Have Spade Will Travel

With his slicked-back, grey hair and his craggy, weather-beaten face, Father Mulroy looked more like a gangster than a holy man. He sat beside me in the pew, the strong odour of furniture polish failing to neutralize the awful, cheap aftershave of the blue-eyed, Irish priest.

    St Judes, the ancient parish of my misfortune was to be the venue for my confession. I had related to Father Mulroy, that the confession was not to be a formal affair, as I was a protestant. However, he agreed to my unusual request, his curiosity in need of sating.

    It all began on that awful September day. At twenty-eight years of age, I enjoyed the pleasantries that all young men bestowed upon themselves. Billy Fury, Bentleys, rock’n’roll, Adam Faith, and of course girls. I loved the feel of Brylcreem on my hair, my Teddy boy suit, and mimicking my hero’s on Jukebox Jury.

    Yes, I was almost a normal young man. Almost. What set me out different from the others was my macabre occupation…grave digging. My Uncle John had set me up in the business, and had left all of his possessions and his parish addresses to me. I was probably the only freelance gravedigger in the country.

    I was viewing all of the nameless train stations that passed me by when I travelled to Oakhampton, Devon. Father Mulroy had sent for me. “It was urgent,” he had said. “Five graves to dig. Usual rates apply.”

    It was a living, I suppose. Not one that I was proud of though, for I concealed my occupation from the local girls. Who would want to go out with a gravedigger? As I passed a schoolyard, I watched the children jumping up and down on their pogo sticks and playing marbles. I felt as if my childhood had never happened. At the tender age of twelve, I was travelling the country, digging graves with my Uncle. “Learning the trade,” so he would tell me.

    I hated the journey down to Devon. Eight bloody wasted hours on the train. If I knew what was to befall me this day, I would have gladly abandoned the train at the next station and walked back home to the north.

    The tall oak trees swayed in rhythm with the strong breeze, depositing their brown leaves onto the sodden, consecrated ground. The overcast sky, grey and morose, befitted the settings of the tranquil, bleak cemetery. I watched as the mourners shuffled towards the exit, after paying homage to their loved ones.

  I hate cemeteries, and absolutely loathe the services. Funerals only made people miserable. When I die, I want my friends and family to party; bopping to Bill Hailey and the Comets. Now that would be something. A rock’n’roll party in a cemetery.

I peered into the void; a small coffin that occupied the hole in the ground. This is the part that filled me with sadness; burying the children. I preferred to call it, aiding them on their journey to the gateway to heaven.

    Henry Keeler, a fellow gravedigger told me once, that as he threw the dirt onto a coffin, he heard scratching and screaming. After opening the coffin, a young man, the victim of the premature burial, struggled out of his tomb and ran screaming towards the exit, never to be seen again. 

    I am not sure if this is a true account, but I have read of such things happening nationwide, with doctors certifying the victim as dead, only for him to wake up later.

    As I covered the small coffin with dirt, I felt the presence of somebody watching me. I turned around to face a small, unsmiling girl, who was wearing a bright yellow dress, her hair in pigtails and her little nose upturned. She was sitting on the stump of an old oak tree, her eyes swollen and red. She had clearly been crying.

    “Hello, what’s your name?”

    “Anna,” she whispered.

    “Well, Anna, I’m Simon. What’re you doing here?”

    “Are you Simple Simon?”

    “Well, I suppose I am... Where do you live, Anna?”

    “Down there, in the darkness.” She pointed towards the coffin.

    I swallowed deeply. I could feel my bowels rummaging. I could endure most things in life, but ghosts? This was my worst nightmare, or was it?”

    “You mean you live over there?” I asked, pointing past the grave.

    “No, down there, in that box.”

    My first thought was to run, but then I looked at this small, sad looking girl, and realised that she surely could not hurt me.

    I probed further. “You’re playing games now aren’t you?”

    The girl opened up. “My father used to play games with me. He wasn’t my real father, you understand, but my mother made me take his name. He used to touch my bumps and tell me that I would be a beautiful princess one-day.”

    “What do you mean, Anna, when you said you lived down there?”

    The sad girl ignored my question. “My father said he loved me. He placed his giant hands around my throat. I screamed, but nobody came.” She cocked her head to one side. “Have you come to help me?”

    “Well, no… I mean, yes… I’ve come to cover you up.” I realised how stupid that sounded, as the absurdity of it registered. Father Mulroy and old Henry Keeler must be behind this prank, I thought. Well, I’ll show them.

    “Wait here, Anna. I’ll be back in a moment.”

    “Will you help me?” she pleaded. “Please don’t let them punish my mother. It was my father who did the awful deed.”

    “Wait here,” I ordered.

    I marched swiftly towards the church. This had gone too far. I meandered between the graves; angry blood flowing through my veins. Nobody would make a scapegoat of Simon Darwin. The bells tolled two ‘o’clock when I pushed open the creaky wooden door to the church. Father Mulroy was lighting candles when I approached.

    “Simon, that was quick,” he said. “I didn’t expect you back so early.”

    “Father Mulroy, it’s well known that you like a joke. You are after all known as the comic priest… Who is the girl?”

    He smiled. “Do they really call me that? It has rather a ring to it, don’t you think?”
    “The girl, Father?”
    “Girl? I know not of any girl.”
    “Come off it, Father. The little girl in the cemetery. The girl who claims she lives in the coffin. She’s around twelve years old and wearing a yellow dress.”

    The priest looked genuinely puzzled. “Perhaps it’s one of Henry’s jokes?”

    “Henry is in York. He hasn’t been here all week.”

    The priest shrugged. “Come, Simon. Take me to this girl.”

    There was no sign of the girl when we returned to the old oak stump.

    Father Mulroy eyed me suspiciously, unsure now if he was the victim of the practical joke. “Perhaps she was a local girl, Simon.”

    “Father, who was buried here?” I asked.

    “Anna Fairhurst, a twelve years old girl. She was murdered; her body found in Fallow woods, not far from here.”

     My heart beat rapidly as I listened to the Irish priest. “She was strangled, right?”

    “Ah, so you’ve read about it in the newspapers then?”

    “No, Father. She told me. Her father strangled her.”

    The priest’s face was ashen. “Simon, do you realise what you’re saying?”

    “Anna told me. She said not to let them punish her mother.”

    Father Mulroy pondered. “This is unbelievable. True, her mother is believed to have murdered her, but ghosts… Simon, go home and forget about this. Let the dead rest in peace.”

    I gripped the arm of the priest. “Don’t you understand, Father? She was asking me for help.”

    “Her mother is a cruel woman, Simon. Witnesses have come forward, telling of her wrath. She used to constantly beat her daughter. Her stepfather, Richard Fairhurst often used to intervene. It is thought that Paula, her mother is insane. Maybe you read of the story in the newspapers. You must have fallen asleep and dreamt about the girl.”

    “She was real, I tell you. I saw her as I now see you.”

    “Forget about it. Tomorrow is another day.”

    “If her mother is found guilty, she’ll hang, right?” I asked.

    The priest nodded. “I’m afraid so, unless of course, they find her insane… We live in such a brutal and unforgiving society. Hanging has no place in the fifties and it ought to be abolished.”

    “I must go to the police.”

    “And say what, Simon? They will probably cart you off to the asylum too. Besides, Richard Fairhurst is a respectable man, a lay preacher in fact. He often conducts sermons in here. Actually, he’s expected tomorrow. That is of course if he’s in the right mind to turn up. It must be a devastating blow to lose your stepdaughter. He spoke of her often and was totally devoted to her.”

    I reluctantly continued. “Anna said he used to touch her, Father.”

    “Simon! Enough of this nonsense. Do what you must… If what you say is true, then perhaps it’s a message from God. Highly unlikely though, don’t you think? Go, Simon and sleep on it. The girl was probably playing games with you.”

 

That night in the local tavern, my mind was made up. The murder was high on the agenda of most conversations. I sipped pint after pint, attempting to obliterate my experience at the graveside from my memory. As I gave up another twopence for my ale, my eyes connected with a young, innocent face, portrayed on the front of a newspaper. Anna was how I remembered her.

    “Excuse me, could I borrow your newspaper for a moment?” I asked.

    “Of course,” obliged the elderly gentleman who was wearing a flat cap. “Be my guest, son.”

    There was no mistake. It was Anna. A photograph of her mother and stepfather accompanied the story. The tabloids had suggested that the mother was the murderer. She was already condemned to hang in their eyes. I gulped down another pint in an attempt to eradicate my woes. The more I drank, the more frantic I was becoming.

 

    As I staggered back to my cottage that adjoined the cemetery, I found myself on a country lane that I did not recognise. Funny, I had not passed this on the way here. I continued on my way and came across an area that was cordoned off with yellow tape. After closer inspection, I realised the police had been here. I stared into the dark cluster of trees and a strange yellow glow appeared. Amidst the glow, I could make out a small shape. Anna was standing there crying. Even though there was only a half moon, she was clearly visible, due to the bright, yellow aura that was surrounding her.

    Her mouth opened. “Please don’t let them blame her. Pleasssse!”

    She faded away when I approached. It was at that moment that I finally made up my mind.

I stepped off the tram and headed towards Oakhampton police station. Before entering, I paused and considered what I was about to do. Before I could change my mind, I was facing the red-faced desk sergeant. He looked none too happy to see me on this Sunday morning.

    “I want to report a crime.”

    “Oh, and what crime be that then?”

    I felt a lump in my throat. “The murder of Anna Fairhurst… I saw her father carry the body into the woods.”

    He looked me up and down and abandoned his newspaper. “Just you wait there, young sir.”

    He returned two minutes later and I was ushered into an interview room by two detectives.
    “Have a seat, son. I’m Detective Inspector Harris, and this here’s Detective Constable Porter. I believe you have something to report.”

    Harris had large eyes that seemed to stare straight through me. They reminded me of a tawny owl.
    “I saw someone carrying a body into the woods on Wednesday.”

    “Wednesday you say? Why have you just decided to come forward now?”

    “At the time, I thought nothing of it. I assumed that someone was dumping rubbish.”

    “And what makes you think different now?” asked the inspector.

    “Well, I read about the murder of the little girl and saw the photograph of her father in the newspaper. It was definitely the same man that I saw dumping the body.”

    Owl eyes kept staring. I swear he never blinked during the entirety of the interview. Could he see that I was lying?

    “You’re not from around here are you, son?”

    “I can see why they made you an inspector,” I joked.

    “Mr...”

    “Darwin, Simon Darwin.”

    He jotted my name down. “Do you live in Oakhampton?”

    “No, I’m from Whitby. I’m employed by Father Mulroy, digging graves.”

    The two detectives smirked. I was not annoyed; I was used to being ridiculed about my unfavourable profession.

    “Would you be able to pick out this man in a line-up?”

    “Yes, I think so.”

    “Well, Mr Darwin, DC Porter here will take your statement. Better late than never I suppose. You probably saved Mrs Fairhurst from the hangman’s noose. I really thought she done it… Another thing. You never saw the photograph of Richard Fairhurst in a newspaper, okay?” He winked at me.

    After making my confession, I retreated to the pub across the road for a well-earned drink. I prayed that they did not check where I really was on Wednesday; a couple of hundred miles away!

 

    As I walked the identity parade line, I had no trouble picking out the lay preacher. He had one of those distinctive faces that you could not fail to notice. He was a large man, his bulky frame making him stand out from the crowd. The first thing I noticed about him was his hands. They were so large. He had curly, grey hair that was seriously in need of a comb. His broad nose was appropriate for his thick lips, and his overall appearance oozed evil vibes. This man definitely did not strike me as being a holy man.  An image came to me, of his huge hands choking the last living breath out of Anna.  There was no going back now. I had made up my mind.  

    I faced him, trying not to hold his gaze. I could smell the garlic on his breath. “Number four,” I said.

    “Are you sure?” asked the sergeant.

    “Oh, I’m sure all right.”

    “This is absurd... You’re very much mistaken young man,” complained Fairhurst.

    “I don’t think so.”

    He was led to the cells, his objections ignored. The inspector patted me on the back. My task was complete. Now perhaps Anna could rest in peace.

 

I was in awe of the magnificent redwood decor in the courtroom. Who would have thought it? Me, a key witness in the central criminal court at the Old Bailey. The defence and prosecutor, who were resplendent in their scarlet robes and white wigs, added to the glamour of it all. I was in a sort of trance. The whole trial passed me by unconsciously.

    Fairhurst bowed his head when the judge placed his black cap onto his head. I glanced across at Mrs Fairhurst, a pretty woman, who showed no emotion as the judge passed sentence. She looked at me quizzically and smiled. She mouthed, “thank you,” as her husband was led away.

    Before he was taken to the cells, his powerful voice boomed. “Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they do. As God is my witness, I am innocent.”  

Standing at the foot of Anna’s grave, I checked my pocket watch. One minute to ten, almost time for Richard Fairhurst to meet his maker. I felt obliged to be besides Anna when her killer was ousted to the depths of hell.

    A red mist appeared before my eyes and the temperature dropped rapidly. An apparition developed before me. I watched as Fairhurst was led from his cell to his place of execution, his ankles shackled, his large hands strapped behind his back. The chaplain gave him communion, before the white hood was placed over his head. He mumbled something inaudible when the hangman pulled the lever. I heard the bang, and then watched, as his body jerked, dancing around on the rope like a marionette.

    The apparition faded away to be replaced by Anna, only she seemed different. She hovered about a foot off the ground and smiled at me. Then, she laughed loudly, an evil sounding laugh. Her eyes were crimson and her long, green-forked tongue protruding through her drooling lips. Her breath reeked of staleness, as she spoke in a strange, deep rasping voice.

    “Thank you, my pathetic friend. My God-worshipping bastard of a father was well rewarded. I hope it doesn’t play on your conscience too much.”

    “W-what do you mean?” I asked.

    “I used you, you imbecile. He didn’t murder me. It was my mother.”

    “What are you saying? Who are you?”

    “Who am I? You could call me the devil’s disciple if it pleases you.”

    I held my throbbing head. “This is not happening. You’re not real.”

    She hovered towards me, her face inches from mine; her rancid breath making me want to vomit. “Oh, I’m real all right. You have rid your pathetic world of another bastard unbeliever. Let’s say, we’ve reprieved a servant of evil. She is free to continue her slaying of the Christians.”

    I backed away when she stretched out her hands and laughed even louder. I turned and ran from the cemetery, looking back at the red haze as it faded.

 

    “So you see, Father, I have sinned. Richard Fairhurst went to the gallows an innocent man.”

    “A remarkable story, Simon. So Paula Fairhurst goes free.”

    “Yes, she was the real killer after all.”

    “I know she was.”

    I looked at the priest, who was sitting motionless.

    “You know?”

    He left his pew up and walked down the aisle towards the exit.

    “What do you mean you know?” I shouted after him.

    He looked back, his eyes ruby red. He grinned broadly and he put on his hat. “I know.”