Graves



  Graves

  Justin Cawthorne

  Copyright 2016 Justin Cawthorne

  Graves

  by Justin Cawthorne

  The first grave appeared four days ago.

  Hardly anyone noticed it. I can't say I thought much about it either.

  Come to think of it, I found it quite funny at first. Harmless, even. Now it's a different kind of funny: like someone who's funny in the head and takes a loaded shotgun into a room full of people. I’ve got no idea whether Aaron found it funny when he woke up that morning and found a gravestone sticking out of his garden.

  Probably not.

  The routine had been the same for both of us over the years. Every morning I'd walk by his house, clearing my head, getting my morning breather—whatever you wanted to call it. Aaron would be there in his garden, spending the brighter part of the day keeping nature in check. If it rained the work would be put on hold, but I'd still see him sitting ruefully under the porch, biding his time until the weather turned in his favour. He might have been able to control his plants, flowers and everything else that lived in his garden, but the skies were out of his hands. I think he always resented that.

  The weather on that particular day was fine, some might even say it was perfect.

  I called to Aaron as I walked by. “Good day for it, eh?”

  He nodded, stopping to glance up at the blue sky. “It is, indeed.”

  That was it for most mornings. We’d exchange our ritual greeting and I’d carry on walking. Our dialogue was as constant as Aaron’s garden: little changed, just like the rest of the damn island. Anything new may as well have had a neon sign pointing down at it.

  This time I stopped.

  “What's that then?” I asked. “A new feature?”

  He turned around and followed my gaze, even though he knew exactly what I was talking about. In one of his flower beds, halfway down the garden, was a grey slab of rock. It stuck out of the earth, not quite a metre high, leaning at a slight angle. The surface was smooth and polished. It seemed to suck the light in.

  Aaron drew a breath and turned back to me. I blinked. Surely no more than a couple of seconds had passed, but it felt like half the day had just disappeared.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know,” he said, his voice weary. “I suppose it's a practical joke. Maybe.”

  That didn’t ring true. Aaron had been on the island as long as I could remember. He was well known for two things: his garden and his sense of humour. Both were dark arts. He hardly ever talked about his garden, even though he spent most of his days tending to it. Meanwhile his jokes were so dry it could sometimes take months to be sure whether he was serious or not.

  “Is it …”

  “A gravestone?” he said, finishing the question for me. “Yes, I think it is. Perhaps someone's making out I spend too much time in this garden.”

  I chuckled. For all I knew, Aaron could have put it there himself. Stranger things had happened, although not that often. Whoever was responsible, at least it gave us something to talk about for a minute or two.

  “So, you want a hand? I'll grab a shovel.”

  Aaron shrugged “Ahh … that's all right, I’ll just dig it out later.”

  “Oh, I didn't mean to pull it out: I was thinking about digging the next six feet. Let's do the job properly.”

  Aaron's mouth curled, always a good sign that you'd caught him on the right side. “Ha, why don't you just come back in a few hours? I'll make sure there's room for you and all.”

  I laughed. “Maybe I will. I could do with putting my feet up for a change.”

  Then Aaron’s smile flattened. He gave the gravestone a sore look. “No. I'll get that thing out of there before I quit for the day, don't you worry about that.”

  “I’ll think no more of it,” I said, carrying on. “You enjoy your day.”

  I would never have described Aaron as a friend, but he was perhaps the closest thing I had to one on the island. If nothing else he was the only one who seemed able to greet me openly and not preface it with the sort of look you'd spare for someone freshly released from prison. I hadn't spent a day in my life behind bars, but there was no doubt I'd been judged guilty as far as everyone else was concerned.

  Perhaps this was why the grave bothered me so much when I saw it again later. Other than the passing thought that anyone who tampered with Aaron's garden was risking an early grave for themselves, I'd almost forgotten about the matter. By sundown I'd managed to kill off most of the day in town and was heading back home for a drink, or maybe ten. As I’d normally expect, Aaron had long retreated indoors. On any other night I would have continued right on by, barely giving his house a first, let alone a second glance.

  But this time I stopped. Something in me needed to see if the gravestone was still there. For just a moment I thought Aaron had managed to shift it—then I spotted it, resting there in the earth, leaning at a slight angle, smooth and dark, almost invisible as the night closed in. The sight of it profoundly disturbed me. There was a presence to it, something that drew me in like nothing else in his garden. I couldn't think of a single reason why Aaron would have left it there. Under the fading light it looked like nothing anyone would want to keep in their garden, or anywhere near their house.

  For the second time that day, I got the feeling that time had briefly stepped out of the room, that a few seconds had been cleanly shaved out of my life.

  Had the grave moved closer?

  I was sure it had been a few metres from the house earlier that morning. Now it sat in a flower bed, resting directly under a window. Perhaps I was mistaken. I couldn't admit to having given it close scrutiny before, and the drifting shadows in the early evening could fool anyone's eyes. Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the impression that the gravestone had moved.

  Looking back, I realise that was the exact moment at which I decided something wasn't quite right. Though less than a dozen words a day might pass between me and Aaron on most days, I knew he took pride in beating Mother Nature at her own game. His garden never changed; he simply didn't allow it. Now I found it profoundly disturbing that, after all this time, something had changed. It was for that reason that I went ahead and did something I'd never done before: I knocked on his door.

  He was slow to answer. When he saw me he smiled faintly, but his attention appeared to be captured by something over my shoulder. He seemed unfocused. A moment later, I realised what was wrong with him: the man was drunk. I half-smiled. I did all my drinking alone, without the aid of mirrors; it had been a long time since I remembered what drunk looked like. For all I knew this was how he spent every night—in some ways it would provide the perfect explanation for his morning habits, there being nothing like fresh dawn air to clear the head. I should know. Still, it didn't quite ring true. Aaron simply didn't have the look of a regular drinker.

  “I was thinking I'd help you move that gravestone. Looks like you didn't have time earlier …?”

  He ushered me in, locking the door behind us.

  “Here …” he said, waving me over to the table. He poured himself a fresh shot of single malt, raised it immediately to his lips and emptied the glass. Then he sat down.

  “I tried,” he said, his fingers drumming on the surface of his empty glass. “I tried and it didn't move. I couldn't get it out.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked stupidly.

  He stood up and moved to the window, the one nearest the gravestone. “I left it till last thing. Thought I'd get everything else done first, then move the damn stone before I finished for the day. I tried picking it up. I couldn't move it. Then I took the shovel to it. I tell you, I could hardly break the ground.”

  Aaron paused long enough to return to the table and pour himself another drink. Then he
carried on: “It's like the soil around it was solid concrete. I couldn't get the shovel in anywhere near it … tried prying it up. I even took a hammer to it.”

  “What happened?”

  He looked at me. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The hammer didn't so much as leave a mark.”

  He walked back to the window and looked out. “And I'm sure it's moved—it's closer. Don't you think it's closer?”

  I shook my head weakly. “No, no of course not … I—I didn't really get a good look …”

  Aaron sat down again. “It's closer I tell you!” he said, exposing his frustration.

  I tried to wave it off. “Come on, it's a joke, got to be. Someone just put it in there last night. They'll probably come and take it out tonight—”

  “How?! I couldn't even shift it! I may be getting on, but the strength hasn’t left these arms yet.”

  I didn't know what to say. Silently, I harboured relief