Fatal Practice

PROLOGUE

 

Thursday 30th April 1987

 

THEY ARRIVED an hour before daybreak.

There were three of them, two gravediggers and a driver.

Take the black van, they were told.

Keep all the tools out of sight.

Drive slowly, and don’t draw attention.

Don’t ask questions.

It’s the old chapel about a mile and a half from the village.

Use the hill road, it’s quieter.

The chapel gates were open, and the driver eased the van

to the side of the building. Then he switched the engine off.

They stared into the gloom. High cypress trees on all sides

overshadowed the area, making the darkness even darker.

Above, no daybreak, just the night sky with the hint of early

cloud from the west. The air was warm, heavy and muggy

with the smell of cut silage. Somewhere a dog barked, and

somewhere else cattle lowed. There were a few hesitant tweets.

The dawn chorus was some time away.

The small, stone-grey granite chapel was to their left with a

cemetery on the right.

The cemetery was as old as the turn-of-the-century chapel.

At the far end, where the land rose, there were granite head-

stones. Closer, marble slabs with small statues. Some black and

some grey. Most weather-worn, with names and dates faded.

At the far end, a lonely and mournful orphans’ plot. A fox

padded between its nameless crosses, slinking to nothing in

long grass.

‘Spooky,’ said one of the workmen.

‘The weather’s changing,’ said the other. ‘I can feel it in

my feet.’

‘We better get started,’ said the driver. He reached for a

torch and a map, opened the van door and made his way to the

recent burial mounds. Under torchlight, he hunched and

squinted. Next, he moved towards a crumbling stone wall

boundary. There, he inspected the map, finally finding the

plot. He called out, ‘It’s over here.’

The van was unloaded. A wheelbarrow, a pickaxe, two

spades and two shovels. Six coffin straps. Thick tarpaulin. Two

rickety arc lights on stands. Two portable batteries.

They grouped at the stone wall. And even though they

hadn’t lifted a spade or swung the pickaxe, they were sweat-

ing. And uneasy. The driver scuffed the heel of a boot along

the ground. ‘It’s hard,’ he said. ‘There’s been little rain.’

The priest was beside them before they knew it. They offered

respectful hellos and stepped aside. The priest opened a prayer

book and began a low chant. ‘O Lord Jesus Christ, saviour of all

souls, may you one day take us all to your heavenly mansion.’

He made a Sign of the Cross and the men blessed themselves.

‘You can go ahead,’ he said.

‘Start with a line at the top,’ the driver said. He traced an

edge with a spade, then heeled it deeper. ‘This won’t be easy.’

The arc lights were put in place, and the batteries lifted closer.

The tarpaulin was laid out.

The priest walked away, leaving the gravediggers to their

labour.

Now the arc lights flickered and glowed. The pickaxe

swung in the air. A spade lifted earth. There were grunts and

soft curses.

The driver hunched on his knees and lit a cigarette.

I wonder, he mused, what this is all about?

He inhaled, coughed and wiped phlegm from his lips.

I wonder what happened?