Digging up the dead
By Terrence Oblong
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Steve rang me out of the blue. He doesn't do Facebook or any other social media, so unless I bump into him in the street or make the effort of hunting him down, I have no idea what he's up to.
"I need your help to dig up a body," he said. Didn't even say 'hello' first.
"Okay," I said. "What's the punchline?"
"No punchline, I'm serious. I really need you help with this. It's not something I can do alone and I can't ask just anyone."
"What body?"
"I don't really want to explain over the phone. Can you come round? I'm at my dad's house. I've moved back."
I drove round there straight away. I'd not been there in ten years, the house he grew up in. I remembered it though, it had aged better than I had, the house I'd spent so much of my childhood in. For Steve was my number one friend throughout my school days. A friend so close I'd dig up bodies for him twenty years later. Apparently.
"So what's the deal?" I said.
"Dad died," Steve said. "He's been in hospital for a couple of weeks, the Big C. He died last night."
"I'm sorry," I said. I'd always liked Steve's dad. His mum had died before I met him. Murdered. It was big news in our town at the time. Who am I kidding, it's a small town, it's still big news forty years later. The police never did find the killer. "But you said something about digging up a body. You don't mean your dad's body?"
"No, of course not, why would I want to dig up my dad. We haven't even buried him yet. I'll let you know about the funeral, obviously."
"So who then?"
"This is hard to say. Dad confessed. On his death bed. A few days' ago. He found mum's killer and killed him. He's buried in the back garden. That's the body I want your help moving."
"Why not leave it? The police will never find it where it is."
"I don't want a dead body in my back garden. Not now I know it's there. Think about it, I have the kids playing in the garden when they come at weekends."
"Well, just don't tell them."
"Of course I'm not going to tell them. I mean I don't want them playing right next to a dead body. Not now I know it's there."
"Well tell the police then. Your dad's dead, they can't do anything now."
"I don't want his name smeared. He'll be called a killer and all sorts and he's not."
"He sort of is though, isn't he."
"I know, obviously, but he killed the bloke that killed my mum, that's not wrong. If the guy was alive now and I found out who it was I'd kill him myself."
"So what will you do with the body?"
"I know a place. Best I don't tell you. I just need you to help me get it in the back of my car."
"I suppose," I said. You can hardly say 'no' to requests like these. Not from your oldest friends.
"You'll need to put these on." He handed me overalls, gloves, a shower cap and face mask.
"What is this, fancy dress body snatching?"
"It's so we don't leave DNA on the body. If it is found at some point we don't want them to be able to trace us."
"You don't have a police record do you?"
"No, of course I don't, but all it would take is a driving offence or a mistaken identity, then they take our DNA and they've got us for disturbing a crime science, covering up a murder, perverting the course of justice."
I changed into the digging up bodies costume, as did Steve. Before we went into the garden he disappeared into another room and returned with a metal detector.
"A metal detector? Are you looking for Roman gold at the same time as digging up the body?"
"No, it'll help us find the corpse. He probably had metal on him, a belt buckle, ring, metal clip on his wallet, coins, anything like that."
It took Steve only a matter of seconds' metal detecting before he got a result. We looked at each other. One of those 'So this is it' looks and, wordlessly, began to dig. There was nothing just under the surface, it wasn't a ring pull, old button, ten pence piece or anything from recent history. We had to dig deep.
After quarter of an hour's digging we hit something. Something metallic.
"It's not bones," I said helpfully. Steve ferreted around in the dirt and pulled out a rusted old tin can. We dug and ferreted some more, and found more cans, a dozen altogether.
"Tin cans! Who buries tin cans?"
"The world least successful pirate," I suggested. "A dog that's buried a week's supply of dog food."
"Dogs hoarding cans of food?" laughed Steve. "What has the world come to.
We searched and dug some more, but there was nothing to the left of the shed.
"He must have meant in front of the shed," so we dug up the lawn. We saw a light from the back of the neighbouring house and took a beer break in his kitchen, before going back out. After several hours' digging the lawn was decimated, but there was nothing there.
"There's nothing there," said Steve.
"Maybe he didn't kill him," I said. "Maybe it was what he wanted to do. Maybe he lied to himself."
"No, I looked the guy up. He went missing around the time dad said."
"So where is he?"
"Dad must have lied to me about where he hid the body. He didn't want me to find out, didn't want me to bombard him with questions, so he told me a lie."
"I guess we'll never know then," I said.
Steve shook his said sadly. "No, we'll never know." He stood there silently for a while, staring into the empty lawn, the corpseless soil. I stood there too, saying nothing. It wasn't a time for words.
Eventually Steve spoke. "Fancy another beer," he said.
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Comments
I guess it's not technically
I guess it's not technically a crime to dig the garden, or there'd be lots of convicts out there.
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