by Caroline Benton
Caroline Benton, author of the 2006 novel Path of the Dead (published by Carroll & Graf in the U.S.), has devoted most of her writing time over the past few years to the short story. Her tales have appeared not only in this magazine but in publications in several Scandinavian countries. She left her native England more than a decade ago to live in France, where she renovated a haunted water mill which she currently runs as a holiday home.
Arthur hummed a tune as he wheeled his bicycle into the barn. An old Elvis number, though one could be forgiven for not recognising it. He was tone deaf, or so his wife kept telling him, which these days seemed to be every time he opened his mouth. That was half the reason he kept doing the job, getting out of the house. Up here he could sing to his heart’s content.
He propped the bike against a wall and picked up a watering can, almost falling over a cat as he turned around. It was a long-haired fluffy thing, tabby and white, some daft breed he’d never heard of with a daft name to match. Simon had once told him how much he paid for it and he’d almost choked. His neighbour had paid less than that for his secondhand van.
Arthur didn’t care for cats. They dug up seeds and left unpleasant surprises in the soil. He stamped his foot and sent it scuttling for cover behind the mower. Nervous, too. Whoever sold the thing, they must have seen Simon coming.
Arthur blinked as he came back out into the afternoon sun. Another scorching day. Made for a lot of extra work, what with all the watering, but at least his joints didn’t play up so much. He glanced towards the lawn where a sprinkler was shooting water over the lush grass, and wondered what would happen if they brought in a hosepipe ban. Knowing Simon “Moneybags” Markham, he’d ignore it and pay the fine if he got caught; anything to save his precious lawn. These media types could get away with murder. Still, the grass had had enough for now. He would turn it on again later.
He disconnected the hose at the outside tap and replaced it with the watering can, rubbing his back as he straightened. He rolled his shoulders and stared towards the house, screwing up his eyes against the glare from the white walls. Georgian, they said it was. The Old Rectory. He could remember it when it was just The Rectory, with fetes in the garden every summer and a boys’ club on Wednesday nights, a tradition that had been going since he was a lad. Not that he’d ever gone, his family were strict Methodists, so he’d never got to play with the rector’s electric train, a fact that still rankled.
Still, all that was history now. The chapel had been turned into a luxury home by some big-shot architect, and the new rector lived in a shoebox in the neighbouring parish. No time for religion in this day and age.
He was turning off the tap when two figures emerged through the open French windows. Simon Markham was on the left, big and blustery, still under forty yet already running to fat. Too much good living—booze, women, and food, and probably in that order. Beside him was his writing partner, Ben, a weedy little tyke by comparison, who always looked like he could use a good meal. Always ready to stop for a chat, though, he’d give him that. They’d been writing partners for ten years, since before Simon bought the rectory, a regular crime slot on the telly, Inspector Jake Steele. It was a good series, too, the stories believable, which was more than could be said for some of the rubbish they put on.
But recently, whenever he saw them together, they seemed to be arguing, just like they were now, judging by the way Simon was waving his arms. Arthur cocked his head, frowned. Once he might have heard what they were saying, but he was getting deafer by the day, according to his wife. Mind you, the way she carried on sometimes, that could be an advantage!
Chuckling, Arthur returned to the barn to fetch the wheelbarrow and tools.
* * * *
“I tell you it won’t work.” Simon marched across the terrace.
“Then make it three feet.” Ben was hurrying to keep up. “In fact, three’s better. It’s got to be a shallow grave, he’s in a hurry.”
Simon was shaking his head. “No good, Benny boy. They still wouldn’t hear.”
“You don’t know that. You’re just being bloody-minded.”
Simon spun round. “I’m trying to be accurate. You really think Jake’s going to hear him knocking under three feet of earth?”
“One foot on top of the trunk.”
Simon shook his head and set off towards the barn.
“For Christ’s sake, Si . . . “ Ben scurried after him. “The whole damned plot hinges on that scene and they want the script tomorrow.”
“So?” He caught sight of the gardener pushing a wheelbarrow along the path, and waved. “Morning, Arthur! Everything okay?”
The gardener nodded but didn’t reply.
Simon laughed. “Deaf as a post. Our number-one fan, though. Never misses an episode.”
“The grave, Simon!”
“Look, what d’you want me to say? Idon’t buy it, and if I don’t, nor will the punters. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re getting so steamed up about. It’s just a small technical problem.”
“Small?” The shorter man bristled. “God, you’re getting to be a real pain, you know that?”
“No, Ben—it’s you who’s getting careless! Credibility, remember? Since the very first episode we’ve not used one idea that wasn’t plausible, not one, and I don’t intend to start now.”
“You don’t intend.”
“That’s right. And as long as there’re two names on that contract... “
Ben looked away, eyes blazing. “It’s because of Kathy, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“This sudden rubbishing of my ideas.”
“Oh, for... “
“It’s true! It really got you, didn’t it? The beautiful Kathy and a little runt like me... “
“Ben, this has nothing to do with Kathy!” Simon rolled his eyes. “It’s about our reputation. We want another series, don’t we?”
Ben didn’t answer. Right now he wasn’t sure he did, not if it was always going to be like this. The trouble was, Jake was still getting good ratings—the last series they’d actually gone up. Back out now and he’d be cutting his own throat.
He stiffened as Simon draped an arm around his shoulder and waited for the inevitable wheedling.
“Look . . . “ Simon coaxed obligingly, “we go back a long way, you and me. We’re mates, right? A good team. So let’s not argue, hm?” He gave Ben a friendly punch. “Right?”
Ben relented and managed a halfhearted smile.
“That’s better.”
“But you still don’t like it.”
Simon threw up his hands and marched on.
“So what do you suggest instead?” Ben fell into step beside him.
“Give me some time, all right?”
“We don’t have time! I’m going to be up all night as it is. Why can’t we just run with it? I still say it would work.”
Simon came to a halt in front of the barn. “You do, huh? Okay, convince me.” He disappeared inside, came back carrying two spades and held one out to Ben.
Ben stared at it in disbelief. “You’re kidding! You want us to dig a grave?”
“It’s what we always said, isn’t it? Any doubts, we check, double-check, test things out. So let’s test it. If the knocking can be heard, we use the idea, if not... “
“And who’s the mug who’s going to get buried alive?”
Simon smiled and stared off along the path.
“Not Arthur... “
“Of course not Arthur. It’s your idea, Benny boy.”
“Me? No way!” He shook his head wildly.
“I believe it’s known as suffering for one’s art.”
“You suffer, then. You’re the one who wants proof.” Ben folded his arms. “Anyway, aren’t you forgetting something? Like the trunk?”
Simon grinned and disappeared back into the barn.
Ben glared after him for a moment, then followed. He squinted into the gloom. “Si?”
“Over here.” There was a grate of metal and something fell heavily to the ground. “My old school trunk. Used it when I moved. Well, don’t just stand there, grab the other handle.”
Together they hauled the trunk outside and dumped it on the ground. Simon yanked open the lid.
“Well, look at that. There’s even a blanket to curl up on. Want to test it for size?”
Ben backed away, a look of horror on his face. “I’m not doing it, Si. I mean it. You want to find out? You get in.”
“Are you crazy? I’m twice your size.”
“I believe it’s known as suffering for one’s art.”
“Oh, very droll!” Simon slammed down the lid. “Okay, we’ll toss for it, even chance. That’s fair, isn’t it?” He tapped his pockets. “D’you have a coin?”
“No, I don’t have a coin!”
Simon grinned. “Then I suggest we go and find one.”
* * * *
Back in the drawing room, Simon took a two-pound coin from his wallet. “Your shout,” he told Ben, and spun it in the air. He caught it on the back of his hand. “Why didn’t you call?”
“Floor.”
“What?”
“Drop it on the floor.”
Simon laughed. “Don’t trust me, huh?” He waved the coin in front of Ben’s face so he could see both sides, then tossed it again.
Ben crossed his fingers. “Heads.”
The coin landed on the rug and the men bent over. The queen’s face stared up at them. Simon swore under his breath and walked away.
Ben kept staring, unable to believe his luck. Slowly he began to smile. “Looks like it’s your funeral, Si. Any requests for flowers?”
“Very funny!” Simon turned to the French windows. “What the hell—it was a stupid idea, anyway.”
“No, no, you’re right. Credibility, remember?” Ben was relishing his partner’s discomfort. “Oh, better take these,” he added, hooking a six-pack of beer from the table. “It’ll be thirsty work, digging.”
* * * *
The heat hit them as soon as they went back outside. Never mind being buried alive, Ben thought wryly: Just digging the hole would probably kill them. Not that he expected to be digging for long. He was fit enough himself—hadn’t he just run the London marathon?—but Simon would probably give up before they’d cracked the surface, reduced to a heap of blubber, his skin burning in the blistering sun. Still, he was happy to go along with it until then. It was a matter of pride that Simon should be the one to back out.
“So where d’you want the grave?” he asked when they were back at the trunk.
“Hole, Ben—it’s a hole, okay?” Simon scanned around. “Side of the barn. There’s some rough ground behind those bushes.” He snatched up a spade.
“Reckon we’ll need a pickax, Si.”
Simon thrust the spade at Ben and went back inside.
* * * *
Ben was right about the pickax: The ground was like concrete. But he was wrong about Simon giving up. To his surprise, the larger man kept going, taking it in turns as the hole deepened. Half an hour later, both men were stripped to the waist, streaked with dirt and sweat. It was Ben’s turn in the hole. He threw out a final shovelful.
“That’s got to be enough. Let’s try it again.” He clambered out, grabbed the handle of the trunk.
Simon threw down his empty beer can and took the other. Slowly they lowered it down.
“Perfect.” Ben cranked up the lid. “Your coffin awaits, Master.”
“It is not a coffin!” Simon wiped his face with his shirt, then threw it over a bush. “Oh, this is insanity. . . . “ He slid into the hole, dropped to his knees, and leaned forward.
“Not like that. Lie on your side.”
Simon twisted around, manoeuvred himself into a fetal position, and finally squeezed in. Even Ben could see it was a painfully tight fit.
“Just don’t close it yet, okay? Ouch! This is . . . Oh my God . . .” Simon struggled to his feet, face twisted in pain, and began hopping around.
“What’s the matter?”
“Cramp, what d’you think!” He rubbed furiously at his calf. “I told you it was madness. Sorry, Benny boy, but it’ll have to be you.”
Ben shook his head. “You lost, remember?”
“Hey, you saw what it was like.” Ben noticed the hint of a smile.
“You bastard!”
“Uh?”
“You knew, didn’t you? You knew you wouldn’t fit. Well, that’s tough, Si, because I’m not doing it either.” He turned away, folded his arms.
“Look, Ben... “
“No! Forget it, okay?”
“What’s the matter—don’t you trust me?” Simon stared at his partner. “Hey, you don’t, do you! My God. What d’you think I’m going to do, bury you alive ‘cause of what happened with Kathy?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Oh, Ben, Ben . . . “ Simon was shaking his head. “Look, you’ve got it all wrong, buddy. When you and she got together—well, I was glad, okay?”
“Like hell you were! As I recall you hit the roof.”
“Of course I did—rather well, I thought. I always said I was on the wrong side of the camera.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come on, Ben . . . you know what women are like. I wanted out, you fancied her, so a bit of diplomacy on my part—”
“That’s balls, Si! She’d had you up to here.”
“Is that what she told you?” Simon laughed. “Anyway, what does it matter? We both got what we wanted—least, I know I did.” He gave a knowing smirk. “The point is, no bitterness, okay? If anything, I’m in your debt. You did me a favour, Benny boy. You could say we did each other a favour.”
“You arrogant . . . “ Ben looked at his partner with contempt. “You think I need your favours to get a woman?”
“Hey, that’s not what I meant and you know it! I just . . . helped things along a bit.” He clapped Ben on the back. “Now are we going to stand here all day discussing Kathy or are you getting in that trunk?”
“No way. I’ve already told you.”
“Great!” Simon threw up his hands. “So all this has been a complete waste of time. What’s the matter—having doubts yourself?” He stared at Ben, his eyes narrowing. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t think the idea will work either. Well, I wish you’d said before—”
“Of course I think it’ll work!”
“Yeah? Then prove it.”
Ben glared at him, silently cursing. He’d fallen into that one—literally, if he wasn’t going to lose face. He stared down at the trunk, clenched his fists. Already his heart was threatening to leave his chest.
“Well?” Simon prompted.
Ben took a deep breath and jumped in, curled up on his side. Above him, Simon gave a satisfied smile. He reached out to close the lid.
“Wait!” Ben sat up, breathing heavily. “I want my phone.”
“Phone? Ben, a phone’s not going to work through a tin box and a pile of earth.”
“Says who? Or d’you want to prove that too?”
Simon sighed. “Where is it?”
“Shirt pocket. No wait—I think it’s at the house.” He started to climb out.
“Whoa! Here, use mine if it’s so important.” He pulled a mobile from his trouser pocket.
Ben snatched it, checked to see it was working. “And I want an air line—a pipe or something. If anything goes wrong, I want to be able to breathe.”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong! Okay, okay . . . I’ll see what I can find in the barn.”
As Simon disappeared Ben clambered out and sat on the edge of the hole, eyes closed, gulping in air. Despite the heat, he felt himself shivering. He jumped when something brushed against his arm.
“Oh, it’s you, Medici!” He ran his hand over the cat’s back. “I should get out of here, mate, before he buries you, too.”
The cat looked round as he heard Simon returning, and as if he understood, took off into the trees.
Simon arrived carrying a coil of hose. “All I could find, Benny boy.”
Ben took the end and squeezed. “No good. Feed that under the lid and the weight will crush it.”
“Then we’ll shove it through the top!” Simon slammed down the lid, picked up the pickax and swung it, embedding the point in the metal. He wriggled it free and fed in the hose. “That do?”
Ben shrugged. “How long’s this going to take?”
“How should I know?”
“Guess!”
Simon opened the lid. “Five minutes.”
“You sure?”
“ ‘Course I’m not sure. That’s what a guess is. Now are you getting in or aren’t you?”
Ben swallowed, took another deep breath, and slid in. “You’ll talk to me through the tube?”
“I’ll talk to you.”
“Promise?”
“I’ll sing you a damn lullaby if you want.” He lowered the lid, found the other end of the hose and put it to his ear. Ben was already yelling.
“Can you hear me, Si? Si? Say something!”
Grinning, Simon brought the tube to his mouth and began humming the Funeral March, then threw it to the ground and shovelled in the first spadeful. Immediately the lid shot up and Ben came scrabbling out.
“I can’t do it!”
“Oh, for . . . You still think I’m going to—”
“It’s not about you.”
“I told you, Kathy and I—”
“It’s not about you!”
“What then? Five minutes, that’s all it’ll take. You’re fit, you’ve got air, you’ve got contact—”
“I’m claustrophobic, damn it!”
Simon gaped at him. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Now he tells me. We break our backs digging a blasted hole and . . . here, move over!”
He pushed Ben out of the way and dropped into the trunk, somehow folded himself in. “Five minutes, okay? Make that four.”
Ben nodded and closed the lid, for the second time that day unable to believe his luck. He threw in a few shovelfuls and picked up the hose.
“You okay down there?”
“Just get on with it!”
Ben smiled and carried on, shovelling and dragging the loose earth into the hole. This was the easy bit—so easy he was in danger of meeting Simon’s deadline. He paused and picked up the pipe. “Still okay down there?”
“Of course I’m not okay! How much longer?”
“Almost there. Oh, hang on . . . “ Ben cocked his head, looked towards the house. “I think the phone’s ringing, Si.”
“What?”
“In the house.” He squeezed past the bushes, walked to the front of the barn. “It might be Kathy.”
“Stuff Kathy! Just get me out of here. Now!”
“Look, I need to speak to her. About tonight. A couple of minutes, okay?”
“Are you crazy? I’m—”
But Ben had dropped the hose and was running towards the house. Let the bastard sweat for a while. Favours to get a girl, indeed!
He threw a wave at Arthur, who was returning with the wheelbarrow, and dived in through the French windows. “Kathy? Hi, I guessed it was you. What? No, Simon’s . . . in the garden. Anyway, how was the audition?” He leaned back against the wall, as if he had all the time in the world.
“That’s great, love. At least someone had a good day. Me? Oh, the usual nightmare, Simon picking at the script at the last minute with nothing to offer in return. He’s a dead weight, Kath—totally burnt out. I can’t remember the last time he came up with a decent plot line.” He pushed away from the wall. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear all that. Are we still on for tonight?”
He wandered out onto the terrace, smiling as he listened to her reply, vaguely aware of movement by the barn. Suddenly his brow furrowed. “Hang on a sec, Kath... “
Clutching the phone to his chest, he stared towards the barn, eyes widening in alarm. He opened his mouth to call out...
Then just as suddenly he stopped, turned his back, staring without seeing at the blank white wall.
A lifetime later he returned the phone to his ear. “Sorry about that. It was just Arthur. Anyway, about tonight... “
* * * *
Humming to himself, Arthur returned the tools to the barn. Funny—where were the other spades? Don’t say Simon “Manicured-hands” Markham had done a bit of digging?
Arthur laughed. That’d be the day.
Immediately he was reminded of the old Buddy Holly number and launched into that instead. “You say you’re gonna leave me, you know it’s a lie,” he sang, though the tune wasn’t appreciably different. “ ‘Cause that’ll be the day-ay-ay when I die.” He wheeled his bike out into the sunshine.
He was about to get on when he remembered the sprinkler. Better turn it on again and hope Simon remembered to turn it off, though knowing him, it would probably still be going when he arrived next morning. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He looked down at the ground. The end of a hosepipe was lying by his feet. He picked it up, connected it to the tap. The pipe stiffened, squirming like a snake as the water surged through. He glanced in the direction of the sprinkler. Why was nothing happening?
He was about to investigate when something caught his eye. A shirt was draped over the rhododendrons at the side of the barn. He pushed his bike towards them and stood on tiptoe to peer over the top. So that’s where the spades had gone. What on earth were they playing at?
“Need any help?” he called, but nobody answered.
Arthur shrugged. Presumably they knew what they were doing. Which was more than he did—he’d never understand these media types. And with that he threw his leg over the saddle, all thought of the sprinkler forgotten, and to the tuneless strains of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head”—his favourite cycling song—pedalled off home for a hard-earned cup of tea.
* * * *
As Arthur disappeared, the cat emerged from behind a tree and headed towards the freshly dug earth. Suddenly it stopped, stiffened. An unfamiliar knocking sound was coming from the ground. It took a step backwards, then another, and as the knocking became more frantic, turned tail and fled. It didn’t like soil that held unpleasant surprises.
Copyright © 2010 Caroline Benton