Chapter 21

 

   John Brown could have pushed his tractor a little faster, but to make things more comfortable for Dugal in the trailer, he was keeping the speed down to a slow crawl. As they trundled over the last hill and down towards the trees surrounding the gravesite, he stamped on the brakes. There was a clatter and a muffled curse from behind him.
   'What kind of driving do you call that?' scolded Dugal irritably, picking himself up in the trailer. 'Did the traffic lights change or something?'
   John sat there, peering ahead into the darkness. He could have sworn he'd seen two shadows slinking off into the night.
   'Oh Lordy,' he whispered to himself. 'It's hallucinating I am now.'
   'Well John, EXPLAIN YOURSELF!' demanded Dugal grumpily, jumping down from the trailer.
   'Nothing Dugal, it's nothing.'
   'Nothing?' retorted Dugal, rubbing his head where he'd bumped it on the side of the trailer. 'Perhaps you might care to warn your passengers before stamping on the brakes for nothing!'
   With that, Dugal marched off down the hill still rubbing his head.
   John let out the clutch, steered the tractor into the clearing, and jumped down from the cab.
   'Sorry about that, Dugal. I'll make it up to you when we get home with a large malt whisky.'
   'It is grave robbers we are,' muttered Dugal miserably as he stared down into the blackness of the hole.
   'Is it just me Dugal, or is the grave a little shallower than when we were last here?'
   'Now that you mention it, yes, it doesn't seem quite as deep as it was.'
   John let himself down into the hole and shovelled a chunk of peat up over the lip.
   'My head was below the top of the hole last time I was in here,' said John, whose head was poking above ground.
   'At least it's not raining,' observed Dugal, casting a cursory glance around the sky.
   Suddenly the sound of digging stopped.
   'What's up?' asked Dugal, getting down on his hands and knees.
   'Do you notice anything strange?' asked John.
   'Let's see now?' mused Dugal. 'Here we are out in the moors in the middle of the night digging up a coffin and you ask me if I notice anything strange?'
   He switched on his torch and shone it down into the hole.
   'Nope, everything seems perfectly normal as far as I can see.'
   'Never mind your sarcasm, you bleggert, look at the grave.'
   'I AM looking at it!'
   John squelched around in his wellies.
   'Why would the grave not be as deep as it was before?'
   Dugal went very quiet for a moment. John recalled the two shadows he thought he'd seen fading into the dark night and felt a chill go down his spine. Putting his foot to the spade, he pushed down into the peat and thudded into the solid wood of a coffin.
   'That sound is becoming too familiar for my liking,' muttered Dugal.
   'Careful where you're shining that torch Dugal,' scolded John, his hands up to shield his eyes. 'Do you want the whole island to know we are here?'
   Working in the dim light of the torch, John dug around the sides of the coffin so he could get a rope around it. When he'd accomplished that, he sat down on the coffin lid for a little breather and took his pipe from his pocket. He was no stranger to hard work, but the advancing years were taking their toll. His creaky body wasn't what it used to be. When he lit his pipe, his face glowed eerily in the flickering light of the match.
   Smoke issued from the hole and filtered off into the shadows.
   'You know something,' said Dugal seriously.
   'What's that?' asked John, staring up at him, his face glowing reddish in the light of his pipe.
   'I don't want to spend the rest of my life in prison.'
   'No doubt we'll be taken to the police station for questioning.'
   'And we'll probably be on the radio and in the newspapers.'
   'Aye, and on the television, too,' said John, 'so we better have our story figured out before we phone the police. It's simple, we came out here after the rains, found the coffin, took it back to the house and phoned the police.'
   'The whole island will be talking about us.'
   'Whoever he is, we didn't kill him.'
   'Do you think they will pay us?'
   'Who, Dugal, who is going to pay us for robbing graves?'
   'The newspapers, for the story.'
   John rolled his eyes.
   'Grab the end of the rope, will you.'
   With a last tug on the knots to ensure the coffin was properly secured, John scrambled out of the grave and tied the free end to the forks on the front of tractor. When all was set, he climbed aboard the tractor and revved the engine. Black smoke coughed out of the rusty exhaust as the coffin inched up out of the hole. When it swung clear, John clunked the tractor into reverse and lowered the coffin to the ground.
   'There, that wasn't so bad,' he said brightly, jumping down to give Dugal a hand untying the rope.
   After the coffin had been secured in the trailer, John wiped his brow with his sleeve and looked wistfully over the moors.
   'You know Dugal,' he said softly. 'I am beginning to feel at home here.'
   'What do you mean?'
   'It's hard to explain. I've never felt at home anywhere since my parents died.'
   'You're scaring me.'
   'Ah, but it's true.'
   'But you've got the croft and the house.'
   'Yes, and they have served me well, but this place has never felt much like a home to me.' John sucked at his pipe before continuing. 'The world was a very empty place after my parents died, and I have come to realise that no part of this world will ever be mine.'
   'But John, you own the croft?'
   'Do I?' asked John, glancing across at him with a strange look.
   Dugal looked bewildered.
   John took his pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem towards the ground.
   'It's a comforting thing,' he continued, 'but I feel right at home here, in this clearing.'
   Dugal shivered.
   'This moment we live in,' he said sadly, 'is the point at which time touches eternity.'
   'Where did you get from?' asked John, looking at him intently.
   'Just something I thought of earlier.'
   'Profound.'
   'I don't know John, if eternity actually exists, then time can't possibly be moving. There is no such thing as time. It's always now. Now isn't moving.'
   'This is where I came when my father died,' said John, ignoring him and moving the conversation on because he didn't understand a word of what Dugal was talking about.
   'We did worry when you were nowhere to be found.'
   'I sat here for two days.'
   'Everyone has to die John.'
   'Yes Dugal, I know, but I'm sure that's not the way it was supposed to be. I think it is death that is not supposed to exist.'
   'Perhaps it is the church you should be going to with me.'
   'Is that the best you can come up with?'
   'Isn't that where folks usually go when considering such things?'
   'There is more to God, I'm thinking,' said John, 'than sitting through boring ceremonies.'
   'Yes, and it's striking you down with lightning the Almighty must be considering hearing you talk like that!'
   'You think so?' smiled John, sucking his pipe and blowing out a contented stream of smoke.
   'I think we should be going.'
   John got awkwardly to his feet.
   'Yes, I suppose so.'
   Suddenly, John froze and stared at the coffin.
   'What is it?' asked Dugal in alarm.
   'Look!' exclaimed John.
   'What?'
   'Didn't the coffin have grooved panels between the brass fittings?'
   'Now that you mention it. Is it upside down?'
   'I'm sure we didn't bury it upside down!'
   It was quite some time before either of them spoke again. John rested on the handle of the spade and stared at the coffin while Dugal scratched his head.
   'Lordy me,' whispered John to himself. It's a different coffin.'
   'Well, it isn't the coffin we buried, that's for sure.'
   'So who is in this one?'
   'More to the point, where is the other one?' asked Dugal.
   'What a world,' muttered John, 'a man can't even dig his own grave in peace these days.'
   'This coffin isn't ours, I think we should put it back.'
   'Oh, and the other coffin was ours?'
   Dugal looked even more miserable then when they'd set out.
   'This bleggarty thing is coming back to the house,' barked John suddenly, 'and the police can sort this whole mess out.'
   Dugal thought he heard a noise and quickly shone his torch around at the shadows.
   John tapped out the bowl of his pipe in a shower of sparks on the handle of the spade, then put his pipe back in his pocket. He was contemplating this latest downturn in their fortunes with some concern. However, his thoughts were not so much on the coffin as they were on the two shadows he'd thought he'd seen earlier.
   'It will be light in an hour or so,' noted Dugal, who really wanted to get away from the grave. 'We had better be going.'
   'Aye, indeed,' agreed John, looking around at the hills.

   When they pulled up outside the back door, John killed the engine and dismounted.
   'I don't think I have the strength to lift that bleggarty coffin off the trailer,' he said in some distress. 'My old bones have had enough.'
   Dugal sat with his legs dangling over the rear of the trailer.
   'It's okay for you, perched up there in your comfy seat, careering through the moors like a racing driver with no concern for your passengers.'
   He then jumped down, brushed his fingers through the two unkempt clumps of hair on the sides of his head and stood beside John who was staring at the coffin.
   'I am more than a little curious as to who this squatter is,' said John after a few moments.
   'Don't even think about it,' replied Dugal. 'Whoever it is, he is more than likely dead, and that's as much as I wish to know about him. It is time we called the police.'
   An empty oil drum clanged as John hunted around in the dark for something.
   'Where are you, you bleggarty thing?' he scolded, rummaging around on his workbench. 'Right Dugal, bring your torch over here.'
   'John, I—'
   'Hurry up man!'
   Dugal grumbled as he leaned over the side of the trailer and switched on the torch. John's face glowed ghostly in the light of the yellow beam.
   'Keep that torch steady, will you!' scolded John, 'I can't see the coffin with all that shaking you're doing.'
   Dugal rested his forearms on the sides of the trailer, the torch grasped in both hands, but then his knees started trembling and the torch beam danced worse than ever. Transfixed, he stared at the coffin as John eased the lid open a crack with the screwdriver.
   'Who is it?' asked Dugal in a hoarse whisper.
   'It's . . . too . . . dark to see . . . I can't make him out. Shine your torch over towards his head a minute.'
   John suddenly jumped to his feet with a shriek.
   'It's Roddy Morrison!'
   Dugal dropped the torch and it clattered to the ground with a tinkle of broken glass.

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