Ruth Rendell - Thirteen Steps Down

He tried to swing the pick the way he had seen laborers in the road do it but after three failed attempts was afraid of doing himself an injury. It came as a surprise to him that you had tobe fitter than he was to use an instrument like this. Maybe he had been wrong about the quality of the soil here. He moved farther away from the wall and nearer to the house, taking thepick and fork with him, his shoulders already stiffening. From here he could see over the end wall into the garden beyond where, instead of the guinea fowl, two large Canada geese strutted among the weeds. In deckchairs, a man in a turban and a woman in a sari sat reading, he the evening paper, she a magazine. Though he could see them he couldn't tell if they could see him. Perhaps it wouldn't matter. The deckchairs were the first he had seen since the one his grandma had sat in when he was a small boy. But instead of her and her peculiarities, theybrought to mind Reggie who had furnished his kitchen with such makeshift chairs after selling his furniture.

Once more he began to dig, but this time using the fork. That was better. Its prongs were sharp enough to push through the top layer and gradually he developed a technique of digging the fork in perpendicularly instead of at an angle and this was more effective. He even learned how to thrust his tool in lower down and attack the harder level of ground. He had to.Though despairing of digging down six feet, which he'd heard was the depth a grave should be, he knew he'd have to manage at least four.

After about an hour he rested. The front of his T-shirt was wet with sweat. A drink of something was what he needed,even tea, but he was afraid that if he went indoors he might not bring himself to come out again. A rather optimistic idea that perseverance might get his muscles used to the work so that they would stop hurting hadn't been justified. When he straightened up a burning pain ran down his back and his right thigh. His shoulders wanted to tense and bunch themselves around his neck. As he tried circling them in a clockwise and then a counterclockwise direction, turning his head from left to right and left again, he saw Otto watching him from his customary seat on the opposite wall. The cat was as still as a carving in a museum, its round green eyes fixed on him, its face composed into its usual expression of malevolent scorn. The Asian couple had gone indoors, leaving their deckchairs behind.

Mix began digging deeper with the fork but he had startedto understand he would have to use the spade, however difficultthis might be. He went back to where he had left itand, picking it up, saw something he hadn't noticed before, aheap of gray and black speckled feathers. No doubt it was hisimagination that made him see smug satisfaction in the cat'sface when he glanced at him again. Still, look what happenedbefore when he called something his imagination.

Using the spade was heavy work. Each spadeful he dislodged brought sharp needles digging into the small of his back. You've got to, you've got to, you've no choice, he muttered to himself as he kept on. He saw that blisters were coming up on the palms of his hands. Still, he must do at least half an hour more.

The sun still blazed down, though it was nearly six. A sharpcackle which sounded as if uttered in his ear made him jump. He looked up, afraid it was human, and saw the man in the turban throwing handfuls of corn down for the geese. They jostleda nd shoved each other, making their harsh cries. To his surprise, the Asian man waved cheerfully at him, so he had to wave back. He dug for another ten minutes and knew he'd have to give up for the day. Back again in the morning. Notbad, anyway. He must have dug down a foot.

The tools put away, he returned by way of the washhouse where he checked on the copper and its contents. He dragged himself up the stairs, clinging to the banisters, pausing often.Again, he reminded himself, he'd forgotten to feed the cat. Still, it looked as if it ate well enough when left to its own devices.How had Reggie, years older than he was, managed to dig those graves in his garden? From the pictures he'd seen, it looked as neglected and overgrown as this one, the soil as unyielding. Of course, he'd claimed to have a bad back, the reason he'd given at the trial of Timothy Evans for being incapable of moving Beryl Evans's body. Perhaps his gravedigging had done him a permanent injury.

Mix hardly knew how he'd managed to get up the tiledflight. Pain dispelled all thoughts of the ghost. He staggered into his flat, poured himself a stiff gin and tonic and fell down on the sofa. Half an hour later he picked up the remote and put the television on, closing his eyes and falling immediately asleep in spite of the rock music pounding out of the set.

A louder noise woke him. The front doorbell was ringing, and someone was clattering the letterbox and hammering on the front door with their fists. Mix crept to his door and cameout onto the landing at the top of the tiled flight. His firstthought was that it was the police. The Asian man had told them someone was digging a grave in Miss Chawcer's garden and they had come to check. They had targets to meet thesedays and they'd jump at the chance of discovering a crime. Mixc ouldn't see the front garden or the street from his flat. He went down a flight, then another, into old Chawcer's bedroom and looked out of the window.

By now it was getting dark. By the light of street lamps he saw there were no police cars, none of that crime tape he hadso much feared earlier. Abruptly the noise ceased. A beam of light appeared on the path, followed by Queenie Winthrop holding a flashlight in her hand. Mix ducked down as shet urned round and looked up at the windows. Checking up on him, he supposed, making sure he'd done the shopping. Well, she'd have to remain in ignorance. He wasn't unbolting that front door for anyone or anything until he'd completed the burial. He began the weary climb back.

Last night he had seen the ghost up there, in that bedroom, really seen it. There was no longer any question of its existing only in his imagination. Steph and Shoshana were right. It wasn't just that he had been in a bad nervous state, the stresses of the job had got to him, all the pressures of Ed, his worryover and longing for Nerissa, childhood memories. He had really seen the ghost.

The pain in his back kept Mix awake. If he hadn't been so frightened of Christie's ghost he'd have gone down to old Chawcer's bathroom and looked to see if she had any sleeping pills. She was bound to, those old women always did. But the thought of opening his front door and seeing that sharpfeaturedt hough blank face, those eyes behind the glasses staring at him, was a dreadful deterrent. He took painkillers instead, the 500 milligram ones the pharmacist said were the strongest you could buy over the counter. They weren't strongenough and the burning and stabbing went on. The last time he had known pain like this was when Javy had beaten him upafter what he said he'd tried to do to Shannon.

At five in the morning, after a cup of coffee and a bit oftoast, he made himself start again. It was beginning to get light, the sky red and gray with sunrise, a white frost on the grass but not enough to harden the ground further. There was nothing, he had discovered, like knowing you've got to do something, you've no choice, to make you get on and do it. They surely couldn't bring old Chawcer back home beforemidday, could they? At any rate, they couldn't get in if they did. He already knew he was physically incapable of digging to a depth of six feet-inches more than his own height. It was impossible. Four feet would be enough, it would have to be enough.

The geese had been shut up for the night but now, when the Indian man in turban and camelhair dressing-gown opened their door, they came out, cackling. Mix had seen or read somewhere that geese make good watchdogs. He didn't want them watching him. Otto was nowhere to be seen. He dug on, accepting the pain, knowing he must, but still wondering from time to time if he was permanently injuring his back, if he was making himself an invalid for life. Again he asked himself how Reggie had done it, how, come to that, he had stayed so calm and steady, nerveless, when surprised by people arriving, by questioners, by his own wife. Maybe he was mad and I'm not, Mix thought. Or maybe I'm mad and he was sane, a brave strong man. At almost ten, he lifted out the last spadeful of earth and sat down on the cold damp stony ground to rest.