Darren Shan - Procession of the dead

Dee hit the lid first. The sound of her shovel striking the hard wood will stay with me to the end of my days. Nobody should have to hear that, especially when the coffin in question is (allegedly) their own. We shoveled frantically, wanting the torture to be over. We cleared the earth away, using our hands on the smaller clumps. Again I cursed myself, as I had in Theo's house, for not bringing a pair of gloves. But I was luckier than Dee-my fingernails were short, whereas hers were long and quickly collected semimoons of the dark, damp soil.

The screws were hard to turn. I spent ages twisting and kicking at them. I cut my hands in several places, licked the blood away and studied the nicks in the thin night light. If my year in the city was a dream, I should carry these marks for the coming week. If, on the other hand, they'd cleared by morning…

In the end the screws yielded to my blows, kicks and curses. I sat back, panting. Dee looked at me. "Scared?"

"Shitless," I confirmed.

"Me too." She was shivering. I pulled her close and gave her a hug. "If there's something there…," she began.

"There won't be. You convinced me of that in the cottage, remember?"

"I know. And I believed it then. But out here, with the dead all around and the screws taken off… Martin, what if-"

"Don't say it. The time for talking and worrying is over." I took a deep breath but it didn't help. "Ready?" When she nodded wordlessly, I swung back the upper half of the coffin.

The skeleton inside grinned up at us.

Dee screamed and scrabbled backward. She hit the wall of the freshly dug hole, turned and yanked herself out. I heard her being sick, sobbing, retching, tearing at the grass with her hands.

Having half expected it, I was calmer. I studied the rotting corpse, almost all bone now. The skull wasn't set as straight as it should have been-there was a crack in the neck. Its hands were crossed serenely across its chest. Scraps of hair clung to its scalp, refusing to accept the finality of the situation. Long, jagged nails. No eyes. Maggots feasting on the leftovers.

I abandoned the grave and stood over the gasping Dee. My face was blank, my hands were steady, my mind was set. Her theory had offered hope of a sane, happy conclusion, but I'd known all along it was pie in the sky.

She looked up, mouth slick with vomit and spit, eyes wild and dark. There was fear in those eyes, confusion and doubt. But mostly hatred for me, the thing with her husband's face but not her husband. "What are you?" she hissed. "What the fuck are you?"

"I don't know. Come back to the grave."

"What?" she screeched.

"I want you to verify it."

"You're crazy."

"I need to know for sure. That could be anybody. You've got to identify him."

"It's Martin's grave! Martin's coffin! Who the fuck do you think itis?"

"Please, Dee." I offered her a friendly hand.

She slapped the hand away. "Don't touch me," she snarled. "Don't come near me. You're not Martin. You're not even human. You can't be. You-"

I slapped her hard. I didn't like it but I couldn't have her cracking up. I'd been acting the part of Martin Robinson, but whoever I might once have been, I was now Capac Raimi, a gangster, henchman to The Cardinal. And I wanted answers.

She stared at me, horrified. "You never hit me before," she whispered.

"Things change. I asked nicely. Now I'm telling you. Check the body."

Wordlessly, holding a hand to her cheek, she crawled across and stared into the grave again. She wept as she did and a couple of drops fell into the empty pits of the corpse's eyes. "It's Martin," she moaned.

"How do you know?"

"On his chest. His hands. He's wearing his wedding ring."

"They could have put that on anybody. It doesn't prove anything."

"That's Martin," she said, hard this time. "And if you ever say that it isn't"-she stood and glared at me-"I'll kill you."

I nodded wearily and sat by the grave, swinging my legs into the space below. I wasn't fearful or nervous anymore. I was once again the cold, detached, clinical operator who'd killed a pair of men two nights before. Something changed when I exposed the body. The possibility that I was Martin Robinson evaporated and, as if I were an actor quitting a role, I dropped the persona instantly.

"It could be a fake," I murmured. "If The Cardinal took my body, he'd fill the gap with an impostor. He likes to cover his tracks."

"The Cardinal? "

"You know him?" I stared at her.

"I know of him."

"You've never met?"

"Of course not."

"Did I… did Martin ever meet him?"

She shook her head. "Martin was a teacher. That's all." She moved back from the grave and circled me. "You really worked for The Cardinal?"

"Yes."

"Then it was true what you said earlier? About being a gangster?" I nodded sharply. I wanted her to be quiet so I could think. "Did you ever kill anybody?"

"Does it matter?" I asked.

"I want to know," she snapped. "You've stolen my dead husband's face. I want to know what you've been doing with it."

"It's none of your business." I rose and picked up the shovel. "I'll leave in the morning. There's nothing for me here. I thought there'd be answers but all I've found are more riddles and questions." I kicked a clod of earth into the grave and glanced at her. "Are you going to help me fill this in?"

Her eyes were wide with disbelief. "What sort of creature are you? You come to me looking like Martin. You drag me out here and make me desecrate his… my husband's grave!" Her voice was rising dangerously. "And you think you can just walk away without… like nothing had…"

"What else can I do? I'm sorry I put you through this but I had no choice. I was in the dark and I needed to-"

"You think this is the end of it?" she interrupted. "Think again, mister. I don't know who or what you are, but I'll be damned if I let you walk away like it's some game."

"What do you want from me?" I sighed. "What can I do to please you?"

"Stop talking like that for a start," she growled. "We've just dug up a grave, damn it! You could at least show some respect for the… the dead." Her head fell and she sobbed into her chest. I did feel sorry for her. Truly. But inside I was burning. The fire had been building during my year in the city, slowly, gradually. When I killed Vincent and the other man, it flared. It dwindled when I wrestled with the mystery of my former identity but now it was burning fiercely again. Only the truth could quench this fire. Dee couldn't help me unlock the secrets of my past, so I had no time for her anymore.

"Dee," I said as patiently as I could, "let's just fill in the grave and leave. We'll finish what we started, go home, put on the kettle, get a few hours' sleep. In the morning I'll be gone and you can get back to your-"

"You're going nowhere," she insisted.

"You want me to stay?" I asked uncertainly.

"Oh, you're staying," she chuckled grimly. "And in the morning-no, as soon as we leave here-we're going to the police."

"That won't happen, Dee," I told her flatly.

"You don't have a say in this. It's my husband you're masquerading as. I'm the one who decides. And I say we let the police handle this."

"You don't mean that."

"You can bet your eyes I do." She was sure of herself now. She had a cause to keep her going. By focusing on that, she wouldn't have to deal with the wounds I'd reopened. In her head it was straightforward-go to the police, tell them all about me, and they'd sort things out, somehow, some way. Then she'd be happy.

"Dee," I said, knowing what I must do but trying to find another way, not wanting to commit myself to a path of damnation from which I could never come back. "If I leave right now and never return, will you let this drop?"