Hearing a noise as he hid from Mal in the old graveyard that night, Bod peered out. It was a week since they’d got that fifty quid note off old Miss Kane. It was her own fault she’d been unconscious ever since. She shouldn’t have held onto her bag so tight. But Mal wanted his half of the fifty and Bod had spent it.
It was just some woman taking photographs of tombstones. Weirdo.
Bod waited until he felt alone again, then stepped out from under the yew. On the ground by the nearest grave was a camera.
Removing the memory card just in case, Bod checked the camera’s make on his phone. Even if he got half its worth, he’d be laughing.
He just had to get home first. He left the graveyard onto the pavement.
‘Fancy finding you here,’ said Mal, walking out of the shadows. ‘Where’s my cash?’
‘Day after tomorrow,’ said Bod.
‘What’s this?’ Mal snatched the camera.
‘It’s mine.’
‘Not now it’s not.’
‘No! It’s not kosher.’
Mal snorted, ‘so what’s new? You owe me.’
‘It’s worth more than twenty-five quid!’
Mal looked at the camera under the streetlight. ‘It’s way out of your league. How d’you get it?’
Bod thought of the shadow of the grave and shivered.
‘Knock over another old bat for it?’ said Mal.
‘It wasn’t my fault Miss Kane got hurt. You were there too.’
‘I don’t think so and you’d better not say I was. OK?’ head down, Mal strode down the street.
Bod walked home, grunting at his mother before going upstairs to put the memory card in his computer. After all, there might be something he could use on it.
What a disappointment. Five hundred photos of out of focus gravestones, flowers and blurry faces. And one folder marked ‘do not open.’
He opened it.
Half an hour later, the police burst into his room. His laptop screen was cracked and a memory card smouldered in the slot. There was no sign of Bod.
‘I swear he was here!’ said his mother, ‘What do you want him for? What are you saying he’s done?’
Bod woke. At least, he thought he woke. He touched his eyes to make sure they were open. It was pitch dark. Something like sticks and stones stabbed his back. He was wedged between straight damp edges and a warm tense arm.
He swore and felt his bladder release.
‘Bod?’
‘Mal?’
‘I looked at the memory card…’
‘I tried to take a picture with that camera…’
‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know…’
No no no…
In the ancient graveyard, indistinct whispers came up from under the stones, under the earth, from a mouldering box, too small for two.
But no-one was there to hear. The only person who ever visited Emily Kane’s grave had died two hours ago from head injuries.
‘Hello lads,’ said a voice scented with earth, ‘welcome to your new home. I’m Emily Kane. I think you knew my daughter.’
Words and photograph copyright 2017 by Paula Harmon. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission