Shaun Hutson: Death Day

Now, as he remembered how prophetic that statement turned out to be, Lambert hated himself even more.

They had carried on drinking late into the night but it had been Mike who had remained sober, Lambert himself who had got pissed. So pissed he asked Mike to drive them home. So pissed he had not closed his car door properly (the thing that probably saved his own life). So pissed he'd forgotten Mike had only passed his driving test a few weeks earlier and had no experience at night driving.

And now he remembered, how the car went out of control as it hit the patch of black ice. How the car swerved and he was thrown clear while Mike struggled with the wheel, trying to avoid the lamp post.

Drunk and in pain, Lambert had seen the car smash into the lamp post. Seen Mike catapulted through the windscreen, heard his scream of agony as the jagged glass shredded his face and upper body. Then Lambert had crawled across to his brother's body and sat with him, ignoring the blood which had splashed for fifteen feet across the pavement, ignoring the pieces of glass embedded in Mike's face and neck, the final spoutings of his blood jetting darkly into the night.

When the ambulance arrived, Lambert had been sitting on the pavement holding his dead brother's hand. At that precise moment of course he didn't know that Mike was dead. He only realized that when the two ambulance men lifted the shattered body. There was a dull thud and the head dropped to the ground, the neck severed by the savage cuts.

At that point, Lambert had collapsed.

And now, he found the courage to look back at his brother's grave. He wiped the tears away, suddenly becoming aware of just how cold the wind was getting. He shivered, cold in spirit as well as body.

'Shit,' he said aloud, shaking his head. He inhaled, held the breath then let it out very slowly.

The family had been very understanding about it. God, how fucking ironic, how bloody magnanimous of them, he thought. Never mind about your brother, it wasn't your fault. He felt suddenly angry. So, maybe it wasn't his fault, but, he told himself, what good were consolations when you had to live with the thought for the rest of your life?

He'd woken screaming for nights afterwards. Debbie understood, she always understood. He thanked God he had her. They'd been married two years but already he wondered what the hell he'd have done without her. If he hadn't had her with him during the last couple of weeks he'd have gone up the wall. Everyone had been very understanding but it had done nothing to ease the guilt. He wondered what would.

There had been nothing about it in the newspapers. Lambert knew Charles Burton, the man who ran The Medworth Chronicle. The two men disliked one another but Lambert had managed to persuade him not to mention his name in the local rag. It wouldn't have done his reputation much good either. He'd been surprised that he hadn't heard more from Divisional HQ in Nottingham. Lambert, as head of Medworth's small police force, could do without the kind of publicity which the crash might have brought. He was surprised he hadn't been asked to resign or some such drastic measure, but, as Debbie had said to him at the time, he hadn't killed his own brother. He had only been involved in the accident which had taken his life.

Lambert was the only one who felt like a murderer.

He lingered a moment longer, then, almost reluctantly, he turned and made his way back along the path between the graves until he reached the gravel drive.

It was after nine but he was in no hurry. He'd been told to take a month off. Get his thoughts back into one piece. The men under him were all capable. Capable enough at least to run things until he returned.

He walked, head bowed, collar turned up against the wind. Lost in his own thoughts, he almost bumped into the tall man coming through the cemetery gates.

The man was carrying a pick over his shoulder and there was a younger man behind wearing a pair of bright orange overalls.

Lambert sidestepped the pair who continued up the gravel drive, their mud-caked boots making it sound as if they were walking on cornflakes. Lambert saw their council van parked across the road outside the vicarage. There was movement in the bay window of the building and Lambert saw Father Ridley standing inside. He waved cheerfully to the young man who raised a hand in weary acknowledgement. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys and unlocked the car door. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine and swung the car round, pointing it down the hill in the direction of the town. Lambert flicked on the radio but, after a moment or two found that he didn't feel like listening to music. He switched the set off.

He drove the rest of the way in silence.

'It'll take until next Christmas to clear this lot,' said Ray Mackenzie, dropping his pick dejectedly.

He was looking at a patch of ground about half the size of a football pitch, surrounded on three sides by densely planted trees. Some had even encroached into the heavily overgrown area itself. The grass and weeds were waist high in places and, as Mackenzie stepped forward, he snagged his arm on a particularly tall gorse bush. He muttered something to himself and kicked at it.

The area was beyond the main part of the cemetery, two hundred yards or more from the central driveway along which they had just come. Situated in a slight hollow, it was effectively masked from the rest of the area. Only the fact that the top halves of the trees poked up above the rim of the crest testified to its existence. The grass was neatly cut only up to the very edge of the crest then it sloped down into the area where the two men stood. Nature run riot.

'Fancy letting it get in this state in the first place,' complained the younger of the two men. Steve Pike had quite fancied the idea of working for the council at first. Weeding the flower beds in the town gardens, cutting the grass in the park? It had seemed like a good idea. As he surveyed the expanse of twisted gorse, bracken, heather and waist high grass he began to have second thoughts.

Father Ridley had called the council offices and asked if they could send some men to clear a patch of ground for him.

'Well,' said Mackenzie. 'Standing here looking at it isn't going to make it go away.'

With that he drove his pick into the ground, turning a large clod. He grimaced as he saw the size of the worm which clung to it. He broke the clod with his pick and continued digging. Steve stood watching him.

'Come on,' snapped Mackenzie. 'Get the sickle and cut some of that stuff down.' He pointed to a dense growth of ragweed which was fully two feet high. Steve went to the canvas bag they had brought with them and pulled out the sickle, then he set to work, hacking away at the recalcitrant plants. Mackenzie swapped his pick for a shovel and was soon turning the earth. But it was quite a battle.

Steve too found that the roots of the bramble and gorse bushes went deeper than he thought. Great thick tendrils of root clung to the earth like bony fingers.

They worked on. Yet despite the fury of their exertions, both men began to notice something odd. Both were soaked in sweat but both could feel their bodies trembling from the cold. A cold the like of which neither had experienced before. A deep, penetrating cold which was almost oppressive. Mackenzie stopped digging and looked up.

Another thirty minutes and the men decided that it was time they stopped for a while. Steve looked around. They had done quite well considering the size of the problem. At least a quarter of the overgrown area had been cleared, the earth now dark beneath their feet. Mackenzie looked at his watch. The second hand was frozen. It had stopped, the hands pointing to 9:30. He shook it and grunted.