Stephen (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

He has scarcely lowered the phone to his ear when an operator cuts off the bell. “Emergency,” she declares.

Coe can be as fast as that. “Police,” he says while she’s enquiring which service he requires, but she carries on with her script. “Police,” he says louder and harsher.

This earns him a silence that feels stuffed with padding. She can’t expect callers who are in danger to be polite, but he’s anxious to apologise in case she can hear. Before he can take a breath a male voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”

“Can you help me? You may have trouble believing this, but I’m buried alive.”

He sounds altogether too contrite. He nearly emits a wild laugh at the idea of seeking the appropriate tone for the situation, but the policeman is asking “What is your name, sir?”

“Alan Coe,” says Coe and is pinioned by realising that it must be carved on a stone at least six feet above him.

“And where are you calling from?”

The question seems to emphasise the sickly greenish glimmer of the fattened walls and lid. Does the policeman want the mobile number? That’s the answer Coe gives him. “And what is your location, sir?” the voice crackles in his ear.

Coe has the sudden ghastly notion that his children haven’t simply rushed the funeral – that for reasons he’s afraid to contemplate, they’ve laid him to rest somewhere other than with his wife. Surely some of the family would have opposed them. “Mercy Hill,” he has to believe.

“I didn’t catch that, sir.”

Is the mobile running out of power? “Mercy Hill,” he shouts so loud that the dim glow appears to quiver.

“Whereabouts on Mercy Hill?”

Every question renders his surroundings more substantial, and the replies he has to give are worse. “Down in front of the church,” he’s barely able to acknowledge. “Eighth row, no, ninth, I think. Left of the avenue.”

There’s no audible response. The policeman must be typing the details, unless he’s writing them down. “How long will you be?” Coe is more than concerned to learn. “I don’t know how much air I’ve got. Not much.”

“You’re telling us you’re buried alive in a graveyard.”

Has the policeman raised his voice because the connection is weak? “That’s what I said,” Coe says as loud.

“I suggest you get off the phone now, sir.”

“You haven’t told me how soon you can be here.”

“You’d better hope we haven’t time to be. We’ve had enough Halloween pranks for one year.”

Coe feels faint and breathless, which is dismayingly like suffocation, but he manages to articulate “You think I’m playing a joke.”

“I’d use another word for it. I advise you to give it up immediately, and that voice you’re putting on as well.”

“I’m putting nothing on. Can’t you hear I’m deadly serious? You’re using up my air, you – Just do your job or let me speak to your superior.”

“I warn you, sir, we can trace this call.”

“Do so. Come and get me,” Coe almost screams, but his voice grows flat. He’s haranguing nobody except himself.

Has the connection failed, or did the policeman cut him off? Did he say enough to make them trace him? Perhaps he should switch off the mobile to conserve the battery, but he has no idea whether this would leave the phone impossible to trace. The thought of waiting in the dark without knowing whether help is on the way brings the walls and lid closer to rob him of breath. As he holds the phone at a cramped arm’s length to poke the redial button, he sees the greenish light appear to tug the swollen ceiling down. When he snatches the mobile back to his ear the action seems to draw the lid closer still.

An operator responds at once. “Police,” he begs as she finishes her first word. “Police.”

Has she recognised him? The silence isn’t telling. It emits a burst of static so fragmented that he’s afraid the connection is breaking up, and then a voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”

For a distracted moment he thinks she’s the operator. Surely a policewoman will be more sympathetic than her colleague. “It’s Alan Coe again,” Coe says with all the authority he can summon up. “I promise you this is no joke. They’ve buried me because they must have thought I’d passed on. I’ve already called you once but I wasn’t informed what’s happening. May I assume somebody is on their way?”

How much air has all that taken? He’s holding his breath as if this may compensate, although it makes the walls and lid appear to bulge towards him, when the policewoman says in the distance “He’s back. I see what you meant about the voice.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Coe says through his bared teeth, then tries a shout, which sounds flattened by padding. “What’s the matter with my voice?”

“He wants to know what’s wrong with his voice.”

“So you heard me the first time.” Perhaps he shouldn’t address her as if she’s a child, but he’s unable to moderate his tone. “What are you saying about my voice?”

“I don’t know how old you’re trying to sound, but nobody’s that old and still alive.”

“I’m old enough to be your father, so do as you’re told.” She either doesn’t hear this or ignores it, but he ensures she hears “I’m old enough for them to pass me off as dead.”

“And bury you.”

“That’s what I’ve already told you and your colleague.”

“In a grave.”

“On Mercy Hill below the church. Halfway along the ninth row down, to the left of the avenue.”

He can almost see the trench and his own hand dropping a fistful of earth into the depths that harboured his wife’s coffin. All at once he’s intensely aware that it must be under him. He might have wanted to be reunited with her at the end – at least, with her as she was before she stopped recognising him and grew unrecognisable, little more than a skeleton with an infant’s mind – but not like this. He remembers the spadefuls of earth piling up on her coffin and realises that now they’re on top of him. “And you’re expecting us to have it dug up,” the policewoman says.

“Can’t you do it yourselves?” Since this is hardly the best time to criticise their methods, he adds “Have you got someone?”

“How long do you plan to carry on with this? Do you honestly think you’re taking us in?”

“I’m not trying to. For the love of God, it’s the truth.” Coe’s free hand claws at the wall as if this may communicate his plight somehow, and his fingers wince as though they’ve scratched a blackboard. “Why won’t you believe me?” he pleads.

“You really expect us to believe a phone would work down there.”

“Yes, because it is.”

“I an’t hea ou.”

The connection is faltering. He nearly accuses her of having wished this on him. “I said it is,” he cries.

“Very unny.” Yet more distantly she says “Now he’s aking it ound a if it’s aking up.”

Is the light growing unreliable too? For a blink the darkness seems to surge at him – just darkness, not soil spilling into his prison. Or has his consciousness begun to gutter for lack of air? “It is,” he gasps. “Tell me they’re coming to find me.”

“You won’t like it if they do.”

At least her voice is whole again, and surely his must be. “You still think I’m joking. Why would I joke about something like this at my age, for God’s sake? I didn’t even know it was Halloween.”

“You’re saying you don’t know what you just said you know.”

“Because your colleague told me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here,” he realises aloud, and the light dims as if to suggest how much air he may have unconsciously used up.