The Man in the Moss (54 page)

           
Sometimes when he prayed he thought he heard a voice, and
the voice said. You have a task, Joel. You must ... not ... turn ... away.

           
Sometimes the voice called him Mr Beard, like the voice
on the telephone, a calm, knowing voice, obviously someone inside the village
disgusted by what went on here.

           
One day, Joel hoped, he would meet his informant. When he
encountered people in the street or in the Post Office, he would look into
their eyes for a sign. But the women would smile kindly at him and the men
would mumble something laconic, like 'All right, then, lad?' and continue on
their way.

           
He stepped back in distaste as a shovelful of grave-soil
was heaved out of the hole and over his shoes. Surely they had to be six feet
down by now. He wondered whether, if they kept on digging, they would reach
peat - the Moss slowly sliding in, underneath the village.

           
Insidious.

           
He looked over his shoulder and up, above the heads and
umbrellas of the silent circle of watchers, at the frosty disc of the church
clock, the Beacon of the Moss.

           
The false light. The devil's moon.

           
Perhaps that had to go too, like the pagan well and the
cross and the monstrosity above the church door, before the village could be
cleansed.

           
'More light, please.'

           
One of the policemen in the grave.

           
'You there yet?' The Inspector, Ashton. 'Swing that light
'round a bit. Ken, let's have a look.'

           
'Deeper than we expected, sir. Maybe it's sunk.'

           
'That likely, Mr Beckett?' The light swept across the
verger's face.

           
'Aye. Happen that's what ... happened.' Alfred Beckett's
voice like crushed eggshell.

           
Ashton said, 'Right, let's have this one out, see what's
underneath.'

Ernie Dawber had returned
after dark from his weekly mission to the supermarket in Macclesfield, bringing
back with him a copy of the
Manchester
Evening News
, a paper that rarely made it Across the Moss until the
following day.

           
The front-page lead headline said.

MASSIVE HUNT FOR BOGMAN

           
A major police hunt was underway today for the Bridelow bog body -
snatched in a daring raid on a university lab. And a prominent archaeological
trust has offered a £5000 reward for information leading to the safe recovery
of The Man in the Moss.

                       
'We are taking this very seriously indeed,'
said ...

           
'Oh, dear me,' Ernie Dawber said to himself, the paper
spread out on the table where he was finishing his tea - toasted Lancashire
cheese. 'What a tangled web, eh?'

           
Trying to keep his mind off what the doctor'd had to say.
Well, what right had he to complain about that? Least he'd got a doctor of the
old school who didn't bugger about - while there's life there's hope, medical
science moving ahead at a tremendous rate; none of that old nonsense, thank the
Lord.

           
Might just drop in and see Ma Wagstaff about it. Nowt
lost in that, is there?
           
The doorbell rang.

           
Ernie didn't rush. He folded up the
Manchester Evening News
very neatly, preserving its crease. If it
was Dr Hall, he didn't know what he'd say. As an historian he was glad the
experts had got their hands on this particular body, been able, with their
modern scientific tests, to clarify a few points. But equally Ma Wagstaff, with
her instincts and her natural wisdom, had been right about putting the thing
back.

           
Thank God, he thought, pulling at his front door, for
instinct. All too aware that this was not something he himself possessed. Bit
of psychological insight perhaps, now and then, but that wasn't the same thing.

           
So it had to be done, putting the bogman back in Bridelow
earth. Commitment fulfilled.
           
All's well that ends well.

           
Except it hasn't, Ernie thought, getting the door open.
It hasn't ended and it's not well. Lord knows why.

           
'By 'eck,' he said, surprised. 'And to what do I owe this
honour?'

           
On his doorstep, in the rain, stood four women in dark
clothing - old-fashioned, ankle-length, navy duffle coats with the hoods up or
dark woollen shawls over their heads. A posse from the Bridelow Mothers' Union,
in full ritual dress. Could be quite disconcerting when you saw them trooping
across the churchyard against a wintry sunset. But always a bit, well, comical,
at close range.

           
'Can we talk to you, Mr Dawber?' Milly Gill said from
somewhere inside whatever she had on.

           
Ernie identified the others in a second: Frank's wife,
Ethel, Young Frank's wife, Susan. And Old Sarah Winstanley, with no teeth in.
Probably the only remaining members of the Union fit enough to go out after
dark this time of year.

           
He felt a warm wave of affection for the curious quartet.

           
'Now, then,' he said cheerfully. 'Where's Ma?'

           
No instinct, that was his problem.

           
'Thought you knew everything,' Milly Gill said in a voice
as cold and dispiriting as the rain.

           
'I've been out,' Ernie said, on edge now.

           
Milly said quietly, 'Ma's died on us, and the churchyard's
full of policemen digging up Matt's grave. Can we come in, Mr Dawber?'

Matt Castle's coffin came
up hard.

           
It was like a big old decaying barge stuck in a sandbank;
it didn't want to come, it wanted to stay in the dark and rot and feed the
worms. They had to tear it out of the earth, with a slurping and a squelching
of sodden soil and clay.

           
'Hell fire, you'd think it'd been in here years,' one of
the coppers muttered, sliding a rope under one end, groping for one of the
coffin handles.

           
Alf Beckett stayed on top, hands flat on the lid, knowing
it hadn't been nailed down, knowing that if it slipped they could drop the
corpse into the mud. Thinking,
get it
over, get it over...get the bloody thing found
and have done with it.

           
And wondering then if by any chance he was standing on
the squashed brown face of the bog body.
Oh,
what a mess, what a bloody mess
.

           
'All right,' the Inspector said as two men on the surface
took the strain. 'Take it easy. Come out now, please, and keep to the sides.'

           
Alf scrambled out after the coffin. He was covered in
mud.

           
'Lay it over there, please, don't damage it. Now, Roger
... Dr Hall... time for you to take over, I reckon.'

           
'Right!' Dr Roger Hall strode into the lights, beads of
water glinting in his beard. 'Now we'll see.'

           
Without ceremony, they dumped the coffin behind the piles
of excavated earth, up against the canvas screen, well out of the light. Matt
Castle: just something to be got out of the way, while everybody crowded round
to gaze into the grave.

           
Except for Alf Beckett who shuffled behind the others,
squatted down on the wet grass by the coffin, put a muddy hand inside his
donkey jacket and brought out the witch bottle.

           
Whispering, 'Forgive this intrusion, lad,' as he felt
along the muddy rim of the oil-slimy casket, hands moving up to its shoulders,
thumbs prising at the lid, bracing himself for the stench, a sickening blast of
gasses.

           
Some bloke barking, 'No ...
no
. Not like that. Look, let
me
come down.'

           
Alf breathing hard, snatching at the lid as it suddenly
sprang away. 'God help us.' Could he do this? Could he put his hands in there?

           
'Mind yourself, Dr Hall, bloody slippy down there.'

           
'...'s all right. Get that bloody lamp out of my eyes.
Give me a light, give me a torch. Thanks.'

           
Alf thought it was worse that there was no light. He
might not be able to see the body, but he'd have to touch it. Feel for the
cold, rubbery hands ... would they be rubbery or would they be slippery or
flaking with decay? He didn't know, but he'd find out, prising the fingers
apart to get them to hold the bottle.

           
Voice raised, muffled. Voice out of the grave.
           
'... Got to be ... Chrissie,
the trowel ... pass me the trowel!'

           
'Take your time, Dr Hall, you won't get another chance.'

           
Hand inside, Alf could feel the quilted stuff and the
stiff, lacy stuff, the lining. Felt more like nylon than silk. Sweat bubbling
up on his forehead to meet the rain, his moustache dripping.

           
The smell from inside the box was dank and rotten. Alf
wrenched his head aside, looked away from the blackened hump of the coffin
towards the people gathered round the open grave, Joel Beard singing out
contemptuously, 'You see ... nothing. Are you really surprised?'

           
Alf propping himself on his right arm, the hand splayed
into the grass.

           
'Ashton, it
has
to be. I refuse to ...'

           
It hit Alf Beckett, in a sudden burst of bewilderment.
The bogman. They can't find it... why can't
they find it?

           
And then his stomach lurched, hot vomit roared into his
throat. His supporting arm collapsed, the nerves gone, and his mouth stretched
into a scream so wide it seemed it'd rip his lips apart.

           
The scream was choked by the vomit.

           
His left hand, the one inside Matt Castle's coffin, had
slipped, all five fingers dropping into a soft, cold and glutinous mess. A thin
and viscid slithering thing was pulsing between them.

CHAPTER
III

'This time,' Sam Davis
said, 'you won't stop me.'

           
He'd already dressed by the time Esther awoke.
           
'Lights?' she said. 'Lights
again
?'
           
Sam nodded. Cradled in his
arms was his dad's old twelve-bore shotgun.

           
'Get that out!' Esther shouted. 'I'll not have that thing
in my bedroom.'

           
'Fair enough,' Sam said, patting the pockets of his old
combat jacket.

           
'I
will
stop
you,' Esther said, sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, if you go out with that
gun I'll've called the police before you get to the end of the yard.'

           
'Please yourself.' Sam broke the gun. 'Man's got to look
after his own.' He pulled a handful of cartridges from his jacket pocket and
shoved a couple into the breach.

           
Esther started to cry. 'Don't waste um, luv,' Sam said.
'We tried your way. Big wanker. "Oh, Satan, get thee gone, I'm giving thee
notice to quit."' Sam snorted. 'Now
I'm
giving um notice to quit. Wi' this. And they'll listen.'

           
'You're a bloody fool, Sam Davis,' Esther wept. 'You're a
fool to yourself. Where will I be wi' you in jail for manslaughter? Where will
your children be?'

           
'Shurrup, eh?' Sam said. 'You'll wake um. I'll be back in
half an hour. Or less. Don't worry.'

           
'Don't
worry
... ?'

           
'I'll show it um. Happen I'll fire it over their heads.
That's all it'll take.'

           
Sam Davis moved quietly out of the bedroom, and his wife
followed him downstairs. 'I've warned you. I'll ring for t'police.'