Ken McClure: Trauma

He could hear the sound of a shovel being used and it excited him. He had long held the view that the best place for a murderer to dispose of a body would be a cemetery, particularly one like this which nobody cared about. If they — whoever they were — were burying someone it would be as well for him to know about it. There might be something in it for him; a possibility of blackmail perhaps? A reward for information? But maybe it wasn’t a body they were burying; maybe it was the proceeds from a robbery which he would dig up later and make off with. He could almost feel the sun on his back, hear the ice cubes clink in the glass. At the Copa, Copa Cabana... But first he had to find out.

McKirrop edged himself out of the door and crouched down close to the ground as he inched along towards where the sounds were coming from. There seemed to be four of them. He could now see that two were digging while two others held torches. “Get on with it!” snapped one of the torch holders when one of the diggers stopped working. “Maybe we shouldn’t...” began the one who had stopped digging but he was interrupted by the man with the torch who shone the beam directly on his face. “We all agreed and we’ve come this far. Get on with it!”

Both diggers continued and McKirrop could see now that they weren’t burying anything; they were digging something up, or more correctly, someone! They were digging directly in front of a recently erected tombstone!

“Bastards!” muttered McKirrop under his breath. Even to a man outside society in terms of almost everything else, the act of desecrating a grave seemed repulsive. True, the cemetery bore signs of various acts of vandalism, usually paint daubing and broken headstones but he had never known any of them go this far before. He watched, spellbound as the digging continued, the two torch beams lighting a horrific tableau. Suddenly he heard the sound of one of the spades hitting wood and the silence ended.

“We’re there,” announced one of the diggers.

“Pass it up,” said a torch holder squatting down on his haunches.

The two diggers disappeared from view as they both bent down to grip the coffin and lift it up. McKirrop held his breath as he waited for them to bring it up out of the grave. They did so with surprisingly little trouble and McKirrop could see why. It was a small, white coffin, a child’s coffin.

McKirrop felt the bile rise in his throat. This was too much. He shook his head in impotent horror as he watched three of the four get to work on the lid while the fourth held the torch beam on it. With a final splintering sound the lid came off the coffin.

McKirrop watched the proceedings until he could bear it no longer. “Bastards!” he yelled, getting to his feet. “Dirty rotten bastards! Leave the kid alone!” He crashed through the undergrowth towards the light, arms flailing and yelling at the top of his voice, which in reality was little more than a broken yodel.

There was momentary panic among the four before the torch beam was brought round to play on McKirrop and the holder called out to his fleeing companions, “It’s only an old wino!”

As McKirrop reached him, the man with the torch stepped aside smartly and hit McKirrop on the side of his face with the torch. McKirrop crashed to the ground straddling the open coffin. He struggled to get to his feet while the four men re-grouped around him. A kick in the side made him fall to the ground again.

“Look at the old fool,” sneered one of the men above him. “What a state.”

“Rotten bastards,” mumbled McKirrop but his head was aching and he couldn’t think straight.

“Give the interfering old fool a kicking and let’s get out of here,” said one of the men. “Some nosey parker out there might have heard something.”

Feet thudded into the prostrate body of McKirrop as he lay on the ground making him roll ineffectually from side to side in futile attempts to avoid the blows. A particularly vicious blow in the stomach made his wretch up the contents and he could taste whisky flavoured bile in his mouth.

“Wait!” commanded one of the men and the kicking stopped. The man knelt down and brought his face close to McKirrop’s ear. “If anyone should ask you who you saw here tonight. You saw nobody. Understood?”

McKirrop grunted.

“You can’t remember a thing, right?”

Another grunt.

“Or else...” Further kicks rained in on McKirrop’s helpless body and pain was replaced by unconsciousness.

McKirrop opened his eyes and screwed them up against the brightness of the light. He didn’t have to ask anyone where he was. He could smell that he was in a hospital; that unmistakable smell of disinfectant and anaesthetic. There were screens round his bed but he could hear bustle outside them. He ran his right hand over his chest and found that he was heavily bandaged. Moving his legs was painful and there seemed to be a large lump below his jaw on the left side. God! he could do with a drink.

He lay still, staring up at the ceiling and thinking through what had happened at the cemetery. Would he be able to go back there or would the authorities have cleared out the hut and replaced the padlock with one that worked? What rotten luck. It had all been going so well. Now he would have to move back down the canal with Bella and Flynn and the others. Flynn would make it difficult but he could deal with him if need be and Bella would welcome him back. The sooner he got out of this place the sooner he could organise himself and find a drink.

A nurse looked in on him and smiled as she saw that he was awake. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Just fine,” replied McKirrop, his voice a croak with not having spoken for so long.

The nurse held back the screen for a young woman wearing a white coat to enter. Her cuffs were rolled back and she carried a stethoscope round her neck.

“You took quite a beating,” said the new arrival as the nurse left and closed the screens again. “I’m Dr Lasseter.”

McKirrop looked at her and smiled weakly, partly because it was painful to move his mouth and partly because he was thinking how young she looked. Her eyes were bright and honest and her skin smooth and untouched by care. Her blouse was crisp and neat and her dark hair was swept back tidily and gathered at the back. What really struck McKirrop was the fact that she actually looked as if she cared and he found it disconcerting. It was the first time he had felt anything like vulnerable in a long time. So long he couldn’t remember the last time. He didn’t like the feeling; it reminded him of a different sort of life a long time ago, one he thought he had put behind him for good. He had believed himself to be immune from feelings like this.

The Salvation Army girls were honest and meant well of course, but in a different way. It was somehow impersonal with them, sort of, same planet, different world. Their only real point of contact was with a third, unseen party. They didn’t see you as a person in your own right, more as currency in some deal they had going. As for the middle-class do-gooders, they hardly saw you at all. You were just a number to be smiled at and patronised.

“I’ll be all right,” he grunted.

“My boss will be here to see you in a few minutes,” said the doctor.

“Your boss?”

“I’m a junior doctor. Dr Logan will make sure I haven’t missed anything.”

“No need. I’m fine,” said McKirrop, making an effort to prop himself up on one arm. “If you’ll just get me my clothes.”

“Not so fast,” said the doctor, pushing him gently back down again and adding, “A lot of people want to talk to you before you think of going anywhere.”

“What do you mean, a lot of people?”

“The police for a start and then the press. You are front page news.”