Digging up a fresh grave and lifting the coffin lid, the two men froze in stunned silence. What lay inside would divide their lives into “before” and “after.”
A bitter autumn wind howled through the plastic wreaths, making the mourning ribbons flutter like restless souls. This was the fifth funeral procession to pass through the main path of the old cemetery that day. Five coffins lowered into the damp, unwelcoming earth. Five lives officially condemned to oblivion.
Simon and Gary sat in a crumbling brick shelter, shielding themselves from the biting wind. Their eyes, sharp from years of wariness, lazily tracked the ceremony. Grief was just background noise to thempart of the job. They stood, dusted off their threadbare trousers, and put on their best solemn expressions before approaching the weeping crowd. Mumbling vague condolences, they shook cold hands. No one paid much attention to these two shabby men in worn-out jackets. Grief is the great equalizerit blurs social lines. In moments like these, even a strangers sympathy feels like warmth in an ocean of loss. No one asked who they were. No one stopped them from paying their respects. And that worked perfectly in their favour.
It was the last funeral of the day that caught their attention. Everything about it screamed moneythe polished dark wood coffin with heavy brass handles, lavish wreaths of real flowers dripping with sickly-sweet perfume, and the cars parked by the gates: not battered old Fords, but sleek imports with tinted windows. Simon went first. He peered into the coffin, his face twisting into a perfect imitation of grief. He crossed himself fervently, whispering a rehearsed prayer before stepping back, pretending to wipe away a tear. Gary followed suit, sighing even more theatrically. Their eyes met briefly, the ghost of a smirk playing at their lips. Without a word, they retreated to their shelter. Tonights haul promised to be a good one. They just had to wait for nightfall.
The woman being buriedas theyd learned from a chatty old lady on the funeral staffwas Margaret Eleanor. She lay in the coffin in a lavish velvet dress, heavy gold earrings with deep red stonesprobably rubiesgleaming on her pallid earlobes. A solid gold cross shouldve rested on her chest, as tradition demanded.
When dusk swallowed the last light and the cemetery fell silent except for the rustle of fallen leaves, they got to work. The sky, as if mocking them, had turned leaden, unleashing a cold, relentless rain. The wet earth clung to their shovels, making every swing an effort. Their hands went numb, their backs ached, but the thought of their reward kept them going.
Theyd met years ago in prisontwo broken men thrown together by fate. The world outside the walls had been just as merciless. Simon grew up in care, taught to survive, not dream. Garys own family had disowned him the moment he was convicted. Outside, they had nothingno home, no work, no second chances. Theyd ended up inside for stupid mistakes: Simon for nicking a few hundred quid from the factory till where he worked as a loader; Gary for a drunken brawl that left a man with a broken jaw.
No one wanted ex-cons, middle-aged men who reeked of desperation. So theyd taken the easiest, ugliest pathgrave robbing. They told themselves a cynical lie: *The dead dont need it. Itll just rot in the ground. At least this way, well eat.* The thought dulled the shame.
Creeping between the graves like shadows, they reached the fresh mound. The shovels bit into the soft earth until wood met metal with a dull thud. They heaved the ropes, pried open the heavy lid
And recoiled in horror, icy fear washing over them.
“Si you see that? Shes *breathing?*” Gary rasped, his voice dropping to a whisper. In the dim torchlight, the lace on the old womans chest seemed to shift.
“Shut it!” Simon hissed, unable to tear his eyes from her deathly pale face.
Then it happeneda skeletal, blue-veined hand shot from the coffin, gripping Garys wrist with unnatural strength. Both men, hardened by prison and afraid of neither God nor the devil, screamed in unison, stumbling back.
“Let go, you witch!” Simon babbled, crossing himself with a shaking hand.
“Shut your trap! Shes *alive*, you idiot!” Gary roared, shock replacing fear.
They didnt take the gold. Instead, they hauled the “corpse” out of the gravea frail, skeletal figure wrapped in skin. Collapsing onto the wet grass, they choked on hysterical laughter and relief as the old woman coughed, her milky eyes flickering open. Without a word, they carried her to the cemeterys abandoned watchmans hut, laying her on a cot and draping their filthy coats over her.
“Gotta call an ambulance,” Simon muttered, still not believing what had just happened.
Then the womanalready mourned by the worldfound her voice. Weak, rasping, but steel beneath.
“No. No doctors. Someone buried me alive. A very *specific* someone. And he needs teaching.”
Her gaze sharpened as she took in her rescuerstheir dirty clothes, their shovels.
“And you why were you digging up graves at night?”
They exchanged a guilty glance. No point lying now.
“Trying to make a living, maam,” Gary admitted, head bowed. “Your jewellery we needed it. Were grave robbers.”
No horror crossed her face. Just cold calculation.
“Then go back and fill in my grave. Clean it up. Ill pay you for the job. And for saving meseparately.”
So they returned to the gaping black pit, shovelling with even heavier hearts. They were burying evidence. A terrible secret.
Back in the hut, soaked and soiled, she asked where they lived.
“Gotta take you home, yeah?” Simon said.
Margaret Eleanor shook her head bitterly.
“No ones expecting me there. My young husbandtwenty years my junioris probably celebrating with his mistress right now.”
Gary whistled.
“Sorry, maam, but what did you expect?”
“He was a conman. And I was a foolish old woman who believed in love,” she said, her voice tremblingnot with tears, but fury. “He slipped something in my tea. Thought I wouldnt survive. But Ive always been strongate right, exercised. He paid off the doctors, the coroner Deaths easy to fake when people are in a hurry.”
They took her back to their grim rented flat on the citys outskirtstwo rooms reeking of poverty and despair. For a few days, it became a refuge for three people bound by a dark secret.
Meanwhile, in a sleek office, a sombre memorial for Margaret Eleanor was underway. Her staffwhod feared yet respected the iron-willed woman whod built an empirestood in hushed silence. Her husband, Andrew, a polished, handsome man now playing the grieving widower, was already outlining his “vision” for the company. Everyone knew what that meantout with the old guard, in with his sycophants. The business was doomed.
Then the conference room doors burst open.
She walked in.
The room froze. Andrew went white, his microphone clattering to the floor. For a moment, it was as if a ghost had stepped into the room.
“Hello, darling,” Margaret said, her voice like shattering glass. “You dont look happy to see me.”
He stumbled over excuses, backing away.
“Ive come back,” she continued, cutting through the crowd. “Some lies need untangling. But I havent the time. Let the professionals handle it.”
The policetipped off after a search of Andrews flat uncovered drug vials and bribed doctors notesmarched in. His pathetic pleas drowned in the stunned silence.
His lackeys were sacked that same dayno severance. And in their place? Simon and Gary. Two men who, after walking through hell, had proven more decent than any suited fraud.
Andrew got a long prison sentence. Margaret never spoke of him again. Why waste breath on someone whod lost not just his freedom, but his humanity?
She had a business to save. And two unlikely allies whod found in her not just a boss, but the mother theyd lost long ago.
Theyd met at the edge of a grave. And in the end, theyd given each other something far more valuable than golda second chance at life.
