D

esecrating graves was not much of a job.  Yet it put a few pounds in to the filthy pocket of Tom Sawkins, with no questions asked.  Grunting with effort, Tom thrust the grimy spade yet again into the soft earth, and this time he was confronted with the hollow thud of wood.  Nervously he glanced upwards, out of the six-foot deep hole.  His bloodshot eyes searched for even the slightest clue that he was being watched.  At this late stage in the game it would be impossible to plead innocent of any crime. 

 

The graveyard was still and quiet, just as it should be at four twenty-two in the small hours of the morning.  The dim light of a half moon, partially obscured by night-time clouds, cast ghostly shadows over the marble crosses and headstones.  But there were no watching eyes.  No lynch mob ready to put a noose around his neck. 

 

Gritting his teeth, Tom clutched the spade tightly and thrust down on to the hinges of the coffin below his feet.  The noise of splintering wood filled his ears.  Once more the spade was brought downwards, this time with even more force.  To Tom’s current nervous disposition the sound felt like an earthquake.  Surely somebody must have heard the noise. If he was caught he’d swing for sure.

 

A sudden blur of movement caused him to freeze in panic. His heart sped up, racing to pump his seemingly congealed blood around his body at an alarming rate.  The delicate squeak of a mouse and a flurry of wings, followed by an eerie hoot, explained the activity neatly to the body snatcher.  Blasted owl nearly gave him a heart attack! 

 

Pausing in his grisly employment, Tom let his heart slow and pulse return to its customary leisurely rhythm.  Patting his dirty clothes, his fingers searched for the only item he knew that could return him to some state of normality, and aid him to complete the job he had started. To his satisfaction, the comforting metal was easily found.  With a flourish, Tom brought the battered and tarnished hip-flask to his lips.  The cheap gin burnt his throat, causing him to cough and splutter, but it was a welcome sensation of normality.  It was a sensation that reminded him of his wife, just before he’d slap her for not having dinner ready the second he returned home.  He could almost hear the muffled sobs of the hag, as she hurriedly served up the slop that she’d call food onto his plate and await another blow. 

 

It also reminded him of his many walks from the pub, where he often drank with fair-weather friends.  He had a lot of these now he had the coins from this job to flash around.  Good money too, although Tom would have probably done the morbid work even if it had paid less.  Of course he kept his wages far away from the Missis.  She had no idea of his nocturnal activities.  If she ever became nosy, a hard punch would put paid to her questions. As for his fair-weathered friends?  They knew better than inquire where his ill-gotten gains came from.  All it took was a few well-placed pennies to oil over any doubts.  He knew that the regulars at The Rose and Crown didn’t really like him, but he knew they loved the beer that he bought for them all.  He had ulterior motives of course.  Anything to get close too little Sally Porter, one of the so-called friend’s wives.  A petite lass, with a figure to die for and so much prettier than his own ageing wife.  He was going to have his wicked way with her soon, whether her free loading husband liked it or not.  If he had to commit murder to cover his tracks, so be it.  After all, he knew where to get rid of the bodies and get paid for them - seven pounds ten shillings per body with no questions asked.  It would be just like the vagabond he bludgeoned last month, when there were no fresh graves to be had.  The more he thought about it, the greater the appeal. Perhaps he could get rid of that nagging wife into the bargain. He'd be looking at a fortune.

 

It would certainly be no more horrific than his current position, standing on the coffin of a Mr Edgar Wells who had passed away from smallpox a number of weeks ago.  Tom glanced at the headstone. ‘Swept into the arms of our Lord,’ it read, ‘A dear husband and father.  To be forever missed. 1769-1798.’  He felt it would have been more accurate for the inscription to read, ‘Swept into the arms of Tom Sawkins.  To be sold for profit, with our Lord none the wiser.’

 

The blasphemous notion destroyed Tom’s air of confidence.  He was not a religious man, yet there was no point in condemning himself if there was indeed an all-powerful deity listening to his every thought. Yet again he turned to the comfort of the gin.  Another swig was taken, and another.   He felt the wave of giddiness sweep over him, like a warm blanket. Confidence crept back.  Now he was ready for the final stages of his employment. It was time to open the coffin.

 

Tom discarded the spade, and lifted his stocky frame out of the six-foot hole.  With practised ease the coffin’s lid was flipped open, displaying Edgar to the world he had departed from so tragically.  Although he had done this job dozens of times before, Tom recoiled from the body.  The rancid smell of decomposing flesh, and sight of wriggling white maggots devouring the dead cells, was a sight that he had never been able to get fully used to.  And with a lack of recent burials, today he’d been forced to take an older body than he would have preferred.  Choking back the vomit that insisted on jumping from his gut, Tom held a handkerchief to his nose and lent into the coffin.  His fingers swiftly pocketed the encrusted pennies that had been placed over the deceased eyes.  There was no point wasting the currency on the dead.  Then, seizing one of Edgar’s arms, he gave a series of almighty pulls and the corpse rose from the grave, flopping on to the damp earth. 

 

With no respect for his wares, the body snatcher roughly pushed the carcass away from the hole.  Tom smiled.  All that was needed was to fill in the grave, and nobody would know he had ever been there.  The deceased’s relatives would be blissfully unaware that the wooden box buried beneath their mourning feet held nothing but soil and dust.  Squinting in the dim light, he probed for his spade, eager to finish his business. 

 

As he searched on his hands and knees, he heard a soft cracking sound behind him.  It was almost inaudible, but somehow sickening.  Tom glanced around for the source of the unexpected noise, but saw no movement.  Taking another swig of nerve building gin, he resumed his hunt for the spade.  Finally he found it half buried in a patch of nettles.  When he reached for it the sickening sound intensified, but this time was ignored.  Drunkenness had replaced caution. 

 

Shovelling earth back into the grave, the body snatcher only became aware of the figure behind him when a shadow blocked out the moon’s feeble light.  Dread crept through the alcoholic haze.  He’d been caught.  Apprehensively he turned around.  Much to Tom’s brief regret, a lynch mob had not discovered him.  In disbelief, his jaw dropped open and emitted a silent scream.  The sickening cracks grew closer, as the lopsided figure shuffled slowly forwards.  Paralysed with horror, the body snatcher closed his eyes and took his final breath. Merciful blackness swiftly overcame Tom Sawkins, as he felt the caress of a mouth clasp around his neck and canine teeth sink in.

 

* * * *

 

Henry Wright had insomnia.  It was a condition that plagued the small-time farmer ever since his wife died two years previously.  To his muddled, tired brain nothing seemed real anymore. It was as if the whole world was a hallucination, and had long since ceased to make any logical sense. He was no longer even convinced that he was a poor farmer named Henry Wright.  For all he knew, that existence was just a recurring dream, and his dear departed spouse was only a figment of his slumbering imagination.

 

There was a thud as the meat cleaver buried itself in to the abattoir table.  Henry cursed under his breath.  Blood trickled from a graze on the knuckles of his left hand.  He had missed the neck of the recently slaughtered chicken, and had come close to amputating his fingers.  Even as the blood flowed, Henry couldn’t be sure that it was reality.  Perhaps he would wake up, and find Anne asleep next to him.  Henry pushed that thought away from his mind.  Better to stick with the current dreamscape for now - butchering chickens in the middle of the night.  Henry felt sure he had a large order the next day for twenty plucked fowl, and since he was awake he may as well get the job done.  That was assuming he wasn't currently dreaming.

 

His weary hands reached for the chicken, but felt nothing.  The farmer glanced across the table.  All twenty of the dead fowl were gone. Perhaps this was the conclusive evidence he needed to prove that he was dreaming?  Extending one finger, Henry felt the abattoir table. It was wet with chicken blood, so they had been there.  A flap of wings behind caused Henry to turn.  Now he knew he was dreaming.  The nightmare before him could only be conjured up by the imagination.  Beaks pecked and tore at his eyes, burrowing in to his brain, but his dulled mind hardly felt the pain.  The last thought Henry Wright ever had was that he would be waking up soon.  And Anne would be with him.