The Burial Mound

'No strippers!' repeated Owen. 'How can you have a stag do with no strippers?'

I winced and the girl at reception shot me a sympathetic smile before turning back to her computer. She was a starched perfect goth, a china-doll face beneath a glass smooth orb of black hair, a razor thin neck stiff above a buttoned stiff black shirt. She handed me a piece of paper to sign and did not catch my eye.

'What are we supposed to do?' said Owen behind me.

Richard, the stag, helped the others carry the bags from the car. There was Richard, Tony and James, two old university friends, Richard's brother Mark, and Owen, a friend of Richard's from work who I had not met before. I had chosen the hotel, a country house in Salisbury that specialised more in corporate conferences, because I knew it was good and I got a discount through work. Owen had expressed his disapproval of my plan all the way up from London, everyone else had more or less taken his side.

'Hey, worst man,' he said, knocking me on the shoulder so that I messed up my signature, 'what are we going to do?'

'You want to help?' I asked.

'No.'

'Then shut up.'

I turned back to the girl behind the counter and smiled. She did not notice. Stag weekends were not what she put tights, skirt, and heels on for.

'Hello,' said Owen, low hot breath in my ear, 'is she the stripper?'

Richard rescued me, crashing through the door with two mini suitcases. 'Owen you lazy bastard,' he shouted, 'go carry your own bloody bag.'

We walked down to the village pub and made ourselves unpopular in the corner, swearing loudly and laughing. As long as there was beer there was a good time but not for me, the more I drank the more sober I felt. I let the others get on with it. I sat out a game of darts and readied my excuses in case one of their increasingly wild shots hit a local. I watched Richard, hoping that he at least did not feel that I'd let him down. I tried to apologise to the landlord as we left but his scowl did not forgive.

We repaired to the hotel bar, the china-doll goth receptionist nodding as we staggered through the lobby. I ordered a round and then headed back out to the toilet. She looked up from her magazine and for a moment I thought that I should go and talk to her, but all at once I began to feel very drunk. The room swam and I lurched to one side, steadying myself on a table.

'I'm just going to go for a walk,' I said, 'to clear my head.' She nodded again, I think, but the alcohol had caught up with me and the room seemed tilted down towards the double doors and I staggered quickly out into the deliciously cool night air and the sudden wet crunch of the gravel drive.

I held my head and concentrated on breathing, wondered if I was going to throw up, decided I was not, straightened up, felt dizzy, and started to walk out into the grounds. After a few minutes of long strides and deep breaths the dizzy spell passed and my head cleared a little. It was October and everything was cold and damp, doubly cold because I had left my coat on the back of a chair in the bar. There was a slight mist and an almost full moon behind the clouds, it was eerily beautiful.

As I walked the landscape changed from closely managed garden to empty fields, the grass had been allowed to grow longer and I could feel the hem of my jeans dampening and growing heavy, my feet too were growing wet inside my casual, fashionable shoes. But in the darkness, with my path lit only by the moon, and with me half cut, the moment was magical.

I arrived at a wooden fence and stopped. In the field beyond were four low round mounds, like a child's drawing of hills, one large one, surrounded by three others. Burial mounds. Cold black shapes lit milk white by the moon, grey wisps of mist shifting gently around them, nothing else but darkness beyond. I stood for a moment, admiring my discovery, awed into a reverent stillness.

Then I took a long piss against the fence and walked back, shivering. The others had not even noticed my absence.

The following morning we nursed our hangovers over a late breakfast, I counted down the minutes till somebody asked me what we were going to do, knowing that they knew my answer already, and knowing exactly how well it was going to go down.

'You what?' said Owen.

I looked around, but they all wore similar expressions to his.

'A walk in the fucking country,' he said, 'what do you think this is a women's institute away day.'

'It'll be fun.'

'Will it bollocks.'

'What would you rather do then?

'Go-carting, paint-balling, anything, strippers.'

'Strippers are tacky.'

'Jesus Christ you're fucking hopeless.'

We hung about in the hotel for a while, a couple of us used the pool and the rest just watched telly. Finally, with Richard's help, I managed to harry them out of the building and trudged off in the direction of a hill to climb. It was a crisp hazy autumn day, cold enough for our breath to condense but warm enough in the the sun for us all to take off our jackets once we started walking. I pulled a half bottle of decent scotch from my pocket and passed it around.

'This is lame,' said someone, but still drank my whisky.

We returned a different route, via the burial mounds.

'What the hell is that?' said Owen.

'Burial mounds,' said someone, 'Anglo Saxon maybe.'

'Looks like the set of tellytubbies.'

We climbed up the separate mounds.

'Hey,' shouted Richard from the top of the largest mound, 'look at this?'

He leaned down and picked something up from the ground, the rest of us ran over to look. It was a coin, too dirty to make out but far too large to be modern. He spat on his thumb, rubbed the dirt off, and held it up between thumb and forefinger, there was a head in profile on one side and some sort of cross design on the other, it was too rusted to make anything else out.

'You think it was buried here?' I asked.

'Maybe,' said Richard, 'could have worked it's way to the surface over time perhaps.'

Owen dropped to his knees and started to scrabble about in the grass. 'Let's see what else we can find,' he said.

'Owen,' said Richard, 'what are you doing?'

'Just looking.'

'Suit yourself.' Richard ran down the side of the mound in three long bounds. The rest of us followed.

'Hey, maybe we'll find a stripper in here.'

'Oh fuck off,' I said.

'Come on,' said Richard, 'it's cold just standing here.'

'Not until I've found something.'

'Have this then,' said Richard, and tossed him the coin.

'You sure?' said Owen, 'might be worth something.'

'Yeah well,' said Richard, 'grave robbing isn't it.'

We walked back through the hotel gardens. 'Hey,' said Owen, 'we can use that.' Standing by a flower bed, propped up against a wheelbarrow, was a spade. 'We could dig it up, it's all hidden by trees up there, nobody would know.'

'Give it up,' said Richard, and kept walking. Owen stood for a moment, and then followed.

I glanced back and, in the distance, I thought I saw a figure standing on top of the burial mound, but when I rubbed my eyes and looked again he was gone.

Night closed in fast, by the time I had showered and changed and headed back to the bar it was dark already. Richard was the only one there, sitting on a stool reading a newspaper spread out on the bar, a glass of red wine in his hand. I sat next to him and ordered a beer.

I said 'I'm sorry it hasn't been all that it should have been.'

'Fuck 'em,' he said without looking up.

'I'll stay sober tonight if you like, drive us into a town somewhere.'

'No,' he replied, 'to tell the truth I'm bushed.'

I drank my beer.

The others filtered in and we had a few drinks before wandering through to the restaurant. As we left the bar I thought I saw, in my peripheral vision, a face peering through the window right by where we had been sitting quickly duck away. I walked back over and peered out, cupping my hands over the glass, but saw nothing. I shivered, there had been something about the face, a paleness and thinness, plus I could have sworn it was wearing a crown.

'Oi,' shouted Richard, 'are you coming?'

'I thought I saw something.'

'What?'

'Nothing, must have just been a reflection in the glass.'

We ate a three course meal and afterwards dragged ourselves back down to the pub. It was more crowded than the previous night and we stood near the bar, I could feel myself start to flake out, forced to stand with a large meal inside me all I really wanted to do was climb into bed. I tried to keep myself alive for Richard's sake but none of us had much energy. The beer did not go down fast nor sit comfortably when it arrived.

'I would like to propose a toast to the worst man,' said Owen, 'who having failed so miserably to organise a stripper must now perform the task himself.'

'Fuck off,' I said through everyone else's laughter.

'This has been without doubt the most disappointing stag weekend I've ever been on. But,' he paused, 'at least I found buried treasure.'

'Hey,' said Richard, 'I found that.'

Owen took the coin from his pocket and admired it. 'What do you think it's worth?' he said.

'Perhaps you should put it back,' I said.

'Why?'

'I don't know.'

I did know, I knew then that something wanted the coin, but if I said anything they would just take the piss. As we walked back to the hotel through unlit country lanes I began to grow afraid, peering into the black fields on either side. I did not know quite what I was looking for. None of the others seemed concerned, they laughed and joked. But once we reached the hotel grounds I thought I heard something and shouted for them to shut up.

'What is it?' asked Richard.

'Listen.'

'I don't hear anything.'

'Footsteps.'

They listened.

'It was us you idiot,' said Owen.

'Let's get back,' I said, and lead them on quickly to the welcome lights of the hotel, forcing myself not to look behind because I knew they would only laugh at me.

The china-doll goth at reception greeted us as we walked in. I shut the glass doors and looked back out into the garden.

'Forgotten somebody?' she asked.

I shook my head. 'Do you lock the doors at night?'

'Not till late,' she said.

'Oi,' shouted Owen, 'it's your round.'

I hurried into the bar. When we sat down I made sure to sit where I could look out of the window. Even though the moon was almost full and the sky almost clear I could not see anything from the brightly lit bar except a tiny section of lawn and path where the light from reception spilled out the glass doors. After about half an hour I saw a man step into that light. I could not see him very well and if he had not been moving I doubt I would have seen him at all. He was extremely thin, and he moved uncannily slow, not the deliberate slowness of the cautious, nor the delicate slowness of the very old, but an unnatural slowness, like a film in slow motion. He stepped into the light, turned and looked directly at me though his face was hidden in shadow, and then stepped out of my sight towards the hotel entrance. I could have sworn that I saw something shiny glint upon his head.

'Are you alright?' asked Richard. I managed to pull my eyes away from the empty space where the man had just been and realised I was trembling. I put my drink down on the glass table with a clatter.

'I don't know,' I said, and stood up and rushed out into the lobby.

It was empty.

'Can I help you?' It was the girl from reception, just walking back into the room from the office.

I didn't answer. I was looking at a line of muddy footprints that ran from the entrance to the stairs where they faded and disappeared before reaching the first floor. All our rooms were on the second.

She said, 'did one of you lot do that?'

'No, you saw us come in.'

'They weren't there before and I was only away for a second. Did you see anyone?'

'No,' I said, not very sure why I said it.

She shrugged and walked back to her desk. I took a closer look at the footprints, they were thin and curiously shaped, more like bare feet than a shoes, on the stairs, where they were weaker, just before they disappeared entirely, they were so thin they looked almost skeletal.

I shook my head. 'I've had too much to drink,' I said, mostly to myself.

I returned to the bar and tried to forget about it, but I could not, I was certain we had awoken something at the burial mound and now it was in the hotel. I fidgeted and worried in my seat, ignoring the conversation around me, trying to think of a way to warn the others that would not just make them laugh. Eventually, when we were all rising to head off to bed, I spoke.

'Owen,' I said, 'have you still got that coin?'

He put his hand in his pocket and nodded, not taking it out.

'Can I borrow it?' I asked. 'just for tonight.'

'No.'

'I'm worried.'

'About what?' he said, sneering.

I hesitated, the weight of my concerns able to overcome my rationalism but unable to overcome my embarrassment. 'Nothing,' I said eventually, 'just be careful. Lock your door.'

Owen shook his head and turned away. Oh that I had had the courage to say something. Though I doubt anything I could have said would have persuaded him to part with the coin.

There is little else to report. Only one small thing that I am not sure of, that I may have dreamed. For the first time since childhood I dared not turn out the light and I sat up in the bed with my knees drawn up. Even in this pose my terror was outweighed by fatigue and drunkenness and I eventually fell asleep. At some point in the night I was woken by the bedroom door rattling, I could see the handle turning and that someone outside in the corridor was pushing against the door, trying to open it. Of course I had locked it.

'Who is it?' I asked, barely able to keep my voice steady.

There was no answer, just a long hiss of breath. The door handle was released and I heard someone turn and walk slowly away.

Like I said, I may have dreamed it.

In the morning Owen did not turn up for breakfast and when it came time to leave he could not be roused. We persuaded the manager to open his door. In the room it was freezing cold, the window was wide open and a light drizzle had dampened the carpet, his bedsheets were disturbed and his clothes from the previous night lay on the floor, his suitcase was open on the desk.

We split up to search and I went straight to the burial mound, he was not there but the ground had been turned over. The police dug it up later, he was found six feet down, naked and quite dead. The coroner has said that he went back in the night to dig for treasure and his excavations caved in on him, but that does not explain why he was unclothed, nor how he climbed from a second story window, nor why he did not use the spade we saw during the day, nor why, when he was found, he was found wrapped tightly in the embrace of an ancient skeleton, a rusted crown fused by the centuries to its skull, nor how the coin we all recognised came to end up clasped in its bony fist.