bless him

by Mario Georgiou

The priest mumbled the usual words. His beard had frozen stiff in the morning fog. Around the open grave stood two dozen mourners, one woman dabbed at her tears with a glove; a man beside her checked his watch and sighed.

Inside the coffin, Norman shivered. He lay in his favourite suit, an old Marks & Spencer two-piece he’d worn to  the office for a decade. He had a bottle of whiskey and three biscuits wrapped in tissue at his side, but it was too risky to indulge just yet. The last thing he needed was a resurrection.

Joan was wailing over the priest’s voice. The sound was like a pneumatic drill to Norman’s skull. He bit down hard on the back of his hand. Twenty years of this, he thought. Twenty years of the morning inspection—the readjusted tie, breath check, the kiss on the cheek in view of the neighbours. “Be back for six o’clock, we’re reading Revelations tonight.” Someone else could deal with her now. He felt  no guilt. Joan would be fine eventually, and she would have plenty of people to order around.

Least of all Marcus, the town’s florist, who already had his prying hands around the widow’s shoulders.

“There there dear, it’ll be okay. I’m here,” Marcus whispered into her ear, inhaling her perfume. His mind was somewhere in the future. They weren’t at a funeral; they were standing at the altar, the priest was blessing them. I do, mouthed Marcus.

Norman jumped when the coffin creaked. It started to sway wildly, making his stomach jolt. Then a soft landing. He swallowed hard to stifle a cough. His heartbeat became a thumping outside his chest. Every sense was amplified inside the wooden darkness.

“Normy, oh my Normy!”

Dirt knocked on the lid of the coffin. Slowly at first and almost relaxing, like rainfall. Then steadier and more purposeful. Yesterday Jim assured him that he’d only cover the coffin in a thin layer, enough to make a point, but not enough to block the makeshift airhole on the side panel. Norman had to stay semi-buried for a few hours, and breathing was already requiring concentration. This wasn’t the plan.

Jim was supposed to let Norman out of the coffin before the church service began, and hide him in the workshop until nightfall. Under the cover of darkness they would both leave town.

But at the last minute Joan had insisted upon an open coffin, so Norman had to lie there playing dead while mourners filed past. Jim did what he could—he turned off the heating, swapped in a dim lightbulb—anything to deter lingerers. Norman played a convincing corpse: he lay there revisiting old memories, fantasising about the future, trying to estimate how many miles to Portsmouth—anything to keep composed.

They had met fifteen years ago, soon after the war ended, when Jim stopped by Norman’s office to order wood for the new workshop.

“That’s all ordered. Should be with you next week,” said Norman as he led Jim to the door. “Mind your head on the way out, don’t bang it again.”

Jim’s cheeks reddened. “Tall man’s curse”

“Well it beats having to turn sideways!” Norman laughed, patting his stomach.

Jim began returning to place orders for wood he didn’t need. Norman joked he must be building a castle.

They had kept their relationship secret for years, ever since that night in the newly built workshop where they both caved in. Tired of late night meetings and cover stories, they had planned this escape three years ago. The plan was ready, but it was Jim who couldn’t bring himself to leave. He was a sensitive man who loved his wife, though in the way a man loves his sister.

By midday most of the mourners had left the cemetery. Jim stayed back with Harry, his young apprentice, who was leaning against a gravestone and picking at the skin around his fingernails.

“Get yourself home lad, I’ll finish up,” said Jim. Harry left without a word, still picking at his fingers.

“Bloody kids,” smiled Jim. His frosty breath gave him away.

He looked down into the open grave.

“Norm?” There was no response.

“Norman it’s Jim, say something.” He picked up a stone and dropped it onto the coffin. Norman startled awake.

“Jim? That you?”

“Thank Christ, I thought you were dead!” Jim said.

“I’m fucked,” Norman was laughing. “I drank the whisky.”    

“Keep your voice down” Jim hissed. “You mean you’ve drunk it all?”

Across the cemetery two women were watching Jim. They attended every funeral in the town, treating it like a day out.

“Poor thing,” said one. “Joan told me they were like brothers. He’s really suffering, isn’t he? Bless him.”

“Bless him,” the other repeated.   

“Should we go and console him?” said the first woman.                       

“Oh no, when my Michael died all I wanted was to be left alone.” They turned and left.

“Try and sleep. I’ll be back as soon as it’s dark. I’ve already packed the car and our train is at nine.” Jim stood up and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Norman cried out. “I’m going to piss myself.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you necked the bottle. Now quiet down, I’ll be back tonight. I love you, fella.”

Jim wandered through the town, his feet savouring every crack and cobblestone on the pavement. He brushed his hands along the church walls he’d helped rebuild after the bombings. The same church he was married in, the same church his daughter was christened. Every door he passed brought a familiar name to mind. He loved this place. But he also loved Norman.

He stopped by the pub to warm up and was pounced upon by a few of the regulars offering their condolences. Unable to look them in the eyes, he took his drink and sat alone in a dark corner. He chain smoked with a furrowed brow as he thought about Norman in the coffin; it was a lot colder than they’d planned. Norman will be fine, he thought. He runs hot.

He caught himself smiling as he imagined how odd they must have looked lying together on the workshop’s single bed. He took a long sip of his lager.

Thirty minutes earlier, Norman had once again woken up. His hands and feet felt like blocks of ice and breathing was becoming laborious. He had no way of knowing how long there was left to wait, and berated himself for not bringing a watch.

The sun had begun to set over the cemetery. Birds were singing their evening songs.

“Don’t worry, Norman,” came a muffled voice. “I’m going to take very good care of her. She’ll soon forget about you.”

“Jim?” croaked Norman.

Marcus’s eyes widened. He stumbled back and fell over a gravestone.

“Jim, I gotta get out,” Norman pleaded. “Is it dark yet?”

Marcus gripped the grass as if the world was spinning. He was imagining things, surely. He crawled to the grave and peered down over the edge.

“N…Norman?”

“Jim get me out of here, I can’t breathe so good,” came the voice from below.

Every hair on Marcus’s body stood up. His breathing intensified. Then it hit him: Norman was alive. He jumped up and ran for help, but his legs stopped him.

This couldn’t be happening. It’s a cruel joke. It’s not fair.

Joan was his now.

He’d been so patient.

Such a good friend.

It was his turn.

Marcus turned around and looked at the spade which lay flat on the dirt beside the grave. His trembling hand reached out for it. Then pulled away.

I can’t, can I? he thought.

Then he found himself holding it.

Then it was loaded with dirt.

Heavy thuds started raining down on the lid of the coffin. Frantic and loud with no rhythm. Norman was pushing against the lid in anticipation of his release. But against his palms he could feel the wood pushing back. The heavy thudding turned to banging. Marcus was packing the dirt tightly, smacking it with the spade. Marcus was muttering to himself:

“Just helping out…”

Thud.

“...doing everyone a favour.”

Thud.

“Bodies sometimes make noises, don't they? Something about gas escaping.”

Thud.

Norman screamed. He pounded the lid with his knees; his nails broke as they clawed into the wood. In the pitch black there was only white static. His lungs were shrinking. Tightening. Dirt trickled in through the breathing hole.

The last thing Norman saw was him and Jim on a beach somewhere far away, sitting next to each other on the sand, clinking their glasses.

The pub doors swung open and Marcus waltzed in. He seemed to have an uncharacteristic spring in his step as he pulled off his cap and went to the bar. None of the regulars paid him any attention.

“I’m here to pick up the sandwiches for Joan,” he told the barmaid.

“Name?”

He shook his head. “It’s Marcus…I come in every weekend.”

“Alright. Won’t be a minute,” the barmaid disappeared through the swinging back doors.

Marcus looked around the room and spotted a familiar, lanky silhouette hiding behind a wall of cigarette smoke. Their eyes met through a window in the cloud. Jim looked away. When he looked back, Marcus was sitting beside him.

“Done you a favour, Jim,” said Marcus with a wry smile.

“What’s that then?” said Jim, looking straight ahead.

“I saw the young Harry heading home, he told me you’d let him off early.” Jim’s face turned white. “Thought I’d give you a hand with the burial, but you weren’t there.  So I did it myself. Hard work in this cold wea—”

Jim exploded up onto his feet, knocking over his lager. The whole pub turned to see what the commotion was about.

“What do you mean you did it yourself?”Jim grabbed Marcus by the collar, pulling him up from the chair. As Marcus tried to pry his hands off, Jim saw the dirt packed under his fingernails.

“What have you done, you fool!” He released Marcus who fell backwards. Before anything else could be said,  Jim was already out of the pub doors and hurtling down the street towards the cemetery.

When he arrived the sun had set and the warden was locking the gate. The warden dropped his keys in a fright.

“Christ almighty you scared the hell out of me!”

Jim was on his hands and knees feeling for the keys. The moon was out and lent the gravel a silver sheen.

“Where are they, come on…oh God, please.” His fingers were numb and he couldn’t discern between small stones or a set of keys.

The warden saw them first and grabbed them. The jangling immediately brought Jim out of his frantic search and he lunged for the Warden’s hand, snatching the keys away.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” the warden shouted. “Give them back, the cemetery is closed!”

Jim was already fumbling at the lock of the gate. The warden tried to wrestle his hand away and take the keys back but caught Jim’s elbow; then the sound of crunching bone.

“You’ve broken my fucking nose!” Blood gushed down over the warden’s mouth and chin like a high pressure tap.

Ten keys later the gate swung open and the sound of Jim’s desperate feet disappeared into the darkness.

He knew the cemetery layout better than the dead within it. Ignoring the paths between graves, guided only by moonlight, he tripped several times, leaving a trail of broken vases, overturned candles and one stone crucifix barely standing.

He reached the freshly covered grave which had a spade standing upright in the dirt like a territorial flag.

No…no…no…no.

This was really happening.

He dug like a man possessed. Dirt flew in all directions.

“Please God,” he repeated, over and over.

It wasn’t moving fast enough.

He threw the spade to the side and slammed onto his knees. He clawed at the dirt like a dog digging for a bone. Tears poured out of his eyes down onto the soil. Barely a foot of ground had been removed when a stampede started growing louder and louder behind him.

“JIM, STOP,” came a voice.

“HE’S DEAD,” shouted another.

As the runners came closer, the voices all seemed to blur into one giant mass of desperation. Two of the town policemen, closely followed by the warden holding his bloody nose, speared into Jim and knocked him over.

“GET OFF ME” he screamed. “NO. NORMAN I’M…STOP, GET OFF.”

By now more people had shown up to witness the scene. They were all convinced they were watching a man in the throes of gut-wrenching grief.

The two policemen sat on Jim. His cries could be heard across town.

“Quiet down fella, you’ll be okay but quiet down now,” said one of the constables. He looked at the other and said: “Cuff him, let’s get him home.”

The Wolseley 6-80 crept down Jim’s street like a funeral procession. On either side of the road men and women in their nightwear stood outside their front doors; curtains twitched, and kids were sent back to bed. The car came to a stop and the two policemen got out. They unlocked the back door and helped Jim out. He was still crying but no longer handcuffed.

A door opened and his wife ran out to meet them, throwing her arms around her husband. Jim fell to his knees and buried his head into her. She thanked the policemen and took Jim inside, closing the door behind her.

“Poor thing,” said a neighbour.

“Bless him,” said another.

Photo of Mario Georgiou

BIO: Mario Georgiou is a British writer currently living in Budapest, Hungary.