He fetched a spade from the outbuilding and propping the loaded shotgun up against the fence he began marking out the first oblong. He would not need to cultivate the whole area again, all he would need would be a few rows of essential basic crops for himself (Sylvia would not be here then). He might not even bother to grow vegetables again. He wasn't thinking positively any more.
The digging was soft and easy, rhythmic motions, taking his time, piling up a mound of soil, some of it sliding back into the shallow rectangular hole.
The fog had rolled back as far as the base of the steep hillside. Every so often he paused and glanced around but there was no sign of anybody. The throwbacks had returned to the hills, maybe now they would leave him alone.
His eyes smarted with tears that would not come; he could not remember the last time he had cried. Probably when he was a young boy. He had not even cried when his parents had died and God knows he had tried hard enough. Burning grief inside him that could not escape, knotting him up. The only two funerals he had ever attended.
Morbid, so unnecessary. A grave like this one only much, much deeper, a roll of artificial grass hiding the mound of earth for some obscure reason. Civilisation went to a lot of needless trouble. A coffin that had cost a hundred quid in those days, high-quality polished oak that would only rot away in the ground. Pointless in the extreme.
His mother's wish had been to be buried in the same grave so they had to dig it all out again. The same rigmarole, plastic grass and a meaningless ceremony because nobody except himself really cared. That night he had almost cried. Almost, but not quite.
He paused. He was sweating heavily. The sides of the grave were up to his thighs. It would do, it would have to. So long as he got the corpses underground that was all that mattered. He debated going and fetching one of them; no, he would dig the other graves first, try and get finished before dark. Filling them in would not take long.
He worked right through until mid-afternoon. The fog was beginning to creep in again and he could only just make out the outline of the cottage. Probably Sylvia still slept. He wouldn't be long now.
There was no way Jon could carry the bodies across to the graves, he would have to drag them by the legs, unceremoniously. Ignominious. Like the time he had buried Nita, the old milking goat. He had put a piece of rope on her back legs, pulled her in stages out of the shed, across the yard and into the field. He would have to do the same now.
He took the nearest first, looped the rope over the man's ankles, pulled it tight, took the strain. Stiff and resisting, a rigid arm becoming caught on the gatepost. He sweated, had to go and free it. Damn it, the eyes had come open, were staring balefully at him.
Murderer!
No, I didn't want to kill you, please believe me. I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm sorry!
It took him ten minutes to lug the corpse to the graveside, turned his head away as he fumbled to undo the knots. Don't look at me please. I'm sorry.
He pushed, the corpse slid, took a small avalanche of soil and stones with it, fell awkwardly, face downwards. No, I'm not going down there to turn you over. It doesn't matter anyway because you're dead.
Maybe he should have dug deeper, one big grave, buried all three together. Funny how you thought of these things when it was too late.
It was dusk by the time he had all three of them in their graves, took the spade again and began to shovel the earth back in with dull thumps. Finality. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away, He could hear that young curate's voice at his mother's graveside, rushing through the words as though he had to get it all over as soon as possible. Maybe he had been scared too. Secretly everybody was frightened of death because no matter what you did in life you ended up like this. All efforts were in vain.
He finished, smoothed the slight mounds over with the flat of the spade and stood back. It was almost dark now, the fog seeming to have melted with the coming of night. The sweat was chilling fast on his body, an icy shirt clinging damply to his flesh. It felt like there could be a frost tonight.
Jon Quinn retrieved his gun, headed back to the cottage. He kicked his boots off in the porch, went inside and locked the door behind him. Silence. No movement, no faint glow of a candle burning.
He grabbed a storm lantern, lit it and waited for the flame to settle. The wick needed renewing; he would see to it tomorrow. Always tomorrow but deep down you found yourself hoping that tomorrow never came.
Upstairs, almost afraid to go into the bedroom. Maybe Sylvia had gone, crept out whilst he was engrossed in his gruesome task, had just walked away into the fog and wouldn't be coming back. Or else she was dead. Last night might have proved too much for her; there was a bottle of aspirins by the bed.
Nausea compressed his stomach, tried to force him to vomit. Don't go in there, don't look. That way you won't ever know. If she's dead then you'll have to bury her too.
He kicked open the door, held the lamp at arm's length, the yellow circle of light quivering and casting weird shadows. The bed, a still form beneath the crumpled sheets. Alive or dead?
Then the bedclothes moved and Sylvia came into view, propped herself up on an elbow, blinked in the sudden wan light. He scarcely recognised her, she seemed to have aged a decade, her eyes black-ringed and sunken, deep contours etched into her skin. Sheer hopelessness, and something else—grief.
'Jon?'
'Are you OK?'
'Eric's dead, Jon.'
A jumble of replies crammed his confused brain. Don't be silly. How could you possibly know? He's OK, I'm certain of it. But they all sounded hollow so he said nothing, just stood there looking at her.
'He's dead,' she repeated.
Jon moved into the room, set the lantern down on the dresser. She moved again, sat up, and he saw that she was still fully dressed.
'I know he is.' She spoke flatly, not even a tremor in her voice. 'I wish I could have seen him one more time though. Just to say I'm sorry.'
He lowered himself down on to the edge of the bed, suddenly saw how she had changed during these last few hours, almost drew away in horror. The texture of her skin was different, blotched, coarser, her hair wiry, the soft silkiness gone out of it. The pertness of her features was gone too; lips thicker, nose less pointed. An unmistakable resemblance to those corpses which he had interred today!
'You're ill.' He had to say something, must not alarm her unduly. He hoped the revulsion, the shock, did not show in his expression. He tried to tell himself that it was a trick of the light, that if he went and fetched a torch and shone it on her she would be all right. In the end he accepted what he saw, let his brain go numb, didn't try to find reasons, or hope. Somehow Sylvia was undergoing the physical change which had thrown back the population of the rest of the world thousands of years. Mentally she seemed to have all her faculties. At the moment anyway.
'I know he's dead.' Her voice was a dull whisper now. 'I just know.'
Panic hit him as he sat there. Like the time Jackie (oh God, how 1 need her now!) had been suddenly ill in the middle of the night soon after they were married. It had turned out to be an allergy to a drug which the doctor had prescribed but he did not know that at the time, was certain she was having a heart attack. Wanting to rush downstairs and phone the doctor but he was afraid to leave her. Sure that she was going to die. If she did then he would kill himself because he couldn't bear to be without her. He couldn't bear being without Jackie now. But he hadn't killed himself because she had been al! right.