstep. If John Hawkins wishes to play hide-and-seek with me, let him try. There is nothing left I care about in this world, and it will give me great pleasure to tear him apart with my bare hands.

  14th December, 1821

  Snow fell in the night, covering Alderston in a thick white blanket. A chill has settled into the Lodge’s bones, and no matter how high I build the fire in the grate I cannot get warm. This morning I watched from my bedroom window as a shivering crowd gathered in the church graveyard, edging round the spoiled remains of the grave where Tom McNally was recently laid to rest. It seems that the farm boy’s body has now also been stolen. I was wearily unsurprised to see John Hawkins at the head of the aggrieved crowd, jabbing an angry finger towards the Lodge as he addressed the others.

  Several hours later, an ironmonger’s cart braved the Moss to deliver a consignment of iron cages to the church. These “mortsafes” were fastened into place over recent graves to protect their occupants from being disturbed. Some animal instinct within me tells me this is too little, too late.

  15th December, 1821

  Silas appeared at my door at first light, pale as a ghost and shivering in the dawn cold. He is leaving Alderston at once, meaning to cross the Pennines for Yorkshire, where his uncle has a farm. Silas tried to convince me to leave with him, snivelling that there was violence brewing in the town, and that our lives were in danger. I chased him away like a dog, hurling stones at him as he fled. Let Silas go off and become a milkmaid for his uncle: George Rathbone flees for no man.

  I spent the afternoon shovelling the deep snow from my garden path, taking solace in hard physical activity. As dusk fell, I looked out across the fields and spied a small figure in the distance, a smudge on the horizon. Even from so far away, I was struck by the unnerving sensation that the figure was watching me. There was no way of knowing whether it meant good or ill – or indeed, whether it was a figure at all, or just some trick of the winter twilight. All the same, I was relieved when I had finished clearing the path and could retire inside the Lodge, and I locked the door behind me as I went.

  16th December, 1821

  I walked into Alderston to find the streets deserted and the shops closed. The town is waiting for something. Curtains trembled in windows. Doors looked the other way. Chimneys held their breath.

  17th December, 1821

  My enforced solitude has given me pause to puzzle over the terrible events of the past month. I remain haunted by the nightmare in which Kitty attacked me, the rattle of the silver ring against my teeth still ringing in my ears. Was there a message in this terrible vision? Did Kitty appear to me one final time to reject me? Why did she want to give me back the ring she had accepted with such blissful happiness? Alone among my possessions, the silver ring was untarnished, innocent of any criminal associations. It belonged to my mother, who stumbled across it in the woods near Lark Farm as a young girl. She gave it to me on her deathbed, pressing it into my palm with her stiff, cold fingers. Smiling, she told me that my life would find a righteous course in time. My mother died – as Kitty did – before I could justify that faith. Bitterness threatens to eat me away from the inside.

  18th December, 1821

  A still, moonless night. As I write by candelight at my desk I can see torches dancing in the graveyard as the menfolk of Alderston march down towards the Lodge. Like a pack of hounds, they have the scent of blood in their nostrils, and soon they will come barking and clawing at my door. Lucas was murdered this afternoon, set upon by a mob in the town square and punched and kicked to death. This town has long wielded a gavel like an axe, dispensing justice after its own fashion. Yet in this matter – if not in any other – I can proclaim complete innocence. If the mob believes that with our deaths the dead can rest peacefully in their graves, they are much mistaken.

  Oh my darling Kitty, what have I done to us? If I had been a better man I could look forward to our being reunited in the afterlife, but my many crimes have put paid to that. Rest assured that wherever you tread in Heaven, I shall be forever gazing up at you through the flames.

  The mob nears my door. I shall leave this diary in a safe place and prepare to receive my guests. If they are set on sending me to Hell, I’ll not go alone.

  Jamie read through the night, blowing on his hands to keep them warm as he turned the pages. Hampered by George Rathbone’s crabby handwriting and the old-fashioned spelling, it took him a long time to reach the diary’s solemn end. The window was brightening behind the curtain by the time he had closed the book and carefully replaced it behind the grate for safekeeping.

  Although Jamie was tired, there was no question of going back to sleep – his brain was ticking over too quickly for that. It felt as though he was slowly beginning to prise Alderston’s secrets from its cold, grudging grasp. According to his diary, George Rathbone had had nothing to do with Kitty’s grave-robbery. He could have been lying, Jamie supposed, but why bother lying in his own secret diary? Looking around the bedroom, Jamie imagined George Rathbone hurriedly scratching his final entry at his desk as the torches grew ominously larger in his window. What had happened, he wondered, when the mob had reached the Lodge? Everyone had told Jamie that the Resurrection Men had been chased out of Alderston, but it seemed this was a convenient version of events, cleaned up and polished for later, more squeamish generations. Lucas was murdered this afternoon, set upon by a mob in the town square and punched and kicked to death…

  A thoughtful air had descended upon the Lodge. Sarge was preoccupied and monosyllabic, spending the afternoon cleaning and oiling his toolkit. He barely touched his dinner, rising from the table and putting on his coat with barely a grunt before leaving the Lodge. Usually Jamie would have expected Liam to make some kind of smart comment, but this time, he noticed, his brother kept his mouth shut.

  “What’s up with him?” Jamie asked.

  “What do you think’s up with him?” said Liam. “He’s got Mathers’s dead body in the shed, for Chrissakes!”

  “But I thought Sarge didn’t like him?”

  “He didn’t. Doesn’t mean he wanted him dead, though. Doesn’t mean he won’t miss him.”

  Jamie scratched his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “I know you don’t, little bro,” said Liam, with a grim smile. “I’m not sure Sarge does either.”

  A tinny dance tune interrupted him. Liam pulled his mobile out from his pocket and checked the display, frowning.

  “Who’s this, then?” he wondered.

  A prickle of unease swept across Jamie’s flesh. “You think it’s Mr Redgrave?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Liam replied, pressing answer. “Hello?” He rolled his eyes. “All right Keele
y. No, it’s not Jamie, it’s his brother Liam. He’s … erm, in the shower.”

  Jamie had forgotten that he’d pretended to Keeley that he had a mobile. He reached out to take the phone, but Liam knocked his hand away.

  “Slow down, love,” he said. “What is it? You sound a bit—” He paused. “OK, we’ll be right over.”

  Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he went into the hall and began putting his trainers on. Jamie watched him curiously.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Some idiots are hanging round outside Keeley’s house,” Liam told him. “Kids, mainly, but they’re freaking her mum out.”

  “Why don’t they call the police?”

  “No police to call until the Moss clears, and it doesn’t sound like Keeley and her mum have got many friends in town. We’d better go over there and make sure they’re all right. Get your shoes on – you’re coming with me.”

  As Jamie hurried into his coat and shoes he was filled with a combination of nervousness and another, more unexpected emotion – pride. Even though Liam barely knew Keeley, he hadn’t blinked when she had asked for help. So what if he helps Sarge steal stuff? Jamie thought. Nobody’s perfect. It doesn’t mean Liam can’t be a good person too. Does it?

  They set out immediately, Jamie struggling to keep pace with Liam’s long strides as he loped down Church Lane. Keeley lived on an estate on the edge of Alderston, but with Liam hurrying along it didn’t take them long to reach the right street. A small knot of people had gathered outside the terraced house at the end of the row, a dark storm cloud on the horizon. There were ten, maybe fifteen people: mostly teenagers with their hoods up, hungrily circling the front gate like wolves. At the back of the pack a handful of older men and women looked on, including Greg’s brother Richie Metcalfe, who stood with his arms folded and a look of sour satisfaction on his face. The street rang with crowing, high-pitched laughter, insults ricocheting off pebble-dashed walls. As Liam and Jamie approached the throng a teenager in a red tracksuit cupped his hands together and called out: