Chapter 10

 

   A cheery early morning sun beamed low over the calm sea as if assessing the mopping-up task ahead of it. The overnight rain had moved on, leaving the whole island a little more brightly coloured. Excited rivulets gushed down runnels in the moor, gurgling happily on their downward course to the sea. The sky was dappled with puffs of white curly clouds drifting leisurely westwards. With unerring accuracy, a ray of sunlight penetrated the small gap between the curtains of John Brown's bedroom and lit up his wrinkled face.
   He lay on his back, mouth agape, his sunken cheeks more pronounced than when he was standing up. His nose twitched below a nightcap that was slightly askew. The bright ray of sunlight crept across his face to his closed eyelids. His mouth snapped shut, then his eyes flickered and opened with a merry gleam twinkling in them. He eased himself up and sat with elbows on updrawn knees as he gathered his thoughts.
   'Man!' he exclaimed out loud, and threw off his bedclothes. 'It's good to be alive, despite these old bones of mine.'
   Having pulled on thick woollen socks, he hobbled over to the window and drew open the curtains. Bright sunshine flooded the bedroom, lighting up his new coffin.
   'Well, hello there,' he beamed, running his fingers delicately along the polished wooden lid.
   He pushed the window wide open and breathed deeply a few times, filling his lungs with the freshness of summer rain on heathery moor. He gazed out of the window for some time, taking in the splendour of the morning. Although he didn't go to church, he believed in God and quietly murmured his thanks for such a beautiful day.
   'Lordy, Lordy, what a stormy night it must have been,' he muttered, lifting his shirt to scratch his ribs and revealing that he was every bit as thin as one might have imagined. Suddenly his brow furrowed. 'Bless me!' he exclaimed, letting go of his nightshirt. 'The grave and the barren womb; the earth that is filled with water! Maybe all that rain has flooded my grave. We had best go and see.'
   Impatient now to get out onto the moor to investigate, he grabbed his trousers which were draped over the coffin and hopped back and forth as he pulled them on.
   'Bleggarty breeks!' he scolded as he danced around.
   Grabbing a clean shirt from his wardrobe, he headed for the kitchen. At the back door he pulled on a pair of wellies and then stumped along to the end of his house buttoning his shirt as he went.

   His cow stood near the tree at the far end of his croft, its head down, flicking its tail contentedly as it munched on new grass. Parked up by the side of the byre, his old tractor dripped forlornly. A couple of sheep that had been lying under it ran away as he approached.
   'Ah, did I forget to put you away in the byre last night?' he apologised to the tractor, noting its sodden condition. 'What with undertakers and coffins, you went completely out of my mind. Serves you right anyway for not being a horse.' He climbed laboriously aboard and wiped the bare metal seat with his hand. 'Now don't you give me any trouble, you bleggarty old thing.'
   Composing himself, he turned the key. Obediently, the engine kicked and fired, though far from smoothly. A few puffs of oily black smoke coughed from the exhaust sticking up out of the bonnet. At that moment, Dugal pelted round the side of the house, his wellies slapping his legs.
   'It's Dundas!' he wheezed, flushed and out of breath.
   John looked down at him rather curiously.
   'Dugal?'
   'It's Dundas!'
   John put a hand to his ear and turned his head sideways to try to hear him over the growling of the engine.
   'What was that? What's the matter with your ass?'
   Dugal leaned a hand against the stonewall of the byre for support, wheezing heavily, too short of breath to get any more words out. John looked at him for a moment, and then, with a little shake of his head, reluctantly climbed back down to earth. He didn't risk switching the tractor off in case it didn't start again.
   'Whatever is the matter with you?' he asked.
   'Attem . . . attem . . .' wheezed Dugal.
   'Come on, out with it man!'
   'Attempted murder, so it is!'
   'Murder?'
   'Last night!'
   'Ach Dugal, have you been drinking?'
   'It's true, I tell you!'
   The tractor rattled noisily, making hearing difficult so John motioned for Dugal to follow him and headed into the byre. He picked his way through various bits of farm machinery, rusting metal drums and other odds and ends he considered useful, and then leaned back against an old work bench on which a few tools lay scattered about. Motes of dust speckled in the sunlight slanting through a small-cobwebbed window. Abstractedly, he scratched his ribs and tried to make sense of what he was hearing.
   Dugal blinked as he staggered from the bright sunlight to the gloom within. John reached into his trouser pocket for his pipe, tapped the ashes from the bowl, and then slowly filled it. After tamping down the fresh tobacco with a finger, he rummaged in his pocket for his matches. When his pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, he reached for a cap hanging from the wooden handle of an old scythe and pulled it over what was left of his hair.
   'I've never heard of such a thing!' gasped Dugal at length, holding his chest with one hand.
   'Come on then Dugal, what is it?' asked John, blowing out a long stream of smoke.
   'It's Dundas the water bailiff. Charlie just phoned me from the mortuary.'
   'Dundas is in the mortuary?'
   'No, Charlie phoned me from the mortuary.'
   'You just said that.'
   'He says the police are by his bedside taking a statement.'
   'They have beds in the mortuary?'
   'Oh John!' scolded Dugal. 'Will you not listen?'
   'You had better sit down Dugal,' observed John, indicating to an oil drum. 'It isn't the running I would be recommending for you just yet. Now what is it you are trying to say?'
   Dugal plopped down gratefully and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. The clumps of hair covering his ears were a little more unruly than was usual and a sheen of sweat glistened on his bald forehead. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his belly slumped over his trouser belt.
   'John, I don't know what to think. This is all too much for me. I never thought I would live to hear of such a thing.'
   'Your wellies are on the wrong feet,' remarked John, pointing to them with the stem of his pipe.
   'Well now, I must say,' observed Dugal, finally getting his breath back. 'Is that all you can say about it?'
   'Well, maybe it is on the right feet they are, but then that would make them the wrong boots I suppose.'
   Dugal sat upright on the oil drum and adopted a stern manner.
   'About the attempted murder I mean, as you well know.'
   'Ah yes, the water bailiff, who the police are asking Charlie about, who is in a bed in the mortuary.'
   Dugal sighed with exasperation as he changed his wellies.
   'It is the water bailiff the police are talking to, not young Charlie.'
   'Dugal, you are not making much sense man,' said John, 'why would the police be talking to Dundas in the mortuary if it isn't dead he is?'
   Dugal's red face seemed to become even more flustered and he threw his hands up in frustration.
   'Och come you away to the grave with me Dugal,' said John, making his way towards the door of the byre. 'And on the way, you can explain to me again why it is there are beds in the mortuary.'
   'The grave?' replied Dugal, suddenly quieting down, a very uncomfortable frown creeping across his face.
   John was already climbing aboard the tractor and didn't hear him. Reluctantly, Dugal followed him outside and perched himself up on the tractor as best he could. John slipped the tractor into gear and chugged slowly round the back of the house. He negotiated a gate with great care and then set off at a leisurely pace along the peat track towards the gravesite. As the tractor bounced and rattled its way through the heather, Dugal's face seemed to become more and more pained.
   'John?' he moaned, using his hands to try and stop himself bouncing around on his far from comfortable perch. 'Can you not slow down?'
   John was too intent on watching where he was going to realise Dugal was talking to him.
   'John!'
   'Eh?'
   'Are you sure you—'
   John put a hand to his ear.
   'What was that?'
   'Never mind,' groaned Dugal, holding on grimly as the tractor reared up out of a ditch.

   On arrival at the trees, John pulled up and applied the handbrake, but he didn't switch off the engine. Dugal dismounted awkwardly and nursed his bruised buttocks.
   'Glory be,' muttered John, as they approached the grave. 'It's still there.'
   'Really?' remarked Dugal drily. 'And were you worried someone may have sneaked out here during the night and stolen your hole?'
   'Now now, Dugal,' retorted John with a smile as he reached the grave and peered down. 'There's no need for sarcasm. Everything is fine. The water has gone down through the spongy peat like porridge through my intestines. This thing will have no problem keeping me snug until Judgment Day.'
   Dugal stood unhappily by the lip of the hole and shoved his hands into his pockets.
   'Will you listen to that?' said John suddenly, lifting his head.
   Dugal looked around but could hear nothing over the grumbling of the idling tractor. A couple of birds flitted around the trees, watching them inquisitively.
   'What is it?'
   'That bleggarty tractor,' explained John, as it coughed up another puff of black smoke. 'It sounds like it's on the verge of a heart attack.'
   'John, look!' said Dugal suddenly, pointing excitedly into the grave.
   'What?'
   'There, look!'
   Deep down in the peat at the bottom where the overnight rain had drained away, something metallic glinted down a small hole.
   'Dang me,' whispered John in awe. 'Now what on earth can that be?'
   Both of them remained rooted to the spot for some time, staring into the grave. John shook his head and then let out a few queer little grunts.
   'Well now,' said Dugal, then closed his mouth again when he couldn't think of anything sensible to say.
   John was reluctant to investigate, but finally gained the courage and eased himself down into the hole.
   'Is it gold?' asked Dugal, getting down on his hands and knees for a better look.
   John bent down and dug down into the peat with his hands. A minute later he straightened up abruptly, a scared look on his face.
   'Lordy, Lordy,' he wailed in disbelief. 'It's a coffin!'
   Dugal stared in astonishment at the muddy brass fitting.
   'What is the world coming to?' moaned John, wringing his hands. 'Now we have squatters in our very graves.'
   'A coffin?' squealed Dugal.
   John looked up imploringly at his friend.
   'What are we going to do?'
   'I . . . we . . . erm . . .'
   Confused and dazed, John clambered out of the grave, sat down heavily on the grass and put his head in his hands. Dugal gaped at him blankly. John lifted his head and looked around him and suddenly became very angry.
   'I am not having squatters in my grave.'
   'Are you sure it's a coffin?'
   'That bleggarty thing is coming out of there.'
   'Out?'
   'This minute!'
   John got up and stumbled over to the tractor, and without fully appreciating what he was doing, he backed up to the pit, grabbed a length of rope and an old shovel from behind the seat, then climbed down into the grave and stared fixedly at the brass fitting on the coffin lid.
   'J . . . John, what are you doing?'
   'What does it look like I am doing?'
   Not without a lot of difficulty, John succeeded in digging out one end of the coffin and passed the rope underneath and tied it securely. Dirty, sweaty and tired from his exertions, he sat back in the grave and filled his pipe. Before long, a puff of smoke issued from the hole and drifted off on the breeze.
   'Perhaps we should have a wee think about this,' said Dugal nervously.
   'Think?' said John, puffing dementedly on his pipe. 'THINK! What is there to think about?'
   'We can't just go around taking coffins out of graves, man.'
   'It is my hole,' retorted John, puffing so hard that the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe glowed red. 'And that bleggard, whoever he is, is coming out of there.'
   'Should we not telephone the police?'
   John suddenly got up, struggled out of the grave and put his hand on Dugal's shoulder.
   'Will you wait here?' he asked, looking deeply into his friend's eyes. 'While I go and get the trailer?'
   Dugal was too confused and befuddled to argue.
   'I won't be long,' said John, climbing aboard the tractor.

   When he had rattled off across the moor, Dugal sat down, leaned back on his elbows and stared up at the sky. When the noise of the tractor had faded and he could no longer hear it, a strange composure settled over him. He stared down at the coffin buried in the peat, and as he studied it, life suddenly took on a profoundly deeper meaning for him than it had ever done before. He became very aware of time in a surreal sort of way, and it seemed as if he could almost reach out and touch it as it passed him. With a shiver, he stood up and gazed over the moor, past the hill and on into the blue sky beyond the horizon. At that moment he could feel that the present was the point at which time touched eternity. For the first time in all his years he realised just how precious life really was. With a clench of his fist, he resolved to stop drinking and get himself fit again so he could make the most of what life he still had before him.

    It wasn't long before the tractor returned with the trailer juddering and clattering along behind it.
   'Come on then Dugal,' said John, dismounting sprightly and jumping down into the grave. 'We have a job to be doing.'
   Dugal opened his mouth to protest.
   'I —'
   'Here, grab this,' said John, cutting him off and holding up the end of the rope. 'Tie it to the forks on the front of the tractor.'
   'I . . . I . . .'
   'Aye, aye, yourself, now will you hurry up man, we haven't got all day.'
   'Don't you think we should discuss this?' said Dugal, sorely troubled as he made the rope secure.
   John didn't hear him. He was a man on a mission. When he had secured the rope around the coffin, he climbed out of the hole, then clambered up onto the tractor and gently revved the engine. Carefully, he took the strain. The rope creaked as the coffin was lifted up out of the grave and John reversed a short way and lowered the coffin onto the grass.
   'Well now, it is a coffin right enough,' muttered Dugal miserably. 'And no doubt there will be someone inside it.'
   John indicated to an end of the coffin and Dugal reluctantly complied. Together they lifted it from the ground and slid it onto the back of the trailer. With John still puffing dementedly on his pipe and Dugal sitting unhappily on top of the coffin to stop it sliding around, they set off across the moor towards the house.

   When they arrived, they unloaded the coffin at the back door, where John hosed it down and dried it with an old towel. When they had recovered from their efforts, they carried it into the kitchen where John set about unscrewing the lid. Dugal stepped away from the coffin until his back hit the kitchen wall.
   When all the screws were freed, John gingerly eased the lid up and gazed inside.
   'It's . . . it's . . . a body!' he finally forced out, not appreciating that, under the circumstances, anything else would have been quite unusual. 'It's . . . it's trespass,' he continued, after a pause. 'It's invasion of my private parts, so it is. A complete stranger too, and without so much as a by-your-leave.'
   Dugal flattened himself against the kitchen wall and closed his eyes.
   Now completely disoriented, John put the lid down and paced the kitchen floor, muttering incoherently and slapping his side in anguish from time to time. Suddenly, he kicked off his muddy wellies, which came to rest at opposite ends of the kitchen, then stalked into the living room and lay down on the sofa.
   'Dugal?' No answer.
   'Dugal!'
   Still no answer.
   John sat up and stared through the open kitchen door.
   'Will you fetch the whisky man, I need a drink. And don't forget the jug. Thon bleggarty smelly watery stuff in the taps will just have to do.'
   The mention of whisky snapped Dugal from his shock. Tip-toeing past the coffin, as if afraid of somehow waking its occupant, he reached into a cupboard with trembling fingers for the bottle and a couple of glasses.
   'Ahhh,' sighed John, swallowing half his drink in one go. 'It was that I was needing right enough.'
   Dugal downed his glass in one and quickly poured himself another. Absentmindedly, John got up, hobbled over to the telly and switched it on. The two of them sat for a while, sipping their whiskies as they watched an old black and white movie.
   'Shall we watch the news?' asked John after a while, putting his glass down casually on the hearth. He twiddled with the buttons on his remote, then muttered something about the inadequacies of technology and switched the television off.
   'We need to talk,' said Dugal with some steadiness.
   John gazed around his living room, still in somewhat of a daze. Then he reached into his pocket for his pipe and knocked the ashes out into the fireplace.
   'John!' said Dugal, a little more forcefully.
   'What is it, man?'
   John sat back in his armchair while puffing at his pipe to get it going.
   'I'm thinking we should put him back.'
   'Who?'
   'Whoever is in the coffin.'
   'Oh do you now?'
   'What we've done isn't right.'
   'Well, it isn't your grave.'
   'No, and he isn't our body either.'
   'Do you think it is okay for people to just wander around the island burying bodies wherever they like?'
   'That is precisely my point.'
   'Eh?'
   'Whoever it was that buried him, they must have had a very good reason for it.'
   'I'm not sure I follow.'
   'Why would someone secretly bury a body,' asked Dugal, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, 'unless he was murdered?'
   John's pipe fell from his lips and clattered onto the lino in a shower of sparks.
   'And another thing,' said Dugal. 'I'm thinking there was more than one of them.'
   'More than one body?'
   'No, no John, more than one murderer! After all, one man didn't carry that coffin there and bury it by himself now, did he?'
   John stared at him, the colour drained from his face.
   'And what if we are caught with the body,' continued Dugal, a tremor in his voice. 'They will think we did it?'
   'What, buried him?'
   'No . . . murdered him!' exclaimed Dugal, his face reddening. 'Are you not listening?'
   John picked up his pipe and gulped down the rest of his whisky.
   'Och Dugal,' he mused quietly, 'I suppose there is some truth to what you are saying.'
   A match flared and its light flickered on John's sallow face as he puffed to get his pipe going again. Then his gaze settled on the old photographs of his parents and eventually he took the pipe from his lips.
   'So what do you think we should do?' he asked quietly.
   'I think we should put him back and then call the police.'
   'Perhaps you're right. Come,' said John, pushing himself to his feet, 'let's shift him through to the bedroom for now before someone comes to the house.'
   'You know John,' remarked Dugal, levering himself from his chair, 'I wonder what the Thompson's would think if they knew we were getting into the undertaking business?'

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