over his shoulder, shone his torch down and a reflection shone back. Water.
A whole fucking inch.
He looked down in shock. There was no way. No, absolutely no way that he had sweated this much.
Two fucking inches.
He put his hand down again. Shone the torch. Held his pinkie upright, like a dipstick. The water came up to just below the second joint. There was no way he had sweated that much. Cupping his hands he scooped some up and drank it greedily, oblivious to its salty, muddy taste. He drank more and more; for several minutes it seemed to him that the more he drank, the thirstier he was.
Then when he had finally finished, a new aspect of the rising water came into the equation. He grabbed the belt buckle and began frantically grinding away at the lid until again, but within minutes, the buckle became so hot it was burning his fingers.
Shit.
He picked up the whisky bottle. Still a third of its contents left. He struck the top of the bottle hard against the wood above him. Nothing happened. He tried again, heard the dull thud. A tiny sliver of glass sheared off. Tragic to waste it. He put the neck into his mouth, tilted it, swallowed a mouthful of the burning liquid. God, it tasted good, so good. He lay back, up-ended the bottle into his mouth and let it pour in, swallowing, swallowing, swallowing until he choked.
He held the bottle up, squinting at it in the beam, having difficulty focusing now, his head swimming. Only a small amount of whisky remained. Just about--
There was a thump right above his head. He felt the coffin move!
Then another thump.
Like a footstep.
Like someone standing on the lid of the coffin right above him!
Hope sprang every nerve in his body. Oh Jesus Christ, theyaregetting me out of here at last!
'OK, you bastards!' he yelled, his voice more feeble than he had intended. He took a breath, heard another scrape above him. At fucking last!
'What the fuck kept you?'
Silence.
He banged his fist against the lid, slurring his words. 'Hey! What fucking kept you? Josh? Luke? Pete? Robbo? Have you any idea how long I've been down here? This is just so not funny, this really is just so not funny. You hear me?'
Silence.
Michael listened.
Had he imagined it?
'Hello! Hey, hello!'
Silence.
No way had he imagined it. There had been footsteps. A wild animal? No, they had been heavier than that. Human heavy.
He knocked frantically with the bottle and then with his fists.
Then very suddenly, very silently, as if he were watching a magic show on television, the breathing tube slid upwards and disappeared, A few grains of soil fell down through the hole it vacated.
21
Mark could barely see. The red mist of panic that seized him was blurring his vision, fogging his brain. Michael's voice, he had heard Michael's goddamn muffled voice. Oh Jesus!
He closed the door of his BMW in the darkness of the forest, in the lashing rain, jabbed at the ignition, and tried to get the key in. His boots were heavy and tacky with cloying mud, water was streaming down from his baseball cap onto his face.
With his gloved hands he twisted the key and the headlamps came on in a brilliant white glare as the engine turned over and fired. In their beam he saw the grave and the trees beyond. An animal scurried off into the undergrowth, leaves and plants swayed in the wind and rain, for a moment almost surreally like plants in a current on the ocean floor.
He kept staring at the grave, at the corrugated sheet he had carefully pulled back over, and the shrubbery he had uprooted and laid over it to camouflage it. Then he saw the second spade still sticking in the ground and cursed. He climbed down from the car, ran across and grabbed it, and shoved it inside the tailgate. Then he climbed back in, slammed the door, scanning the scene, checking it as well as his blurred vision could.
He was thinking. No construction was due to start here for at least another month, there were still planning issues to be sorted and finalized. No reason for anyone to come here. The planning committee had made their inspection, everything now was on hold for the formal rubber stamp.
Shaking uncontrollably, he put the car in gear and headed back down the track, over the two cattle grids again that had been put there, presumably by the Forestry Commission, to stop deer getting out onto the road.
As he pulled out onto the road he switched on the radio, hitting button after button in search of some music. There was news.
Talking. A commercial. He hit the CD button, surfed each of the CDs in turn, but none of them worked for him. He switched the machine off.
