Paupers Graveyard

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

www.mercierpress.ie

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© Gemma Mawdsley, 2009

ISBN: 978 1 85635 617 6

Epub ISBN: 978 1 85635 900 9

Mobi ISBN: 978 1 85635 922 1

Mercier Press receives financial assistance from the Arts Council/An Chomhairle Ealaíon

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

All characters, locations and events in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, which may occur inadvertently is completely unintentional.

For George

‘Great stuff. Gripping, chilling and satisfyingly gory.'
– Mia Gallagher, author of Hellfire

***

‘Loved it. A compelling read. Couldn't put it down.'
– Una Power, writer and TV3 broadcaster

***

‘The Paupers' Graveyard is a brilliant debut novel, sensitively blending history with horror and introducing a rare new talent in Gemma Mawdsley, set to become Ireland's own Mistress of the Macabre.
'– Eileen Townsend, writer

***

‘Because of my dyslexia, it is seldom that a book grips me to the point where I can hardly leave it down. Gemma Mawdsley's The Paupers' Graveyard did just that. I found it compelling, totally absorbing and the plot and characters powerfully developed.'
– Don Mullan

***

‘This modern fantasy horror tale interweaves between today's suburban Ireland and famine times – Mawdsley's historical landscape and brilliant characterisation is accomplished; her go-between world of famine spectres is thrillingly real ... A compelling read.'
– Seamus Cashman

It is the sort of noise that wakes us in the dead of night. A vague sound from somewhere within the house that sets the heart racing. We lie in the dark, alert and waiting for it to come again, panic is barely contained, while seconds tick by like hours, and beads of perspiration break out all over our body.

Gathering strength, we reach for the bedside lamp and, once its comforting yellow glow dispels the dark, it is safe enough to rise and move from room to room, checking locks and window fastenings. Only when closets and under the bed have been searched, to rule out the presence of a knife-wielding maniac or sharp-toothed monster, does our heartbeat begin to regulate. Finally, silently, cursing the night and our own stupid fears, we climb under the warm covers again and turn off the lamp. With a little luck we will soon fall back to sleep and, by morning, the nightmare will be over, forgotten.

Timmy woke to such a sound. At first he thought someone had called his name and he lay in the dark, waiting. In days gone by it would have sent him running to his mother for comfort. Strangely, though, his heart was not pounding as he imagined it should be. It did not seem to be beating at all. There were no beads of sweat on his brow. He was cold, freezing cold. He should have been afraid and yet he was not.

It was only when the sound came again, a child's voice crying out in terror, that he became aware of the weight on his chest and the terrible taste in his mouth. He tried to identify the dry powder that coated his lips, but his tongue refused to move. It felt alien and heavy, and then he realised that it too was weighed down by the same substance. Still he didn't panic, didn't try to take what could have been deep suffocating breaths. Instead, he quietly accepted that he was lying there covered by the earth.

He was aware of others stirring close by. A great wave of restlessness seemed to sweep through the soil and he thrust his arms upward, wanting to be free. The earth parted before him like liquid, as he soared towards the surface.

Bright sunlight startled him and he stood blinking, rubbing his eyes. Thick grass reached almost to his waist, and he could hear rustling and whispers. The grass parted as small shapes scurried all around him. He knew this place well, he had only recently come here to bury Katie, but the grass had been much shorter then. The air smelt fresh, but still held the sting of winter. It was probably early spring and, judging by the sun, late afternoon.

The ground beneath Timmy's feet shook and a roaring came from beyond the trees bordering the field. As he went to investigate, he saw that much of the earth in the graveyard had been dug up. Large chunks had vanished, causing the ground to fall away into a chasm. Jumping, he landed with ease in the deep hole. The freshly dug earth smelt raw, blood sweet, and he was suddenly overcome with a desperate longing, a feeling of loss. His head filled with voices calling out to him, pleading.

A new gateway had been cut into the bushes, and the dents in the fresh earth were alarming. No cart or plough could possibly have made such a track. Giant furrows, almost big enough for him to lie down in, tumbled one into the other. He followed the trail carefully, aware that the others were moving silently behind him through the long grass. He was dreaming; he had to be.

As he walked, he realised that everything was different in this dream world. The grass moving against his arms, caressing his fingers, felt like silk. His steps were languorous. Was he sleepwalking? The very air seemed to move through and within him.

Then he saw the reason for the noise. Was it a monster? No. Be brave, he told himself. It was huge, unlike anything he had even seen before, bigger than a hundred ploughs, but without horses to pull it. The noise alone would frighten the bravest of beasts. It stood shaking and belching smoke, causing the earth beneath his feet to throb. Light glistened off the yellow paintwork, dazzling him. All at once the noise stopped and silence buzzed.

He came out from behind the machine and walked along its length, feeling braver now. There was writing on its side and he traced the big, white letters with his finger. It read ‘Earthmover'. This machine was exactly what he had thought, a giant plough. Great steel arms reached out in front of it and he went forward carefully. At the front, instead of a blade, was a gaping mouth with saw-like teeth as big as his arm. Small dark scraps of material were caught between the teeth. Like the grass, the machine felt warm to the touch. The unfamiliar cold of the steel fascinated him, and he moved his fingers across the metal.

‘Jesus Christ, will you listen to me, man!'

He spun round at the sound, unsure what to do. Moving back towards the long grass, he crouched and felt the others coming towards him. Soon the children had surrounded him, all familiar, frightened faces. He had buried most of them.

‘Timmy.' A little girl came crawling towards him and tiny arms encircled his waist. Katie, she was here.

‘Timmy, what's happening? I'm frightened. I want to go home. I want Elizabeth.'

‘Hush, Katie, there's nothing to be frightened about. That's just a big plough,' he said, pointing towards the Earthmover. The other children nodded. Timmy was their leader, and he was never wrong.

‘Let's go home, Timmy.' Katie could not be pacified.

The others looked to him for an answer, but he had no idea where home was any more. Small faces showed the ravages of disease and famine, with gaunt skin, sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes. Please God help me, Timmy prayed, show me what to do. The voices came again, loud angry mens' voices carrying across the field.

‘Stay here,' Timmy ordered, ‘I'll go and see who it is.'

The field, once lush and ripe, was now a muddy landscape. The few remaining trees looked to have been uprooted by some dreadful storm; great oaks lay on their side, roots dark and leprous. In some places, there were lines of roofless, brick buildings, in others, roped-off squares.

He ran across the vast expanse of mud into the grass on the edge of the field and towards a group of men gathered beside three blazing fires. Somehow, the fires came from inside barrels that were not burning.

Two men were arguing. One paced, cursing and running his hands through his hair. The other was calmer, more in control. Timmy crawled closer, so that he could hear what they were saying.

‘Listen, Paddy, we've had enough delays as it is with the weather. This is all we need.'

‘I want the proper authorities informed, Sean, and I don't care how long it takes. I told you yesterday those weren't animal bones. There's too many. Can't you see what's in front of your face? We're digging in a graveyard. We've been burning the bones of the dead! It's desecration!'

Timmy followed his gesture towards the barrels and almost cried out as realisation came. They were digging up the children and tossing them into these great fires. He had to stop it. No one should have to die twice.

The rest of the workmen stood apart from the argument, whispering and casting fearful glances towards the two men. Timmy was about to leave when another machine, somewhat like the Earthmover, came thundering into view. It moved as if by magic – there were no horses pulling it. Sure it would crush the men in its path, he stood up to shout a warning. They either chose to ignore him, or were unable to hear over its noise. No one looked in his direction. It stopped before reaching them and Timmy watched, spellbound, as a man got out of it. It reminded him of Jonah in the belly of the whale.

The man was red-faced, waving his arms about and shouting. He walked to one side gesturing to the man called Paddy and his opponent to follow. Timmy was forced to move even closer to them in order to hear. He was afraid to go too near in case they saw him, so only snatches of the conversation reached him.

‘There's only about an hour's more digging needed,' an angry Sean said. ‘If we stop now and do as he says,' he glared at Paddy, ‘we could be held up for weeks, even months.'

There was more muted conversation between the three before, finally, the new arrival walked towards the other workmen. He called them all together and spoke.

‘You all know what's happened here. We've obviously come across an unmarked graveyard. Now, if we report this to the police or local authorities, it could mean weeks of delay, they might even revoke permission to build. Then we'll all be in trouble.'

This sent mutterings through the group. Building work was mono-tonous at the best of times and the novelty of card playing and drinking tea would soon wear off. Worse still, if the permission to build was revoked, they would have to find another employer.

‘On the other hand, if you are prepared to complete the digging that Sean assures me will only take another hour or so, there will be a bonus payment of €300 in all pay packets.'

This last statement gave rise to gasps of surprise and nods of agreement. They could do with the extra money. Anyway, what harm could it do? The people in the graveyard were already dead. This was the consensus of the group. Their employer walked away, sure that the matter was resolved. Money solved everything as far Bob Richards was concerned. Timmy watched as Paddy tried to stop him, to reason with him, but was rudely waved aside as the man got back inside the machine and drove away.

‘Okay, everyone back to work,' Sean roared.

Timmy hurried back towards the others. Already the men were advancing up the slope and would soon be upon them.

‘Come on,' he whispered, leading the children back the way they had come. They would be safe in the tall grass. They had just made it back to the graveyard when the Earthmover trundled towards the gap in the trees. The children hid, but Timmy stood fast. As the machine came closer it dipped its head and opened wide its huge jaws. He was right in its path, looking up into the black-stained mouth and jagged teeth. They must be able to see him; they were probably trying to frighten him. The head descended jerkily, as though measuring him for size. As the teeth scooped into him he tensed and waited for the bone-crunching that would herald his end. He felt a faint breeze as the mouth passed through him and buried itself in the earth. Stepping back in amazement, he watched as the teeth tore into the soil and the screaming started all over again. He could see the bodies being wrenched from the earth. Small hands holding rotten toys reached out to him, as they ascended skywards, held firm by the jaws of the beast. It swung around, dumping its cargo into a heap, before descending again. With each bite it tore more bodies from their resting places. Men, women, mostly children were wrenched from the ground as the graveyard reverberated with their cries and moans. Timmy covered his ears, trying to block the sounds of torture. It was hopeless … the cries seemed to come from within him.

As quickly as it started, the machine stopped. The cries died away to a sighing that floated into the trees and hung there. As the branches swayed in the breeze, the sound echoed, and became the lament of so many souls in torment. Timmy ran behind the machine to the pile of freshly dug earth. Expecting to find it strewn with bodies he only saw bones. The men were picking them from the dark earth, and stacking them in wheelbarrows ready for burning. The one called Paddy stood by watching as they went about their grim task. He refused to take part in this grave-robbing, even if it meant losing his job.

‘Stop!' Timmy's cry shattered the silence, but the men paid him no heed, none except Paddy who brought his hand to his chest in terror. ‘Sweet Mother of Jesus,' he said, backing away.

‘What's wrong with you now?' Sean stood up from his sorting.

‘There's a thing … a boy I think,' Paddy pointed a quivering finger at Timmy.

‘Where?' Sean looked straight at Timmy, but saw nothing.

‘He's there!' exclaimed Paddy. ‘Can't you see? He's right in front of you!'

The others had stopped working and looked where he was pointing. They could see no one either. Some laughed, but there was no merriment in the sound.

‘I don't know,' Sean said, scratching his head. ‘If this keeps up, Paddy, I'll have to speak to the boss about you. You're getting past it, old man, going soft in the head.'

He turned to the other men, raising his eyes to heaven. Some smiled and nodded in agreement. Others went back to their task, but would say in the months that followed that they had felt something – an overwhelming sense of loss and a desire to run from the field and hide; as it was, they did nothing.

Timmy wrung his hands. ‘Why can't they see me? Why don't they listen?' He turned to Paddy. The man shook his head, still too shocked to speak to this … boy. The frightening spectre was the stuff of nightmares. He was unable to see the child. Instead, he saw a near skeleton, its cheekbones protruding against the tightly stretched skin, dark eyes peering from deep hollows and the jet-black hair which death had failed to fade, glowing against the bloodless face.

As he watched this boy-thing move backwards and forwards in front of the men, pleading with them to stop, he almost cried out in pain. What was it? Some sentinel of the dead? A guardian sent by God? Paddy lowered himself to the ground and began to pray aloud. ‘Dear God, protect and forgive us for what we do this day.' This was followed with the rosary and many of the men joined in answering.

Sean sighed in frustration at these stupid, superstitious fools as he reached down to retrieve a bone lying nearby. A small white hand was laid on top of his own brown weather-beaten one. He tried not to scream as he traced his eyes upwards, along the rag-covered arm, up the neck, towards the face.

‘Stop, you're killing us!'

Timmy's voice broke the spell, and the man screamed and stumbled back towards the dirt pile. His workmen watched, dumbfounded, as he picked up a shovel and began to beat at the air.

‘Get away from me,' he screamed, swinging the shovel at Timmy, but his efforts were in vain as the blade passed right through the boy.