When the prisoners pried open the fresh grave and lifted the coffin lid, they froze in stunned silence. What lay before their eyes split their lives into “before” and “after.”
A bitter autumn wind howled through the wreaths of artificial flowers, making the mourning ribbons flutter like restless souls. It was the fifth funeral procession of the day to drift down the main path of the old cemetery. The fifth coffin lowered into the damp, unwelcoming earth. The fifth soul officially sentenced by the world to oblivion.
Graham and Nigel sat in a half-collapsed brick shelter, shielding themselves from the relentless wind. Their eyes, accustomed to constant wariness, lazily tracked the ceremony. The ritual of grief was just background noise to them, part of the job. They stood, dusted off their threadbare trousers, anddonning appropriately solemn expressionsapproached the group of mourners. They sidled up to each one, mumbling vague condolences and shaking cold hands. No one paid much attention to these two shabby men in worn-out jackets. Grief, the great equaliser, blurs social boundaries. In moments like these, any sympathyeven from strangersfeels like a drop of warmth in an icy sea of loss. No one asked who they were, and no one stopped them from paying their respects. The collective numbness worked in their favour.
It was the last procession of the day that caught their attention. Everything about it screamed moneythe polished mahogany coffin with heavy brass handles, extravagant wreaths of fresh flowers exuding a cloying sweetness, and the cars parked at the gates: not battered old Fords, but sleek imports with tinted windows. Graham went first. Peering into the coffin, his face twitched in a flawless imitation of bereavement. He crossed himself fervently, lips moving in a rehearsed prayer, then stepped back, pretending to wipe away a tear. Nigel, after a pause, repeated the act, sighing even more theatrically. Their eyes met briefly, the faintest smirk tugging at their lips. Without a word, they retreated to their shelter. Tonights haul promised to be more than decent. They just had to wait for nightfall.
The deceased, as theyd learned from a chatty old woman from the funeral team, was one Margaret Elizabeth. She lay in the coffin dressed in a lavish velvet gown, heavy gold earrings with blood-red stoneslikely rubiesdangling from her withered lobes. There shouldve been a solid gold cross resting on her lifeless chest too; thats how these things were done, after all.
When twilight swallowed the last colours of the day and the cemetery fell into silence, broken only by the rustle of fallen leaves, they got to work. The sky, as if mocking them, had darkened with leaden clouds, and a cold, insistent rain began to fall. The wet earth clung to their shovels, turning every scoop into a struggle. Their hands went numb, their backs ached, but the thought of the promised reward drove them forward. This job had to be finished. There was no other way.
Their acquaintanceone of fates cruel jokeshad begun years ago in prison. Two broken lives, two discarded scripts. The world they returned to had been just as merciless as the prison walls. Graham had grown up in care, taught to survive, not to dream. Nigels family had disowned him the moment he was convicted, treating him like a leper. Outside, they found only poverty: no home, no work, no hope. Their crimes had been stupidGraham for pinching a measly few hundred quid from the factory till where he worked as a loader, Nigel for a drunken brawl that left a man with a broken jaw.
No one wanted ex-cons on their payroll, especially not middle-aged men who reeked of desperation and prison cells. So they took the easiest, dirtiest pathgrave robbery. They soothed themselves with a cynical mantra: “The dead dont need it. Itll rot in the ground anywaymight as well put it to use.” The thought dulled the burning shame.
Creeping between the graves like shadows, they reached the fresh mound. The shovels bit into the soft earth until, finally, wood met metal with a dull thud. They yanked off the ropes, heaved open the heavy lidand recoiled in horror, icy fear washing away every cynical thought.
“Nige You seeing this? Shes breathing?” Nigels voice cracked into a whisper laced with dread. In the dim torchlight, the lace on the old womans chest seemed to tremble.
“Shut it!” Graham hissed, unable to tear his eyes from the deathly pale face.
Then it happened. A skeletal hand, veins bulging blue, shot out of the coffin and clamped onto Nigels wrist with unnatural strength. Both menhardened by prison, fearing neither God nor the devilshrieked in unison, stumbling back.
“Let go, you witch! Damn you!” Graham babbled, crossing himself with a trembling hand.
“Shut your gobshes alive! Alive, you daft sod!” Nigel roared, shock overriding fear.
They didnt take the gold. Instead, they hauled the “corpse” from the gravelight as a skeleton wrapped in skinand collapsed onto the wet grass, caught between sobs and hysterical laughter. The old woman coughed, her body convulsing, and cracked open clouded but very much alive eyes. Without a word, they carried her to the cemeterys rundown caretakers hut.
“An ambulancewe need to call one,” Graham choked out, still disbelieving.
Then the woman the world had mourned found her voiceweak, rasping, but steel beneath. “No No doctors. Someone buried me alive. A very particular someone. He needs teaching.”
Her gaze sharpened as she took in her rescuerstheir grime, their shovels. “And you two why were you digging graves at midnight?”
They exchanged a guilty glance. The truth was bitter, but lying now was pointless.
“After your jewellery, love,” Nigel muttered, hanging his head. “Were ghouls.”
No horror, no judgementjust cold calculation. “Then go back and fill in that grave. Make it tidy. And Ill pay you for the job. For saving me tooseparately.”
They returned to the gaping pit. Digging now was worse. They were burying evidence, burying a nightmare. When they stumbled back into the hut, soaked and filthy, the old womanMargaret Elizabethasked where they lived.
“Taking me home?” she wheezed. “Dont bother. My husbandtwenty years my junioris probably celebrating with his mistress right now.”
Nigel whistled. “Sorry, love, but what did you expect?”
“A gold-digger,” she said, voice trembling not with tears but fury. “Slipped something in my tea. Thought I wouldnt wake up. But Im tougher than I look. Paid off the coroner to hurry things along.”
They took her to their dingy rented flat on the citys outskirtstwo rooms stinking of poverty and despair. For a few days, it became a refuge for three people bound by a grotesque secret.
Meanwhile, in a gleaming corporate office, a memorial for Margaret Elizabeth was underway. Her husband, Andrewpolished, handsome, and already adjusting to his role as heirspoke solemnly of her legacy. Everyone knew the truth: hed been a leech, a flatterer whod charmed a lonely, brilliant woman. The company braced for his sycophants to take over.
Then the door burst open.
She walked in.
Silence. Andrews face drained of colour, his grip on the microphone trembling. A ghost in the flesh.
“Hello, darling,” Margaret said, voice like shattering glass. “You look disappointed.”
He babbled incoherently, backing away.
“Ive unfinished business,” she said, advancing. “But Ill leave the details to the professionals.”
Police officers filed in. A search of Andrews flat had turned up vials of drugs and receipts for bribes. His whimpers drowned in the rooms stunned silence.
His cronies were sacked on the spotno severance. Their replacements? Graham and Nigel. Men who, for all their flaws, had proven more decent than the suits whod betrayed her.
Andrew got a long prison sentence. Margaret never spoke of him again. She had a business to save and two unlikely, loyal protectorsmen whod found in her the mother theyd lost long ago. Theyd met at the edge of a grave and given each other a chancenot just to survive, but to live. And that was worth more than gold.
