Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'Can we talk to you, Mr Dawber?' Milly Gill said from somewhere inside whatever she had on.

Ernie identified the others in a second: Frank's wife, Ethel, Young Frank's wife, Susan. And Old Sarah Winstanley, with no teeth in. Probably the only remaining members of the Union fit enough to go out after dark this time of year.

He felt a warm wave of affection for the curious quartet.

'Now, then,' he said cheerfully. 'Where's Ma?'

No instinct, that was his problem.

'Thought you knew everything,' Milly Gill said in a voice as cold and dispiriting as the rain.

'I've been out,' Ernie said, on edge now.

Milly said quietly, 'Ma's died on us, and the churchyard's full of policemen digging up Matt's grave. Can we come in, Mr Dawber?' Matt Castle's coffin came up hard.

It was like a big old decaying barge stuck in a sandbank; it didn't want to come, it wanted to stay in the dark and rot and feed the worms. They had to tear it out of the earth, with a slurping and a squelching of sodden soil and clay.

'Hell fire, you'd think it'd been in here years,' one of the coppers muttered, sliding a rope under one end, groping for one of the coffin handles.

Alf Beckett stayed on top, hands flat on the lid, knowing it hadn't been nailed down, knowing that if it slipped they could drop the corpse into the mud. Thinking, get it over, get it over…get the bloody thing found and have done with it.

And wondering then if by any chance he was standing on the squashed brown face of the bog body. Oh, what a mess, what a bloody mess.

'All right,' the Inspector said as two men on the surface took the strain. 'Take it easy. Come out now, please, and keep to the sides.'

Alf scrambled out after the coffin. He was covered in mud.

'Lay it over there, please, don't damage it. Now, Roger… Dr Hall… time for you to take over, I reckon.'

'Right!' Dr Roger Hall strode into the lights, beads of water glinting in his beard. 'Now we'll see.'

Without ceremony, they dumped the coffin behind the piles of excavated earth, up against the canvas screen, well out of the light. Matt Castle: just something to be got out of the way, while everybody crowded round to gaze into the grave.

Except for Alf Beckett who shuffled behind the others, squatted down on the wet grass by the coffin, put a muddy hand inside his donkey jacket and brought out the witch bottle.

Whispering, 'Forgive this intrusion, lad,' as he felt along the muddy rim of the oil-slimy casket, hands moving up to its shoulders, thumbs prising at the lid, bracing himself for the stench, a sickening blast of gasses.

Some bloke barking, 'No… no. Not like that. Look, let me come down.'

Alf breathing hard, snatching at the lid as it suddenly sprang away. 'God help us.' Could he do this? Could he put his hands in there?

'Mind yourself, Dr Hall, bloody slippy down there.'

'…'s all right. Get that bloody lamp out of my eyes. Give me a light, give me a torch. Thanks.'

Alf thought it was worse that there was no light. He might not be able to see the body, but he'd have to touch it. Feel for the cold, rubbery hands… would they be rubbery or would they be slippery or flaking with decay? He didn't know, but he'd find out, prising the fingers apart to get them to hold the bottle.

Voice raised, muffled. Voice out of the grave.

'… Got to be… Chrissie, the trowel… pass me the trowel!'

'Take your time, Dr Hall, you won't get another chance.'

Hand inside, Alf could feel the quilted stuff and the stiff, lacy stuff, the lining. Felt more like nylon than silk. Sweat bubbling up on his forehead to meet the rain, his moustache dripping.

The smell from inside the box was dank and rotten. Alf wrenched his head aside, looked away from the blackened hump of the coffin towards the people gathered round the open grave, Joel Beard singing out contemptuously, 'You see… nothing. Are you really surprised?'

Alf propping himself on his right arm, the hand splayed into the grass.

'Ashton, it has to be. I refuse to…'

It hit Alf Beckett, in a sudden burst of bewilderment. The bogman. They can't find it… why can't they find it?

And then his stomach lurched, hot vomit roared into his throat. His supporting arm collapsed, the nerves gone, and his mouth stretched into a scream so wide it seemed it'd rip his lips apart.

The scream was choked by the vomit.

His left hand, the one inside Matt Castle's coffin, had slipped, all five fingers dropping into a soft, cold and glutinous mess. A thin and viscid slithering thing was pulsing between them.

'This time,' Sam Davis said, 'you won't stop me.'

He'd already dressed by the time Esther awoke.

'Lights?' she said. 'Lights again?'

Sam nodded. Cradled in his arms was his dad's old twelve-bore shotgun.

'Get that out!' Esther shouted. 'I'll not have that thing in my bedroom.'

'Fair enough,' Sam said, patting the pockets of his old combat jacket.

'I will stop you,' Esther said, sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, if you go out with that gun I'll've called the police before you get to the end of the yard.'

'Please yourself.' Sam broke the gun. 'Man's got to look after his own.' He pulled a handful of cartridges from his jacket pocket and shoved a couple into the breach.

Esther started to cry. 'Don't waste um, luv,' Sam said. 'We tried your way. Big wanker. "Oh, Satan, get thee gone, I'm giving thee notice to quit."' Sam snorted. 'Now I'm giving um notice to quit. Wi' this. And they'll listen.'

'You're a bloody fool, Sam Davis,' Esther wept. 'You're a fool to yourself. Where will I be wi' you in jail for manslaughter? Where will your children be?'

'Shurrup, eh?' Sam said. 'You'll wake um. I'll be back in half an hour. Or less. Don't worry.'

'Don't worry…?'

'I'll show it um. Happen I'll fire it over their heads. That's all it'll take.'

Sam Davis moved quietly out of the bedroom, and his wife followed him downstairs. 'I've warned you. I'll ring for t'police.'

'Aye.' Leaving the lights off, Sam undid the bolts on the back door. It was raining out, and cold enough for sleet.

When he'd gone, Esther, shivering in her nightie, said, 'Right,' and went to the phone.

The phone was dead. He'd ripped out the wire and pulled off the little plastic plug. Esther ran to the back door and screeched, 'Sam… Sam!' into the unresponsive night. The nights were the worst times, but in a way they were the best because they hardened Lottie's intent to get out. By day – local customers drifting in around lunchtime, nice people – she got to thinking the pub was an important local service and there weren't many of those left in Bridelow and if she didn't keep it on, who would? And Matt. Matt would be so disappointed with her.

But at night, alone in the pine-framed bed which kept reminding her of her husband's coffin, enclosed by the still strange, hard, whitewashed walls, she felt his stubborn obsessiveness in the air like a lingering, humid odour. And she knew she'd paid back all she owed to Matt, long since.

If indeed he'd ever given her anything, apart from headaches and Dic.

She lay down the middle of the bed, head on a single white pillow; for the first time entirely alone. Dic had gone off – relieved, she knew – to his bedsit in Stockport; back on Monday to the supply-teaching he was doing in lieu of a real job. Dic looking perpetually bewildered all day, saying little, mooching about rubbing his chin. Offering, in a half-hearted way, to stay here until Sunday night, but Lottie briskly waving him out – fed up with you under my feet, moping around, time I had some space for myself.

To do what, though?

Well… to try and find a buyer for the pub, for a start. That would be a picnic. Best she could hope for was to flog it to some rich Cheshire businessman with romantic yearnings, for conversion into a luxury home with an exclusive view of peat, peat, peat.