Ken McClure - Dust to dust

‘I think so,’ said Blackstone. ‘Apart from anything else, the roots of these trees must be quite extensive. In fact I’d be surprised if they hadn’t invaded your chamber over the years — maybe taken it over completely.’

‘Not a happy thought,’ murmured Motram, inwardly agreeing that Blackstone had a point. ‘What do you think about a side approach?’

Blackstone nodded thoughtfully before saying, ‘Let’s not rush things. Let’s wait until the chaps have finished mapping the whole thing out.’ He led the way to a bench on the grassy area beside the abbey cloisters where they sat in the sun and exchanged bits and pieces of information about their respective careers until the survey was finished and Fielding came to join them with a printout in his hand.

‘Here we are,’ he said with a smile. ‘More or less what you thought, an underground chamber about ten metres long by three metres wide and about four metres down. There’s a blip on the north side — some kind of alcove cut in the wall — but the south wall is smooth all the way along.’

‘Then we should approach from the south side, if you’re agreeable?’ said Motram, turning to Blackstone. ‘About halfway along, do you think?’

Blackstone nodded, but added, ‘Maybe an extra metre out from the wall, if you don’t mind. If it’s a choice between damaging tree roots and undermining the chapter house wall… let’s err on the side of keeping me in a job.’

‘Point taken,’ smiled Motram. ‘Wonderful. Look, I have to go to London early next week but I’ll make arrangements before I go for all the gear we’ll need. We can start work as soon as I get back if that’s okay with you?’

With everyone in agreement Motram said, ‘I can’t tell you how much this means to me.’

‘I think we sort of guessed,’ said Fielding to the amusement of the others.

‘Lunch is on me!’ said Motram.

Smith and Fielding who, as it turned out, had worked all over the world, held the interest of the other two with tales of their past employment on archeological digs and, in Smith’s case, oil exploration.

‘You know, we could all be on the verge of making history here,’ said Motram over coffee. ‘We could be about to solve a seven-hundred-year-old mystery. There’s something really exciting about uncovering the secrets of the past, don’t you think?’

The others smiled indulgently at Motram’s enthusiasm but Fielding said, ‘I’m not so sure about what you’ll be uncovering. The idea of anything to do with the Black Death…’ He shivered at the thought. ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing? I mean, are you absolutely certain you won’t be resurrecting some nightmare from the past?’

‘You have my word for it. It’s seven hundred years since anything down there has seen the light of day. Apart from that, no one is going to ask you guys to go inside the chamber. That’s my job.’

‘Actually, I’d quite like to see inside,’ said Smith. ‘The thought of being the first human beings in there in all these years is absolutely mind-blowing… I mean, like wow.’

‘I think I’ll just be happy if the abbey walls don’t fall down,’ said Blackstone, getting sympathetic laughter.

The sight of some visitors arriving at the abbey made Motram ask about the policy on restricting public access while they were working.

‘There aren’t that many visitors at this time of year,’ replied Blackstone. ‘I thought we’d leave it officially open while the preliminary groundwork’s going on but close before the chamber walls are breached.’

‘Makes sense,’ Motram agreed.

‘We’ll ribbon the site off when we start work,’ said Fielding. ‘People will probably think we’re working on the drains.’

‘You know,’ said Smith thoughtfully, ‘I’m surprised the press haven’t caught on to this. You’d think it would be a natural for them. Black Death tomb to be reopened and all that… They usually don’t miss the chance to hit the panic button.’

A sudden damper fell over the proceedings and there was a long silence before Motram said, ‘You know, you’re quite right. I didn’t think of that.’

‘Me neither,’ said Blackstone. ‘I guess it can only be because they don’t know anything about it.’

‘Please God we can keep it that way,’ said Motram. ‘I suggest we all be very guarded about what we say from now on.’

‘Who can that be at this time of night?’ exclaimed May Kelly as the doorbell rang in the council flat she shared with her husband, Brian, in the east end of Glasgow. It was nine o’clock.

‘Only one way to find out,’ replied her husband, not bothering to take his eyes from his newspaper.

May gave him a dark look but he didn’t lift his eyes, even as he reached out for the can of lager that sat beside him. ‘I take it it’ll not be you doing the finding,’ she murmured, putting down her knitting and getting up from her chair. She returned a few moments later but not alone. ‘It’s an officer from Michael’s unit,’ she announced.

This time the comment did get a reaction from her husband. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed, getting to his feet, dropping the newspaper and peering at the newcomer over his glasses. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I am very sorry, Mr and Mrs Kelly, but I have to tell you your son Michael, Royal Marine Michael Kelly, has been killed in action in Afghanistan.’

‘Oh, Jesus Christ, no… no, no, no.’ May threw herself at her husband, who stood there as if turned to stone, seemingly unaware of the presence of the woman seeking comfort from him.

‘What happened?’ he said numbly.

‘I’m afraid he died of a wound infection in the treatment facility at Camp Bastion in Helmand Province. The medical staff did their best but the infection didn’t respond to treatment. I’m so sorry. By all accounts, he was a fine marine.’

‘Wound infection?’ exclaimed Brian. ‘No one even told us he’d been wounded. when did it happen?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have the actual details of the action that led to his being injured. I believe he suffered slight shrapnal wounds which were not thought to be severe at the time. I understand your son dismissed them as being of no consequence. It was when infection set in that the problem arose and he had to be transferred to hospital.’

‘Bastards,’ murmured Brian. ‘Bloody bastards.’

May, finding no comfort in her husband’s anger, detached herself and took a handful of tissues from the box sitting on the sideboard. She held them to her face as the three of them stood there in an uncomfortable tableau. Seconds ticked by before Brian asked, ‘What happens now?’

‘Michael’s body will be flown home to the UK for burial with full military honours. You will, of course, be consulted about specifics in due course, when you’ve had time to come to terms with your great loss.’

‘Come to terms? And just how long’s that going to take?’ muttered Brian, bristling with indignation. ‘He’s our only son… sent to some godforsaken hellhole… and for what? Tell me that.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the officer.

May finally removed the tissues from her face and thought the time right to intervene. She gave a final sniff and asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That’s very kind, Mrs Kelly, but I think it best if I just leave you two alone right now. Someone from family liaison will be contacting you over the next few days about the arrangements and perhaps I should warn you that there’s a possibility that the press might want to have a word. I’ll leave you this number to ring if you find you need any help with this. I’m so sorry to have to bring you this sad news.’