Epitaph (27 page)
Authors: Shaun Hutson
Paul strained his ears to try and pick out the exact nature of the sound.
There was a dull thud followed by a sound that reminded him of a dog’s low growl.
It was almost rhythmic.
The thud then the growl. Always the same.
No, not a growl but a scraping. A thud then a scraping. As if someone was digging.
‘Oh, God,’ he said aloud.
That was it. It was digging. They were getting closer to the coffin. The initial thud must have been the sound of the shovel hitting the earth and the scraping was the mud being removed from it.
His entire body began to tingle. He even momentarily forgot the pain in his chest.
He wondered how far away the digger was? Two feet or less? He guessed that it could be only a matter of minutes now before he was released.
‘Come on, come on,’ he said encouragingly.
The impacts from above seemed to increase in speed and volume. Paul tried to picture the grave being dug into, the shovelsful of earth being tossed aside wantonly. He could barely control himself he was so overcome with the thought of being freed from this place.
Out of the frying pan into the fire?
Perhaps: but at least once the lid was off he would have a fighting chance.
Paul wondered why he hadn’t heard the impact of shovel on earth earlier. Surely, he reasoned, he would have been able to detect the passage through the earth. It was deathly silent inside the coffin; the slightest noise reached his ears easily and they must have been digging for at least twenty minutes or half an hour to be as close as they were.
You don’t know how close they are. They might just have started. Sound carries down here.
No. He told himself that was impossible. For the impacts to be so loud, they must be close. The two feet or less that he’d estimated.
You’ve got absolutely no way of telling. They could be another half an hour or even longer from getting you out. And you haven’t got enough oxygen for that kind of delay.
Paul’s feeling of elation receded slightly. Had time indeed run out for him? The irony of the situation was almost unbearable. To come so close to release only to die of suffocation or heart attack. What a stupid way to die, he thought, as he tried to concentrate more on the sound of the shovel in the earth above him rather than his own imminent demise.
The pain in his chest was still there and he placed one
hand on his sternum as if that simple act would remove the discomfort.
It didn’t.
Above him the impacts were growing louder, Paul was sure of that. He wondered if both of his captors were digging, eager to release him from the coffin, desperate to free him so that he could tell them the information they so desperately sought.
And what then? What are you going to tell them?
Paul hadn’t thought about that. All that had occupied his mind since he’d been told he was to be released from the coffin was the thought of breathing fresh air again. He wanted to feel the rain and the wind on his skin and every other cliché that was the province of great poets and bad writers. He wanted to savour those things. He wanted to make the most of every single second that was to come.
Unless they just whack you with a shovel as soon as the coffin lid is lifted.
‘No, they won’t do that,’ Paul said aloud. ‘They can’t risk killing me. Not now. Not yet.’
‘What did you say?’
The question echoed around the inside of the coffin.
Paul started. He’d almost forgotten the voice.
That means there’s only one of them digging.
‘You spoke,’ the voice continued. ‘What did you say?’
‘I need to get out of here,’ Paul said. ‘The oxygen must be nearly gone by now.’
‘There’s enough left.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘You’ll be out in five or ten minutes.’
‘And if I’m not you’ll have wasted your time.’
There was a touch of desperation in Paul’s tone now. The pain in his chest was growing more intense. It felt as if someone was sitting on his ribs, pushing down harder with each passing second. He tried to take a deep breath but it was as if his lungs wouldn’t expand.
‘Oh no, not now,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’
Above him, the sound grew louder. The impact was more distinct.
‘Hurry,’ he called, as if the entreaty would speed his rescuer. ‘Get me out.’
He closed his eyes, keeping the lids clamped shut.
‘Tell him to hurry,’ Paul called to the voice. ‘Tell him to get a move on or I’ll be dead by the time he opens this fucking box.’
‘Just calm down,’ the voice chided.
‘I’m the one in a fucking coffin six feet underground, not you. Don’t tell me to calm down,’ Paul roared. ‘I’m only here because you put me here.’
‘You’re there because you murdered our daughter, in case you’d forgotten,’ snarled the voice with equal vehemence.
Paul didn’t answer. He was listening to the sounds from above him.
Surely it could only be a matter of minutes now.
But how many minutes?
The pain in his chest continued to grow in intensity. Paul was feeling faint. He banged his injured hand against the side of the coffin.
The pain shot through his hand and arm, jolting him from head to toe. It had the desired effect, though, momentarily clearing his head. Even the pain in his chest seemed to recede slightly.
Thank God.
The respite was fleeting and the pain flowed back through him with seemingly renewed ferocity.
This is it. You’re going to die. It’s going to end now. After all these hours of clinging on to life and to hope, it’s all going to come to an end right here and now. Moments before your release.
Paul tried to shift on to his side as much as the confines of the box would allow. It was as if he was trying to shift the weight that he imagined was pressing down on his ribcage. He managed to twist part of his upper body but the effort was far more exacting than it had been earlier.
There was a thunderous crash from only inches above him and he slumped on to his back, his hands rising before him.
The shovel had struck the lid of the coffin.
This was it, his mind screamed. The time for freedom had come at last.
Beyond the coffin lay clean air and life.
And two vengeful parents.
That didn’t matter to Paul. All he knew was that he was going to be out of the coffin in a matter of moments. Once the screws or nails were removed he would be free.
He heard another loud bang on the lid of the box and he lay still, waiting.
There was movement next to the coffin as well and Paul guessed that the person who’d dug him up was now standing in the hole that contained him. He could hear footsteps moving around and even across the box.
He wondered what he should do next. Considering his next move helped to take his thoughts away from the pain in his chest. He attempted to focus on the chain of events that would occur in the next few moments rather than dwell on the extreme discomfort he still felt.
He had, Paul told himself, had long enough to consider his course of action. It was now time to set it in motion.
There was more movement outside the box. He heard a scraping at the foot of the coffin. Something hard and metallic was being scratched across it. Was the person outside loosening the first of the screws that held the lid in place, he asked himself. When the same sound was repeated at the other side of the coffin just moments later, he was sure that was the case. There were two screws at the foot, two at the side and two at the top. Once those were removed he would be able to push the lid off. He would be able to spring upwards like some malevolent Jack-in-the-box and begin the fight against those who had imprisoned him and tried to kill him.
Whatever happened then, this particular part of the nightmare would be over.
Paul lay still and very slowly raised his hands so that they were touching the lid of the coffin, his fingers gliding over the satin there.
To his left he heard the sound of another screw being removed.
He kept his hands in place, tensing the muscles in his arms but not pushing against the wood and material just yet.
There was a loud thump on the lid and he pulled his hands away quickly.
It wasn’t as powerful as the sound of the shovel hitting the box. This was a different kind of noise. Paul realised that whoever was out there had probably stepped on the coffin, using it as a stepping stone to reach the other side and, sure enough, within moments he heard the fourth
screw being worked on. He also heard a grunt and a muttered curse as the screwdriver slipped. There was silence for a second then the work began again as the digger continued loosening the fourth screw.
Paul sucked in a lungful of the acrid air and held it, preparing himself. He felt as if his muscles were on fire but now they burned with the desire to escape and also with the strength that came with anger. For hours, held captive inside the coffin, he had swayed madly between one extreme of emotion and another. Fear, terror, frustration, sorrow and anger had all filled him at various points and now he was allowing the rage to take over. For with that rage came hope.
Paul’s hands clenched into fists. He rested them gently against the lid once again then withdrew them slowly, repeating the procedure a number of times as if he was pumping his arm muscles in preparation for what was to come.
When he heard the fifth screw being loosened he could barely control himself. His entire body was shaking, filled as it was with adrenaline. His heart was thundering against his ribs and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He was breathing rapidly and the taste and smell of the vile air filling the coffin didn’t seem to bother him any longer, any more than the light-headedness and the pain in his chest. He raised and lowered his arms again and again, the motions becoming faster but more controlled. He didn’t want the one digging him up to know that he was prepared. There must be no warning. When he made his attack it must be with the benefit of surprise.
Paul heard more scrambling outside the coffin and his
head turned instinctively towards the head of the coffin and the area where he knew the sixth screw must be. He waited for the sound of the screwdriver but it didn’t come.
His breathing slowed a little as he wondered what his captors were doing. Why the delay? They were so close to uncovering him now. What was taking them so long to remove the last screw?
Unless, he reasoned, they had some plan of their own they wanted to put into operation before the lid was removed.
He lay still, arms now at his sides, his eyes closed. Waiting.
Somewhere above him he heard muffled speech.
He was certain of it. They must both be there now. Looking down upon the coffin and preparing to open it. Paul strained his ears to try and pick out the words.
One of the voices sounded further away than the other. But, whatever the case, Paul could now definitely pick them out as male and female and it sounded as if the man was the one standing over the coffin. Perhaps, he reasoned, that was why the woman’s voice sounded further away; she must be standing at the graveside. The man was actually down in the hole with the box. And with the screwdriver, ready to remove the last screw. The last obstacle to Paul’s freedom.
He allowed his head to loll to one side and tried to relax his body as best he could. This was all part of his plan. He wanted to make them think that he was un conscious when they opened the coffin. Lull
them
into a false sense of security until the time came to strike back.
Paul swallowed and managed to reduce his breathing to
shallow breaths. His chest was barely rising and falling as he swallowed and then exhaled the rancid air inside the coffin. But, again, his mind shrieked the question that was bothering him so much. Why were they taking so long to remove the last screw?
He heard the voices again. The man first.
Paul tried to pick out words once more and this time it seemed a little easier.
‘This is it,’ came the man’s voice. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Open it,’ the woman replied.
‘Are you sure?’ the man queried.
‘We’ve got to,’ the woman insisted. ‘Do it now. Do it before he runs out of oxygen.’
Paul heard them for the first time with no distortion. Not through inferior speakers but separated from him by only the thickness of the coffin lid and the noises made him shudder. Especially the voice of the woman. He didn’t know why but something deep inside him froze. His mind was telling him something that couldn’t be possible. Something that every fibre of his being tried to deny and, yet, the feeling persisted.
‘Open it,’ the woman repeated. ‘Before it’s too late.
’ Once more he was gripped by that same feeling. Shaken by a growing conviction deep within him. A conviction based on the sound of her voice.
