Fragmented Evil

by Craig Wrightson

  The night was airless; nothing moved. The clear sky above provided the perfect canvas to display the full moon in all its beauty.

  ‘When will that old bastard take to his bed?’ murmured Arthur Price, the leader of the two, the man supposedly with all of the brains.

  ‘Soon, soon. He will be having his little nip of the hard stuff now that he is all locked up,’ replied the man standing next to him, Owen Kelly, who was the brawn of the outfit. He stood at over six-feet tall with solid broad shoulders and he possessed fists like shovels. Many a man gave Owen Kelly a wide birth. Not that he cared in the slightest.

  Arthur nodded at his colleague; he had to trust him, as it had been he who had been stood rooted at this exact same spot for the last two nights making sure that all their planning and preparation was in order. In their game you only ever made one mistake. Your last.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Owen. They had worked well together as a team for long enough, it was just that Arthur was all too aware of Owen’s fondness for the ale and he would not put it past him to give in to the urge for a nice pint or two beside a nice warm fire.

  Arthur and Owen had worked together for the last six months. Without messing about with fancy job titles, they were merely grave robbers, working in a field where demand vastly outweighed supply. They had met in a graveyard in Northumberland by chance, both creeping up on the same target. They had frightened the life out of each other and decided that the sensible thing to do, rather than fight it out, was to share the work and share the fee.

  The development of medical science had plateaued; doctors and surgeons were struggling to find fresh bodies for them to experiment on or to run trials with. By law, they had to rely on executed criminals or bodies that had gone unclaimed by relatives. In the quieter areas of the country, such as Newcastle, this resulted in low numbers being made available, much to the frustration of the doctors and surgeons.

  Soon a fee had been offered; many people in these parts did not regard this act as a sin and quickly took up the offers, so desperate for money that they would undertake any foul task proposed to them without a moment’s hesitation.

  Arthur and Owen had been successful in their chosen field and had always delivered results. Because of this, they were the first choice for a lot of professionals in Newcastle and the surrounding area. Once the current season was over, Arthur planned to move on. He fancied Scotland where their laws were a lot more relaxed and their graveyards a lot less remote.

  When Dr Reuben had contacted them at the Rose and Crown three nights ago, a price had been quickly agreed and a pint of ale had been shared with the promise of two fresh bodies delivered to him by the end of the working week, allowing the doctor time to play with his specimens over the weekend.

  Staring out onto the cemetery, both men were relieved when the light to the watchkeeper’s cottage finally went out. They picked up their bags, checked that the streets were still clear and made their way to the far side of the cemetery, trying not to make much noise as they crossed the cobblestones.

  Reaching the iron railings, hidden from view, Owen grasped two of them, one with each clumpy hand, and gently pulled them free. No resistance or sound was offered. He had sawed them both loose the previous night in preparation. He laid them quietly on the path and stepped through the gap, disappearing into the darkness. Arthur followed suit, bent down and lifted the railings from the floor and replaced them loosely back into position. Nothing would look out of place.

  Arthur stood rooted to the spot, waiting for his eyesight to become accustomed to the darkness. There was a rustle in the bushes.

  He held his breath.

  Owen stepped through the bushes grinning. ‘Don’t worry, nobody

  here tonight except you and me.’

  As both men ventured into the cemetery, they were unaware of the thin wisp of grey and black fog that had appeared from nowhere and snaked its way behind them. The fog caught up with them, curling around their ankles.

  Arthur had to stifle a cough; the fumes of the dead were strong. They attacked his throat and stomach, causing him to gag and retch, his body bent and shaking as he tried to cover his sounds with a hand clasped over his mouth.

  The decomposing bodies and recently exhumed corpses caused invisible toxic fumes to hover around. He withdrew his threadbare and soiled hankie from his pocket, pressed it firmly over his mouth and nose and continued on.

  The fog had danced ahead of them by now. They were unsure if they were on the right track. The still air had been replaced with a chilled fresh breeze that picked up everything around, spinning them freely in the air. Neither Arthur nor Owen detected this as they blindly trundled along in search of their quarry.

  In the misty darkness, Owen called out.

  ‘I can't see a bloody thing with all of this damned fog.’

  Before Arthur could reply, he heard a collision, and his friend cried out in pain.

  Arthur, expecting the worse, ran to his friend and located him lying down next to a fresh grave fitted with a mortsafe.

  He was rubbing his shins and cursing under his breath.

  A mortsafe was a crude and effective deterrent. An iron frame which encased the grave to prevent grave robbers having easy access … or others were to have you believe … positioned to keep zombies inside. These were only removed after the corpse had decomposed.

  Bending down, he gently lifted the hem of Owen’s trousers revealing a small but nasty gash. Owen took his own equally filthy hankie out from his pocket and wrapped it around the wound to stem the flow of blood.

  He looked up, annoyed and hurt.

  ‘Nearly fucking crippled me, that thing. The grave we want is next door.’

  Arthur walked slowly over to the next grave while Owen struggled to get up and join him; they both stood for a moment staring at the cheap, homemade cross whose epitaph merely read:

  Ann Simmons

  Aged 8

  Died 27th October 1844

  Neither of the men experienced any remorse for the gross act they were about to commit. No sadness at the tragic loss of life at such a young age and no empathy for the grieving parents. Their only concern at this moment in time was how much their victim would weigh once recovered.

  ‘This is it. Time for us to get to work,’ instructed Arthur.

  He dropped the heavy bag of tools that he had been carrying over his shoulder onto the floor. He emptied the contents and selected the wooden shovels and length of rope.

  They attacked the fresh grave with vigor. It hadn’t rained recently but the soil was still soft and comfortable to remove. They were silent as they undertook the laborious task, each lost within their own dream about how they would spend their well-earned bounty. Within twenty minutes they had dug the required six inches to reveal the coffin lid. The removed earth was in a neat pile deposited onto an old sheet ready to be relaid once their job was done.

  Jumping into the exposed grave, both men pulled the lid of the coffin free and laid it at the side of the opening.

  Above, in the night sky, the moon slipped behind a dark rain cloud reducing visibility in an instant. The chill in the air became colder. Arthur lifted the threadbare collar of his jacket up tight around his neck, but it did not nothing to ward off the impending cold.

  The victim lay motionless; her eyes were firmly shut. She was dressed in a plain but pleasant summer dress. A single red rose had been lovingly placed in her hair which was swept back from her peaceful face.

  Arthur and Owen each grabbed an ankle and attempted to slide her free from the coffin.

  Nothing. She would not move an inch.

  Cursing, Owen crawled further up the dead body.

  ‘Shit!’ he cursed. ‘She’s got a coffin collar fitted; she isn’t going anywhere.’

  Arthur scrambled up beside his colleague. Sure enough, a crudely fitted wooden collar was around her slender neck. Heavy-duty bolts could be seen, no doubt securely
installed to the coffin base.

  Arthur was just about to tell his friend to leave her when the moon passed from the dark clouds and illuminated the grave below.

  The red rose turned black.

  Both men sat, stunned.

  As they watched, the right eyelid of the small girl slowly opened, revealing an egg-white orb crisscrossed with rich red veins.

  The eye stared coldly ahead, unmoving.

  Arthur and Owen both felt their stomachs turn, and their bowels turn to water.

  The left eyelid of the little girl also started to slowly open.

  As both men stared, transfixed, the eyeball was fully revealed. Grey and dark, dried out, partially eaten away in places, rotting and decaying.

  The eyelid fully opened to reveal the small sack of a spider’s nest secreted within the far corner of the eye, entwined in a fine silk web.

  To their horror, a small black spider exited the nest, paused, looked up at them and opened its tiny jaws, revealing two rows of sharpened, serrated teeth.

  Both men screamed.

  Chapter 2

  Arthur and Owen jumped back in shock, hearts beating through their chests like a brass band.

  Arthur gazed upon the corpse. She was lying peacefully with her eyes closed.

  The single rose was once again red.

  ‘We need to get her filled back in,’ he whispered to his ashen friend, fear evident in his stuttering tone.

  Arthur turned and went to exit the grave. He was just about to lift himself above ground when he looked behind.

  Owen was bent over the fixed corpse, pulling madly at the young girl's arms.

  ‘What are you doing, you fool? We need to leave.’

  Without turning his head, Owen replied,

  ‘I’m not leaving here with nothing.’

  Arthur leant forwards for a closer inspection of what his friend was up to.

  He shook his head in disgust, realising that he was trying to unclasp a small bracelet from the dead girl's wrists. Cheap and worthless, yet still probably the most prized possession of the deceased. Fumbling around in the semi-darkness, he was not finding this an easy task.

  ‘You must have an urge to feel the hangman’s rope around your neck, my friend.’

  ‘Eh? What do you mean? Leave me be.’

  ‘You will swing if they catch you; you must know theft is a capital offence.’

  ‘They catch us tonight, and we will both hang.’

  ‘That is where you are wrong. What we are doing is a misdemeanor. What you’re doing is a felony, my friend … punishable by death.’

  Both men were silent for a moment as they weighed up their options.

  Arthur was ready to abandon his friend and call everything off for the night when Owen cursed and released the girl's wrist. It fell limply back into her coffin.

  ‘OK. OK. Let us get a move on then. There is still a profit to be gained from this night.’

  They clambered from the grave and picked up their shovels. Scooping up the soft earth they quickly refilled the grave. Hopefully, it would be a few days before any mourners returned and by this time Mother Nature would have taken over and hidden any signs of their presence.

  This time both men had a sense of urgency about them. The earth needed merely to be scooped up, not dug out. They finished the job in minutes and stood looking for anything that they may had overlooked that could give them away.

  The air had become cold and still once more. Nothing moved in the cemetery. The mist that had followed them on their journey all night started to rise. Soon their visibility was reduced as it swirled freely in front of their eyes. They could barely see past the length of their arms.

  Owen tugged Arthur’s arm and pulled him in close.

  ‘Follow me. The next grave is just around the corner. I want to be out of here as quick as I can.’

  ‘OK, don’t worry, I will be by your side. Something feels wrong tonight.’

  Arm in arm they blindly stepped deeper into the foggy cemetery.

  They had taken no more than a dozen paces when Arthur realised he had lost his grip of Owen. He panicked, spinning around.

  Nothing. Nothing anywhere. Just swirls of blinding fog.

  He wanted to cry out Owen’s name, but he knew to do so would be at risk of waking the watchkeeper.

  Arthur took a tentative step forwards. From nowhere a giant winged skull loomed in front of him. It hovered in the still air, silhouetted against a blanket of a grey.

  Tonight, it was his turn. He had been chosen.

  Arthur closed his eyes tightly and flung his arms up in front of his face in a futile attempt to avert the inevitable.

  A firm hand clasped his shoulder and yanked him back.

  Laughing, Owen whispered, ‘Watch where you are going, old man. You will hurt yourself.’

  The mist shifted position and the winged skull was revealed in all its glory, encased in a concrete gravestone.

  Arthur shook his head. He was getting too old for this game. He had seen enough of the dark side to ensure he would have nightmares for the rest of his days.

  Owen patted him on the shoulder and directed him to the next grave, the final resting place of the next victim that had been selected for them to retrieve. They quickly covered the ground together.

  Removing their tools from their bags they started to dig again. Arthur did not look at the gravestone or at Owen beside him. Focused, he just plodded on. Inside, he prayed for this night to be over.

  The earth here was thick, more compact and harder to penetrate. After five minutes both men were sweating profusely and removed their jackets.

  The cold air assaulted their sweating bodies; soon they were shivering and cursing under their breaths. They could not rest; they had to be gone from the area well before sunrise.

  Owen’s shovel was the first to hit the cheap wooden coffin lid. Smiling, he dropped to his knees and started brushing away the light soil with his hands, revealing an adult-size coffin lid.

  ‘We have hit the jackpot here, my friend,’ he cried out triumphantly.

  Leaning forwards, he curled his fingers around the underside of the coffin lid and started to prise it free from the top.

  ‘Be careful, slow down,’ whispered Arthur.

  Owen could sense that tonight was going to be rewarding after all. He ignored Arthur and carried on lifting the lid.

  Bang!

  There was a loud explosion, the shallow pit filled with gunsmoke and the smell of cordite.

  Arthur wiped his eyes clear and looked down at Owen, lying on his back next to him.

  Most of his head was missing.

  Chapter 3

  Arthur was rooted to the spot, staring blankly at his fallen comrade and then at the exposed coffin. His mouth opened, but no words would come.

  The coffin torpedo had surprised them both. It had done its job well.

  The second Owen had attempted to open the coffin lid, pressure had been released from the homemade booby trap, and the cartridge from the concealed coffin gun had exploded, instantly firing into his exposed face.

  The cartridge had been crude but effective. It had spread upon discharge and travelled easily through Owen’s soft, fleshy face, tearing away skin, bone and muscle. The charge had ricocheted off Owen’s jawbone and diverted upwards. It had then exited the back of his head, dragging out clumps of brain which hit the side of the grave with a hollow thump.

  Owen had died instantly, no pain, no fear and no warning.

  Arthur had heard rumours of such traps being used by wealthy families in London, but like others, he did not expect their use to have travelled so far north so quickly.

  He could taste iron in his mouth. He wiped the sleeve of his tatty coat over his mouth, and when he looked down, he was shocked to discover it was covered in warm, fresh blood. Globules of matter and snippets of bone clung to the fabric.

  He spat the blood from his mouth
and took stock. He knew he did not have much time. The gunshot would have woken the watchman who, no doubt, would be hotfooting it to inform the peelers.

  He glanced at Owen; the front of his face was an indistinguishable mess. He would not be easy to identify, if at all. Arthur decided to leave his friend where he lay. He did not have the time to take him or to hide the body.

  If he did not hurry up, he too would receive the same fate as what his friend had in store for him – cut up and fed to the wild dogs that roamed the deserted streets or buried in a pauper’s grave. No one would know of his passing and he would be forgotten and un-grieved.

  Arthur leant forwards to hook his arms around the corpse’s shoulders. He grimaced. The corpse was male, perhaps thirty years old. He was of average build and Arthur knew he would be hefty to lift out of the grave, let alone carry for any distance.

  The corpse showed early signs of decomposing – jaw locked tight with rigor mortis, the once white face turning to a dark grey. The body was beginning to bloat as the gasses inside putrefied.

  Trying not to gag, Arthur lifted the corpse free from its resting place, manhandling it from the grave. He dumped it unceremoniously on the grass beside it.

  Knowing that he would struggle to carry the body, Arthur gripped the corpse by the legs and dragged him to the edge of the cemetery. Aware of how eerily silent the cemetery had become, he was sure the noise from the crunching gravel would be heard from miles away.

  He braved on, never once stopping for breath. The clouds in the sky had disappeared, and the bright light of the moon illuminated all below.

  He threw the corpse unceremoniously through the gap of the railings. It landed in a heap on the cobblestones outside. He clambered through and replaced the railings.

  Glancing around, the street was still deserted, so he hoisted the corpse over his shoulders and crossed the road, bent double, and made for the alleyway where they had waited earlier, and where his handcart was hidden.

  With not a moment to spare as dawn was beginning to break, Arthur wheeled the handcart with the corpse wrapped up in an old tatty blanket up a back alley to the side of the doctor’s house.