Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

Now, at twenty-eight, he was smart, a decent human being and a natural leader of the pack. If he had flaws, it was that he was too trusting and, on occasions, too much of a prankster. And tonight the latter chicken was coming home to roost. Big time.

But at this moment, he had no idea about that.

He drifted back into a blissful stupor, thinking only happy thoughts, mostly about his fiancée, Ashley. Life was good. His mother was dating a nice guy; his kid brother had just got into university; his kid sister, Jodie, was back-packing in Australia on a gap year, and his business was going incredibly well. But best of all, in two days’ time he was going to be marrying the woman he loved and adored. His soul mate.

Ashley.

He hadn’t noticed the shovel that rattled on every bump in the road, as the wheels drummed below on the sodden tarmac and the rain pattered down above him on the roof. And he didn’t clock a thing in the expressions of his two friends riding with him in the back, who were swaying and singing tunelessly to an oldie, Rod Stewart’s ‘I Am Sailing’, on the crackly radio up front. A leaky fuel can filled the van with the stench of petrol.

‘I love her,’ Michael slurred. ‘I s’hlove Ashley.’

‘She’s a great lady,’ Robbo said, turning his head from the wheel, sucking up to him as he always did. That was in his nature. Awkward with women, a bit clumsy, a florid face, lank hair, beer belly straining the weave of his T-shirt, Robbo clung to the coat-tails of this bunch by always trying to make himself needed. And tonight, for a change, he actually was .

‘She is.’

‘Coming up,’ warned Luke.

Robbo braked as they approached the turn-off, and winked in the darkness of the cab at Luke seated next to him. The wipers clumped steadily, smearing the rain across the windscreen.

‘I mean, like I really love her. Sh’now what I mean?’

‘We know what you mean,’ Pete said.

Josh, leaning back against the driver’s seat, one arm around Pete, swigged some beer, then passed the bottle down to Michael. Froth rose from the neck as the van braked sharply. He belched. ‘’Scuse me.’

‘What the hell does Ashley see in you?’ Josh said.

‘My dick.’

‘So it’s not your money? Or your looks? Or your charm?’

‘That too, Josh, but mostly my dick.’

The van lurched as it made the sharp right turn, rattling over a cattle grid, almost immediately followed by a second one and onto the dirt track. Robbo, peering through the misted glass and picking out the deep ruts, swung the wheel. A rabbit sprinted ahead of them, then shot into some undergrowth. The headlights veered right then left, fleetingly colouring the dense conifers that lined the track, before they vanished into darkness in the rear-view mirror. As Robbo changed down a gear, Michael’s voice altered, his bravado suddenly tinged, very faintly, with anxiety.

‘Where we going?’

‘To another pub.’

‘OK. Great.’ Then a moment later, ‘Promished Ashley I shwouldn’t — wouldn’t — drink too much.’

‘See,’ Pete said, ‘you’re not even married and she’s laying down rules. You’re still a free man. For just two more days.’

‘One and a half,’ Robbo added helpfully.

‘You haven’t arranged any girls?’ Michael said.

‘Feeling horny?’ Robbo asked.

‘I’m staying faithful.’

‘We’re making sure of that.’

‘Bastards!’

The van lurched to a halt, reversed a short distance, then made another right turn. Then it stopped again and Robbo killed the engine — and Rod Stewart with it. ‘ Arrivé !’ he said. ‘Next watering hole! The Undertakers Arms!’

‘I’d prefer the Naked Thai Girl’s Legs,’ Michael said.

‘She’s here, too.’

Someone opened the rear door of the van — Michael wasn’t sure who — and invisible hands took hold of his ankles. Robbo took one of his arms, and Luke the other.

‘Hey!’

‘You’re a heavy bastard!’ Luke said.

Moments later Michael thumped down, in his favourite sports jacket and best jeans — not the wisest choice for your stag night, a dim voice in his head was telling him — onto sodden earth, in pitch darkness that was pricked only by the red rear-lights of the van and the white beam of a flashlight. Hardening rain stung his eyes and matted his hair to his forehead.

‘My... closhes...’

Moments later, his arms yanked almost clear of their sockets, he was hoisted in the air, then dumped down into something dry and lined with something soft that pressed in on either side of him.

‘Hey!’ he said again.

Five drunken, grinning, shadowy faces leered down at him. A magazine was pushed into his hands. In the beam of the flashlight he caught a blurry glimpse of a naked redhead with gargantuan breasts. A bottle of whisky, a small flashlight — switched on — and a walkie-talkie were placed on his stomach.

‘What’s—?’

‘We’ve preset the channel,’ Robbo informed him. ‘Don’t want you chatting to any strangers.’

Michael heard a scraping sound, then suddenly something blotted the faces and all the sound out. His nostrils filled with the smells of wood, new cloth and glue. For an instant he felt warm and snug. Then a flash of panic.

‘Hey, guys — what—’

Robbo picked up a screwdriver as Pete shone the flashlight down on the oak coffin.

‘You’re not screwing it down?’ Luke said.

‘Absolutely!’ Pete said.

‘Do you think we should?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Robbo said. ‘Mark checked it all out, didn’t you, Mark?’

‘Yeah, I looked it up on the internet. Even if a coffin’s completely airtight, you’d have enough air for three to four hours. Unless of course you panicked and began hyperventilating. Then you could knock it down to under an hour.’

‘I really don’t think we should screw it down!’ Luke said.

‘Course we should — otherwise he’ll be able to get out!’ Josh admonished him. ‘We just have to tell him to remain calm and he’ll be fine!’

‘Hey!’ Michael said.

But no one could hear him now. And he could hear nothing except a faint scratching sound above him.

Robbo worked on each of the four screws in turn. It was a top-of-the-range hand-tooled oak coffin with embossed brass handles, borrowed from his uncle’s funeral parlour where, after a couple of career u-turns, he was now employed as an apprentice embalmer. Good, solid brass screws. They went in easily.

Michael looked upwards, his nose almost touching the lid. In the beam of the flashlight, ivory-white satin encased him. He kicked out with his legs, but they had nowhere to travel. He tried to push his arms out, but they had nowhere to go, either.

Sobering for a few moments, he suddenly realized what he was lying in.

‘Hey, hey, listen, you know — hey — I’m claustrophobic. This is not funny! Hey!’ His voice came back at him, strangely muffled. He pushed up against the lid above him, but it wouldn’t budge an inch.

Pete opened the door, leaned into the cab and switched on the headlights. A couple of metres in front of them was the grave they had dug yesterday, the earth piled to one side, tapes already in place. A large sheet of corrugated iron and two of the spades they had used lay close by.

They all walked to the edge and peered down. All of them were suddenly aware that nothing in life is ever quite as it seems when you are planning it. Right now, the hole looked deeper, darker, more like — well — a grave, actually.

The beam of the flashlight shimmered at the bottom.

‘There’s water,’ Josh said.

‘Just a bit of rainwater,’ Robbo said.

Josh frowned. ‘There’s too much, that’s not rainwater. We must have hit the water table.’