search of food, dry clothes, heat and a period of rest.
I ate a perfunctory sandwich, changed my shirt and trousers, and got a fire going in the grate. When I sat down on the sofa, the stereo system kicked in with the drumbeats—not too loud, but enough to let me know the job wasn’t nearly done. The urn rattled on the mantel, and I imagined Beth’s voice.
Are you just going to sit there?
As I stood, my phone rang—Alan again. I ignored it and went back to my digging.
* * *
The next hours passed in a blur of digging and shoveling rubble out of the hole. Darkness fell; early dusk exacerbated by the fog. It didn’t slow me much—I drove the car out of the barn to the corner of the house and dug under the unblinking gaze of the headlights.
It got harder the deeper I got—the gravel heavy and damp, the rocks icy and slippery, the skillet cold as ice against my palms even through the gloves. I got into a rhythm of dig and remove ; no limbs, no limbs, no head, no head, left arm gone, left leg gone, no legs, no head. It seemed to make the task go more easily, so much so that I was surprised to stop some time later and see I had more than half the hole dug out.
I had to climb my way out, struggling for grip on the edge before rolling over in the snow and standing, panting, on the shore next to a cairn of rubble. Even though the hole was only half-excavated, I saw that the black stick figures had survived their burial and still danced and capered in the car headlights on the only wall that received some light.
I staggered to the vehicle, switched off the lights to preserve the battery, and limped to the house. A shower, a change of clothes and a stiff Talisker did much to revive me, but my body felt like I had been run over by a truck—every muscle ached and screamed in agony with each movement.
I flopped on the sofa, not intending to move unless absolutely necessary.
Fuck it. I’ll do the rest tomorrow.
Somebody—or something—had other ideas. The stereo started up the beat, softly at first, a gentle reminder that this was no time for slacking. I rolled off the couch and pulled the plug on both the stereo and the laptop.
The room trembled. Like a giant heart beating, the floor vibrated underfoot. I counted it out in my head—an automatic reflex now.
No limbs, no limbs, no head, no head, left arm gone, left leg gone, no legs, no head.
Beth’s urn danced and rattled on the mantel as the beat got stronger, inching perilously close to the edge. I wasn’t going to be able to reach it in time to stop it falling onto the hard stone of the hearth.
“Enough. I get the message,” I shouted. “I’m going.”
I dragged my weary limbs back outside.
* * *
Afterwards I had little recollection of it. I dug. The hole got bigger; I got more tired. At some point the car headlights dimmed and died. I fetched the flashlight and kept digging. When the battery went, I dug in what little light there was coming through the French windows from the dining room.
I dug, until there was no more left to dig. My eyes had adjusted enough that I could see the black markings on the walls of the cellar, but in the darkness I could not make out any detail, and I was too tired to think, almost too tired to stand. If my legs had given way at that point, I might have been found, days later, frozen in the cellar, as stiff and cold and accusing as the stoat on the woodpile.
It took me three attempts to pull myself up out of the hole, using up the very last vestiges of my endurance. I crawled in the snow to the patio doors, rolled inside, dragged my body over onto the sofa and was asleep, dead to the world, seconds later.
7
I woke to pounding—a heavy thumping that in my confused state sounded like another summons to the digging.
“Fuck off—I’m done,” I shouted.
“Jim? Are you okay?”
It was Alan. He sounded far away. The pounding started again.
“Come on, Jim. Let me in. It’s
I ate a perfunctory sandwich, changed my shirt and trousers, and got a fire going in the grate. When I sat down on the sofa, the stereo system kicked in with the drumbeats—not too loud, but enough to let me know the job wasn’t nearly done. The urn rattled on the mantel, and I imagined Beth’s voice.
Are you just going to sit there?
As I stood, my phone rang—Alan again. I ignored it and went back to my digging.
* * *
The next hours passed in a blur of digging and shoveling rubble out of the hole. Darkness fell; early dusk exacerbated by the fog. It didn’t slow me much—I drove the car out of the barn to the corner of the house and dug under the unblinking gaze of the headlights.
It got harder the deeper I got—the gravel heavy and damp, the rocks icy and slippery, the skillet cold as ice against my palms even through the gloves. I got into a rhythm of dig and remove ; no limbs, no limbs, no head, no head, left arm gone, left leg gone, no legs, no head. It seemed to make the task go more easily, so much so that I was surprised to stop some time later and see I had more than half the hole dug out.
I had to climb my way out, struggling for grip on the edge before rolling over in the snow and standing, panting, on the shore next to a cairn of rubble. Even though the hole was only half-excavated, I saw that the black stick figures had survived their burial and still danced and capered in the car headlights on the only wall that received some light.
I staggered to the vehicle, switched off the lights to preserve the battery, and limped to the house. A shower, a change of clothes and a stiff Talisker did much to revive me, but my body felt like I had been run over by a truck—every muscle ached and screamed in agony with each movement.
I flopped on the sofa, not intending to move unless absolutely necessary.
Fuck it. I’ll do the rest tomorrow.
Somebody—or something—had other ideas. The stereo started up the beat, softly at first, a gentle reminder that this was no time for slacking. I rolled off the couch and pulled the plug on both the stereo and the laptop.
The room trembled. Like a giant heart beating, the floor vibrated underfoot. I counted it out in my head—an automatic reflex now.
No limbs, no limbs, no head, no head, left arm gone, left leg gone, no legs, no head.
Beth’s urn danced and rattled on the mantel as the beat got stronger, inching perilously close to the edge. I wasn’t going to be able to reach it in time to stop it falling onto the hard stone of the hearth.
“Enough. I get the message,” I shouted. “I’m going.”
I dragged my weary limbs back outside.
* * *
Afterwards I had little recollection of it. I dug. The hole got bigger; I got more tired. At some point the car headlights dimmed and died. I fetched the flashlight and kept digging. When the battery went, I dug in what little light there was coming through the French windows from the dining room.
I dug, until there was no more left to dig. My eyes had adjusted enough that I could see the black markings on the walls of the cellar, but in the darkness I could not make out any detail, and I was too tired to think, almost too tired to stand. If my legs had given way at that point, I might have been found, days later, frozen in the cellar, as stiff and cold and accusing as the stoat on the woodpile.
It took me three attempts to pull myself up out of the hole, using up the very last vestiges of my endurance. I crawled in the snow to the patio doors, rolled inside, dragged my body over onto the sofa and was asleep, dead to the world, seconds later.
7
I woke to pounding—a heavy thumping that in my confused state sounded like another summons to the digging.
“Fuck off—I’m done,” I shouted.
“Jim? Are you okay?”
It was Alan. He sounded far away. The pounding started again.
“Come on, Jim. Let me in. It’s
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