A Twist of the Knife

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ said Josh in the back, mimicking a child.

  ‘The great Um Ga says, “Wherever I go, there I am,”’ responded Robbo, who was driving, and was slightly less drunk than the rest of them. With three pubs notched up already in the past hour and a half, and four more on the itinerary, he was sticking to shandy. At least, that had been his intention; but he’d managed to slip down a couple of pints of pure Harveys bitter first – to clear his head for the task of driving, he’d said.

  ‘So, we’re there!’ said Josh.

  ‘Always have been.’

  A deer warning sign flitted from the darkness then was gone, as the headlights skimmed glossy black-top macadam stretching ahead into the forested distance. Then they passed a small white cottage.

  ‘How’re we doing, pal?’ said Mark in the back, with a big grin on his face, doing a passable impression of a caring best man.

  Michael, lolling on a tartan rug on the floor in the back of the van, head wedged against a wheel-brace for a pillow, was feeling very pleasantly woozy. ‘I sh’ink I need another a drink,’ he slurred.

  If he’d had his wits about him, he might have sensed, from the expressions of his friends, that something was not quite right. Never usually much of a heavy drinker, tonight he’d parked his brains in the dregs of more empty pint glasses and vodka chasers than he could remember downing, in more pubs than had been sensible to visit.

  Of the group of friends, who had been muckers together since way back into their early teens, Michael Harrison had always been the natural leader. If, as they say, the secret of life is to choose your parents wisely, Michael had ticked plenty of the right boxes. He had inherited his mother’s fair good looks and his father’s charm and entrepreneurial spirit, but without any of the self-destruct genes that had eventually destroyed the man.

  From the age of twelve, when Tom Harrison had gassed himself in his car, in the garage of the family home, leaving behind a trail of debtors, Michael had grown up fast, helping his mother make ends meet by doing a paper round then, when he was older, by taking labouring jobs in his holidays. He grew up with an appreciation of how hard it was to make money – and how easy it was to fritter it.

  Now, at twenty-eight, he was smart, a decent human being and a natural leader of the pack. If he had flaws, it was that he was too trusting and, on occasions, too much of a prankster. And tonight the latter chicken was coming home to roost. Big time.

  But at this moment, he had no idea about that.

  He drifted back into a blissful stupor, thinking only happy thoughts, mostly about his fiancée, Ashley. Life was good. His mother was dating a nice guy; his kid brother had just got into university; his kid sister, Jodie, was back-packing in Australia on a gap year, and his business was going incredibly well. But best of all, in two days’ time he was going to be marrying the woman he loved and adored. His soul mate.

  Ashley.

  He hadn’t noticed the shovel that rattled on every bump in the road, as the wheels drummed below on the sodden tarmac and the rain pattered down above him on the roof. And he didn’t clock a thing in the expressions of his two friends riding with him in the back, who were swaying and singing tunelessly to an oldie, Rod Stewart’s ‘I Am Sailing’, on the crackly radio up front. A leaky fuel can filled the van with the stench of petrol.

  ‘I love her,’ Michael slurred. ‘I s’hlove Ashley.’

  ‘She’s a great lady,’ Robbo said, turning his head from the wheel, sucking up to him as he always did. That was in his nature. Awkward with women, a bit clumsy, a florid face, lank hair, beer belly straining the weave of his T-shirt, Robbo clung to the coat-tails of this bunch by always trying to make himself needed. And tonight, for a change, he actually was.

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Coming up,’ warned Luke.

  Robbo braked as they approached the turn-off, and winked in the darkness of the cab at Luke seated next to him. The wipers clumped steadily, smearing the rain across the windscreen.

  ‘I mean, like I really love her. Sh’now what I mean?’

  ‘We know what you mean,’ Pete said.

  Josh, leaning back against the driver’s seat, one arm around Pete, swigged some beer, then passed the bottle down to Michael. Froth rose from the neck as the van braked sharply. He belched. ‘’Scuse me.’

  ‘What the hell does Ashley see in you?’ Josh said.

  ‘My dick.’

  ‘So it’s not your money? Or your looks? Or your charm?’

  ‘That too, Josh, but mostly my dick.’

  The van lurched as it made the sharp right turn, rattling over a cattle grid, almost immediately followed by a second one and onto the dirt track. Robbo, peering through the misted glass and picking out the deep ruts, swung the wheel. A rabbit sprinted ahead of them, then shot into some undergrowth. The headlights veered right then left, fleetingly colouring the dense conifers that lined the track, before they vanished into darkness in the rear-view mirror. As Robbo changed down a gear, Michael’s voice altered, his bravado suddenly tinged, very faintly, with anxiety.

  ‘Where we going?’

  ‘To another pub.’

  ‘OK. Great.’ Then a moment later, ‘Promished Ashley I shwouldnt – wouldn’t – drink too much.’

  ‘See,’ Pete said, ‘you’re not even married and she’s laying down rules. You’re still a free man. For just two more days.’

  ‘One and a half,’ Robbo added helpfully.

  ‘You haven’t arranged any girls?’ Michael said.

  ‘Feeling horny?’ Robbo asked.

  ‘I’m staying faithful.’

  ‘We’re making sure of that.’

  ‘Bastards!’

  The van lurched to a halt, reversed a short distance, then made another right turn. Then it stopped again and Robbo killed the engine – and Rod Stewart with it. ‘Arrivé!’ he said. ‘Next watering hole! The Undertakers Arms!’

  ‘I’d prefer the Naked Thai Girl’s Legs,’ Michael said.

  ‘She’s here, too.’

  Someone opened the rear door of the van – Michael wasn’t sure who – and invisible hands took hold of his ankles. Robbo took one of his arms, and Luke the other.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘You’re a heavy bastard!’ Luke said.

  Moments later Michael thumped down, in his favourite sports jacket and best jeans – not the wisest choice for your stag night, a dim voice in his head was telling him – onto sodden earth, in pitch darkness that was pricked only by the red rear-lights of the van and the white beam of a flashlight. Hardening rain stung his eyes and matted his hair to his forehead.

  ‘My . . . closhes . . .’

  Moments later, his arms yanked almost clear of their sockets, he was hoisted in the air, then dumped down into something dry and lined with something soft that pressed in on either side of him.

  ‘Hey!’ he said again.

  Five drunken, grinning, shadowy faces leered down at him. A magazine was pushed into his hands. In the beam of the flashlight he caught a blurry glimpse of a naked redhead with gargantuan breasts. A bottle of whisky, a small flashlight – switched on – and a walkie-talkie were placed on his stomach.

  ‘What’s—?’

  ‘We’ve preset the channel,’ Robbo informed him. ‘Don’t want you chatting to any strangers.’

  Michael heard a scraping sound, then suddenly something blotted the faces and all the sound out. His nostrils filled with the smells of wood, new cloth and glue. For an instant he felt warm and snug. Then a flash of panic.

  ‘Hey, guys – what—’

  Robbo picked up a screwdriver as Pete shone the flashlight down on the oak coffin.

  ‘You’re not screwing it down?’ Luke said.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Pete said.

  ‘Do you think we should?’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Robbo said. ‘Mark checked it all out, didn’t you, Mark?’

  ‘Yeah, I looked it up on the internet. Even if a coffin’s completely
airtight, you’d have enough air for three to four hours. Unless of course you panicked and began hyperventilating. Then you could knock it down to under an hour.’

  ‘I really don’t think we should screw it down!’ Luke said.

  ‘Course we should – otherwise he’ll be able to get out!’ Josh admonished him. ‘We just have to tell him to remain calm and he’ll be fine!’

  ‘Hey!’ Michael said.

  But no one could hear him now. And he could hear nothing except a faint scratching sound above him.

  Robbo worked on each of the four screws in turn. It was a top-of-the-range hand-tooled oak coffin with embossed brass handles, borrowed from his uncle’s funeral parlour where, after a couple of career u-turns, he was now employed as an apprentice embalmer. Good, solid brass screws. They went in easily.

  Michael looked upwards, his nose almost touching the lid. In the beam of the flashlight, ivory-white satin encased him. He kicked out with his legs, but they had nowhere to travel. He tried to push his arms out, but they had nowhere to go, either.

  Sobering for a few moments, he suddenly realized what he was lying in.

  ‘Hey, hey, listen, you know – hey – I’m claustrophobic. This is not funny! Hey!’ His voice came back at him, strangely muffled. He pushed up against the lid above him, but it wouldn’t budge an inch.

  Pete opened the door, leaned into the cab and switched on the headlights. A couple of metres in front of them was the grave they had dug yesterday, the earth piled to one side, tapes already in place. A large sheet of corrugated iron and two of the spades they had used lay close by.

  They all walked to the edge and peered down. All of them were suddenly aware that nothing in life is ever quite as it seems when you are planning it. Right now, the hole looked deeper, darker, more like – well – a grave, actually.

  The beam of the flashlight shimmered at the bottom.

  ‘There’s water,’ Josh said.

  ‘Just a bit of rainwater,’ Robbo said.

  Josh frowned. ‘There’s too much, that’s not rainwater. We must have hit the water table.’

  ‘Shit,’ Pete said. A BMW salesman, he always looked the part, on duty or off. Spiky haircut, sharp suit, always confident. But not quite so confident now.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Robbo said. ‘Just a couple of inches.’

  ‘Did we really dig it this deep?’ said Luke, a freshly qualified solicitor, recently married, not quite ready to shrug off his youth, but starting to accept life’s responsibilities.

  ‘It’s a grave, isn’t it?’ said Robbo. ‘We decided on a grave.’

  Josh squinted up at the worsening rain. ‘What if the water rises?’

  ‘Shit, man,’ Robbo said. ‘We dug it yesterday and it’s taken twenty-four hours for just a couple of inches to accumulate. Nothing to worry about.’

  Josh nodded thoughtfully. ‘But what if we can’t get him back out?’

  ‘Course we can get him out,’ Robbo said. ‘We just unscrew the lid.’

  ‘Let’s get on with it,’ Mark said. ‘He’s going to be fine. OK?’

  ‘He bloody deserves it,’ Pete reassured his mates. ‘Remember what he did on your stag night, Luke?’

  Luke would never forget waking from an alcoholic stupor to find himself on a bunk on the overnight sleeper to Edinburgh. As a result he arrived forty minutes late at the altar the next morning.

  Pete would never forget, either. The weekend before his wedding, he’d found himself in frilly lace underwear, a dildo strapped to his waist, manacled to the Clifton suspension bridge, before being rescued by the fire brigade. Both pranks had been Michael’s idea.

  They hefted the coffin off the ground, staggered forward with it to the edge of the grave, and dumped it down, hard, over the tapes. Then giggled at the muffled ‘Ouch!’ from within.

  There was a loud thump.

  Michael banged his fist against the lid. ‘Hey! Enough!’

  Pete, who had the walkie-talkie in his coat pocket, pulled it out and switched it on. ‘Testing!’ he said. ‘Testing!’

  Inside the coffin, Pete’s voice boomed out. ‘Testing! Testing!’

  ‘Joke over!’

  ‘Relax, Michael!’ Pete said. ‘Enjoy!’

  ‘You bastards! Let me out! I need a piss!’

  Pete switched the walkie-talkie off and jammed it into the pocket of his Barbour jacket. ‘So how does this work, exactly?’

  ‘We lift the tapes,’ Mark said. ‘One each end.’

  Pete dug the walkie-talkie out and switched it on. ‘We’re getting this taped, Michael!’ Then he switched it off again.

  The five of them laughed. Then each picked up an end of tape and took up the slack.

  ‘One . . . two . . . three!’ Robbo counted.

  ‘Fuck, this is heavy!’ Luke said, taking the strain and lowering.

  Slowly, jerkily, listing like a stricken ship, the coffin sank down into the deep hole. When it reached the bottom they could barely see it in the darkness.

  Pete held the flashlight. In the beam they could see the lid, and they all grinned at the thought of Michael beneath it.

  Robbo grabbed the walkie-talkie. ‘Hey, Michael, are you enjoying the magazine? If you get a hard on you might be able to raise the lid with your dick!’

  ‘OK, joke over. Now let me out!’

  ‘We’re off to a pole-dancing club. Too bad you can’t join us!’ Robbo switched off the radio before Michael could reply. Then, pocketing it, he picked up a spade and began shovelling earth over the edge of the grave, and roared with laughter as it rattled down on the roof of the coffin.

  With a loud whoop Pete grabbed another shovel and joined in. For some moments both of them worked hard until only a few bald patches of coffin showed through the earth. Then these were covered. Both of them continued, the drink fuelling their work into a frenzy until there was a good couple of feet of earth piled on top of the coffin.

  ‘Hey!’ Luke said. ‘Hey, stop that! The more you shovel on the more we’re going to have to dig back out again in two hours’ time.’

  ‘It’s a grave!’ Robbo said. ‘That’s what you do with a grave, you cover the coffin!’

  Luke grabbed the spade from him. ‘Enough!’ he said firmly. ‘I want to spend the evening drinking, not bloody digging, OK?’

  Robbo nodded, never wanting to upset anyone in the group. Pete, sweating heavily, threw his spade down. ‘Don’t think I’ll take this up as a career,’ he said.

  They pulled the corrugated iron sheet over the top, then stood back in silence for some moments. Rain pinged on the metal.

  ‘OK,’ Pete said. ‘We’re outta here.’

  Luke dug his hands into his coat pocket dubiously. ‘Are we really sure about this?’

  ‘We agreed we were going to teach him a lesson,’ Robbo said.

  ‘What if he chokes on his vomit or something?’

  ‘He’ll be fine, he’s not that drunk,’ Josh said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Josh climbed into the rear of the van and Luke shut the doors. Then Pete, Luke and Robbo squeezed into the front, and Robbo started the engine. They drove back down the track for half a mile, then made a right turn onto the main road.

  After a few miles, Mark switched on the walkie-talkie. ‘How you doing, Michael?’

  ‘Guys, listen, I’m really not enjoying this joke.’

  ‘Really?’ Robbo said. ‘We are!’

  Luke took the radio. ‘This is what’s known as pure vanilla revenge, Michael!’

  All five of them in the van roared with laughter. Now it was Josh’s turn. ‘Hey, Michael, we’re going to this fantastic club, they have the most beautiful women, butt naked, sliding their bodies up and down poles. You’re going to be really pissed you’re missing out on this!’

  Michael’s voice slurred back, just a tad plaintiff. ‘Can we stop this now, please? I’m really not enjoying this.’

  Through the windscreen Robbo could see roadworks ahead and a green light. He accelerated.

>   Luke shouted over Josh’s shoulder, ‘Hey, Michael, just relax, we’ll be back in a couple of hours!’

  ‘What do you mean, “a couple of hours”?’

  The light turned red. Not enough time to stop. Robbo accelerated even harder and shot through. ‘Gimme the thing,’ he said, grabbing the radio and steering one-handed around a long curve. He peered down in the ambient glow of the dash and hit the talk button.

  ‘Hey, Michael—’

  ‘ROBBO!’ Luke’s voice, screaming.

  Headlights above them, coming straight at them.

  Blinding them.

  Then the blare of a horn, deep, heavy-duty, ferocious.

  ‘ROBBBBBBBBOOOOOOO!’ screamed Luke.

  Robbo stamped in panic on the brake pedal and dropped the walkie-talkie. The wheel yawed in his hands as he looked, desperately, for somewhere to go. Trees to his right, a JCB to his left, headlights burning through the windscreen, searing his eyes, coming at him out of the teeming rain like a train.

  *

  Michael heard a long scream. Then a huge, echoing, metallic clang, as though two cosmic-size dustbins had swung into each other. Then a clattering sound. Then silence.

  In panic, he shouted, ‘Hallo? Hey, guys! Guys! You OK?’

  Silence.

  ‘GUYS!’

  Silence. In the beam of the flashlight he stared at the lining that was inches above his eyes, fighting panic, starting to breathe faster and faster. He needed to pee, badly, going on desperately. And he was seriously claustrophobic.

  Where the hell was he? What the hell had happened to the guys? Mark, Josh, Luke, Pete, Robbo? Were those effects for his benefit? Were they standing around, giggling? Had the bastards really gone off to a club and left him?

  Then his panic subsided as the alcohol kicked back in again. His thoughts became leaden, muddled. His eyes closed and he was almost suckered into sleep.

  Opening his eyes, the lid of the coffin blurred into soft focus as a roller wave of nausea suddenly swelled up inside him, threw him up in the air then dropped him down. Up again. Down again. He swallowed, closed his eyes again, giddily feeling the coffin drifting, swaying from side to side, floating. The need to pee was receding. Suddenly the nausea wasn’t so bad any more. It was snug in here. Floating. Like being in a big bed!