Trauma (2 page)

McKirrop glanced furtively behind him and saw that he was still alone. Flynn hadn't followed him. With another glance in both directions he turned in through the iron gates of the cemetery and felt safe. He paused for a moment, feeling comfortably isolated before starting to make his way up to the far end. The cemetery was a large rambling place which had been allowed to become overgrown because of private ownership who saw it as a real estate investment for the future. Many of the paths had succumbed to the ambitions of creeping shrubs and moss and were almost impassable but McKirrop knew his way around well enough. Using outstretched arms he parted the undergrowth where necessary and ducked under low branches until he had arrived at his new 'home' as it had been for the past two weeks, a gravedigger's hut that was no longer in use.

Although parts of the cemetery itself were still used, contract workmen from outside were now brought in to dig and fill graves when required. Rationalisation of labour, if he remembered the term correctly. There was no longer a need to store tools and equipment on the premises. An ill wind for the Council Works Department had brought McKirrop a home.

It was quiet here and the hut was reasonably wind and watertight. His new-found 'touch' up in the Braids district had given him the opportunity to provide a few creature comforts. Cleaning out her garage, unused since her husband's death, had enabled him to acquire during the process a torch, some candles and a butane stove which came as a kit in a tin box complete with spares. She had paid him handsomely into the bargain and there was a promise of regular odd jobs to come. There were also some nice tools in that garage that might need 're-locating' at some time but for the moment he would continue to play his role as the honest artisan who had fallen on hard times and allow her to play Mother Theresa or the Good Samaritan or whatever it was that she saw herself as. Symbiosis! That was the word he had been trying to remember. He and the woman would continue in symbiosis. That was as far into the future as McKirrop cared to look.

McKirrop twisted the rusty padlock on the door and pulled it off. The tongue was broken but it looked as if it was functional so it had deterrent value and he was careful to replace it when he went out in the morning. He went inside and pulled the door behind him, anxious to be in out of the wind. The inside was cold and damp and smelt of earth and rough sacking but the air was still and that was a blessing in itself. He rummaged under the sacking in the corner and brought out the torch which he switched on while he erected the stove in the middle of the floor and brought it into life. The blue flame and the comforting hiss from the burner made him release a sigh of satisfaction. He glanced up at the single window to check that the sacking screen he had tacked over it was still in place. It was highly unlikely that anyone would come anywhere near here at night, or even in the day time for that matter, but there was no point in taking any chances he didn't have to.

The hut, small and square, heated up quite quickly. There was no ventilation but that didn't matter. He liked the smell of the gas. It was suggestive of warmth and if it helped him sleep so much the better. The Gas Board were hardly likely to come round and condemn it. McKirrop smiled at the thought and brought out his bottle to take a long drink from it. A drink by the fire in his own home. Another thought to make him smile. Home used to be a four bedroom villa not more than ten miles from this place with a Saab at the door and malt whisky in the drinks cabinet but that was a hundred years ago and didn't bear dwelling on. That was 'then' and this was 'now' and that was what mattered. He had warmth, a roof over his head and a bottle in his hand. Everything was just fine. These bastards down by the canal could get maudlin if they liked with their bullshit about past glories but he was doing just fine.

McKirrop was stirred into a groggy state of consciousness about three in the morning, not that he knew the time, just that he had been asleep for some while. His arm caught the empty bottle as he struggled to prop himself up and he knocked it across the floor. There were noises coming from outside in the cemetery. The thought that it might be the police cut through the haze inside his head and forced him into alertness. They might be having one of their bloody round-ups. De-lousing, a shower using carbolic soap and back out on the street again. 'Returned to the community'. He sat still and listened like an animal in the night. He could hear clumsy movement in the nearby bushes and loud whispering. Periodically the noise level would rise and someone would urge silence.

McKirrop got to his knees and pulled back a corner of the sacking on the window a little. He couldn't see anything in the blackness but he heard a voice somewhere say, 'Get on with it then.' A few seconds later he caught a glimpse of a torch beam through the trees. It was about twenty-five metres away in the part of the cemetery that was still in use.

Thankful that the intruders were apparently not the police and that they appeared to have no interest in him or his 'property', McKirrop relaxed and began to grow curious. He edged open the door a little in an attempt to hear more of what was going on.

He could hear the sound of a shovel being used and it excited him. He had long held the view that the best place for a murderer to dispose of a body would be in a cemetery, particularly one like this which nobody cared about. If they - whoever they were - were burying someone it would be as well for him to know about it. There might be something in it for him; a possibility of blackmail perhaps? A reward for information? But maybe it wasn't a body they were burying; maybe it was the proceeds from a robbery which he would dig up later and make off with. He could almost feel the sun on his back, hear the ice cubes clink in the glass. At the Copa, Copa Cabana . . . But first he had to find out.

McKirrop edged himself out of the door and crouched down close to the ground as he inched along towards where the sounds were coming from. There seemed to be four of them. He could now see that two of them were digging while two others held torches. 'Get on with it!' snapped one of the torch holders when one of the diggers stopped working. 'Maybe we shouldn't ...' began the one who had stopped digging but he was interrupted by the man with the torch who shone the beam directly on his face. 'We all agreed and we've come this far. Get on with it!'

Both diggers continued and McKirrop could see now that they weren't burying anything; they were digging something up, or more correctly, someone! They were digging directly in front of a recently erected tombstone!

'Bastards!' muttered McKirrop under his breath. Even to a man outside society in terms of almost everything else the act of desecrating a grave seemed repulsive. True, the cemetery bore signs of various acts of vandalism, usually paint daubing and broken headstones but he had never known any of them go this far before. He watched, spellbound as the digging continued, the two torch beams lighting a horrific tableau. Suddenly he heard the sound of one of the spades hitting wood and the silence ended.

'We're there,' announced one of the diggers.

'Pass it up,' said a torch holder squatting down on his haunches.

The two diggers disappeared from view as they both bent down to grip the coffin and lift it up. McKirrop held his breath as he waited for them to bring it up out of the grave. They did so with surprisingly little trouble and McKirrop could see why. It was a small, white coffin. It was the coffin of a child.

McKirrop felt the bile rise in his throat. This was too much. He shook his head in impotent horror as he watched three of the four get to work on the lid while the fourth held the torch beam on it. With a final splintering sound the lid came off the coffin.

McKirrop watched the proceedings until he could bear it no longer. 'Bastards!' he yelled, getting to his feet. 'Dirty rotten bastards! Leave the kid alone!' He crashed through the undergrowth towards the light, arms flailing and yelling at the top of his voice, which in reality was little more than a broken yodel.

There was momentary panic among the four before the torch beam was brought round to play on McKirrop and the holder called out to his fleeing companions, 'It's only an old wino!'

As McKirrop reached him, the man with the torch stepped aside smartly and hit McKirrop on the side of his face with the torch. McKirrop crashed to the ground straddling the open coffin. He struggled to get to his feet while the four men re-grouped around him. A kick in the side made him fall to the ground again.

'Look at the old fool,' sneered one of the men above him. 'What a state.'

'Rotten bastards,' mumbled McKirrop but his head was aching and he couldn't think straight.

'Give the interfering old fool a kicking and let's get out of here,' said one of the men. 'Some nosey parker out there might have heard something.’

Feet thudded into the prostrate body of McKirrop as he lay on the ground making him roll ineffectually from side to side in futile attempts to avoid the blows. A particularly vicious blow in the stomach made his wretch up the contents and he could taste whisky flavoured bile in his mouth.

'Wait!' commanded one of the men and the kicking stopped. The man knelt down and brought his face close to McKirrop's ear. 'If anyone should ask you who you saw here tonight. You saw nobody. Understood?'

McKirrop grunted.

'You can't remember a thing, right?'

Another grunt.

'Or else ...' Further kicks rained in on McKirrop's helpless body and pain was replaced by unconsciousness.

McKirrop opened his eyes and screwed them up against the brightness of the light. He didn't have to ask anyone where he was. He could smell that he was in a hospital; that unmistakable smell of disinfectant and anaesthetic. There were screens round his bed but he could hear bustle outside them. He ran his right hand over his chest and found that he was heavily bandaged. Moving his legs was painful and there seemed to be a large lump below his jaw on the left side. God! he could do with a drink.

He lay still, staring up at the ceiling and thinking through what had happened at the cemetery. Would he be able to go back there or would the authorities have cleared out the hut and replaced the padlock with one that worked? What rotten luck. It had all been going so well. Now he would have to move back down the canal with Bella and Flynn and the others. Flynn would make it difficult but he could deal with him if need be and Bella would welcome him back. The sooner he got out of this place the sooner he could organise himself and find a drink.

A nurse looked in on him and smiled as she saw that he was awake. 'How are you feeling?' she asked.

'Just fine,' replied McKirrop, his voice a croak with not having spoken for so long.

The nurse held back the screen for a young woman wearing a white coat to enter. Her cuffs were rolled back and she carried a stethoscope round her neck.

'You took quite a beating,' said the new arrival as the nurse left and closed the screens again. 'I'm Dr Lasseter.'

McKirrop looked at her and smiled weakly, partly because it was painful to move his mouth and partly because he was thinking how young she looked. Her eyes were bright and honest and her skin smooth and untouched by care. Her blouse was crisp and neat and her dark hair was swept back tidily and gathered at the back. What really struck McKirrop was the fact that she actually looked as if she cared and he found it disconcerting. It was the first time he had felt anything like vulnerable in a long time. So long he couldn't remember the last time. He didn't like the feeling; it reminded him of a different sort of life a long time ago, one he thought he had put behind him for good. He had thought himself to be immune from feelings like this.

The Salvation Army girls were honest and meant well of course, but in a different way. It was somehow impersonal with them, sort of, same planet, different world. Their only real point of contact was with a third unseen party. They didn't see you as a person in your own right, more as currency in some deal they had going. As for the middle class do-gooders, they hardly saw you at all. You were just a number to be smiled at and patronised.

'I'll be all right,' he grunted.

'My boss will be here to see you in a few minutes,' said the doctor.

'Your boss?'

'I'm a junior doctor. Dr Logan will make sure I haven't missed anything.'

'No need. I'm fine,' said McKirrop, making an effort to prop himself up on one arm. 'If you'll just get me my clothes.'

'Not so fast,' said the doctor, pushing him gently back down again and adding, 'A lot of people want to talk to you before you think of going anywhere.'

'What do you mean, a lot of people?'

'The police for a start and then the press. You are front page news.'

McKirrop was alarmed. He suddenly felt himself becoming hemmed in by a society he saw as the enemy. 'What do you mean?' he demanded.

'I'll show you,' said the doctor, as if she had just had an idea. She left his bedside for a few moments before returning with a newspaper. She held it up for McKirrop to see.

SATANIC HORROR IN CITY CEMETERY, said the headline.

McKirrop let his head fall back on the pillow as the young doctor read out the story. In his head he could feel the boots crashing into his body and hear the man's warning. 'You saw nothing, remember?'