Even in the deep gloom inside the hut, Harold could make out his mother’s features. Her skin was peeling away, mottled green in places where it had turned gangrenous. Her hair hung in loose, flame-seared strands, blackened wisps against the pale pink of her scalp. When she opened her mouth no sound came forth, just a swollen blackened tongue which dripped dark fluid over her scorched lips. She moved towards him, her own putrefying odour almost palpable, wrapping itself around his throat like obscene tentacles.
As her stench filled his nostrils, Harold screamed and screamed. . .
He awoke beating at his pillow, the covers thrown off. His body was soaked in sweat and his throat felt raw from screaming. Gradually he realized that it had been yet another dream.
Someone was pounding on the door of his hut.
Harold uttered a small moan of fear then, as he saw the murky daylight flooding through the window, he found the courage to get to his feet. He padded across to the door.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Harold are you all right?” the voice from the other side asked and, after a moment or two, he recognised it. Harold unlocked the door and pulled it open to find Winston Greaves standing there. The senior porter was spattered with rain which was still falling from the banks of grey cloud overhead. He looked Harold up and down, noticing how pale the unscarred side of his face looked. There were deep pits beneath both his eyes and his hair was plastered to his head with sweat.
“Are you OK?” asked Greaves, stepping inside.
Harold nodded.
“Do you know what the time is?” Greaves asked him.
He shook his head, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“It’s after nine o’clock,” the coloured porter told him. “You should have been on duty over an hour ago. I thought you were ill or something.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harold, apologetically. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.” He got to his feet. “If you give me a minute, I’ll get ready.”
“If you don’t feel well, I can get one of the doctors to come over and have a look at you. You. . .”
Harold cut him short.
“No. I’ll be all right. I’m just tired,” he explained.
Greaves nodded and sat down on one of the rickety old wooden chairs while Harold padded into the small room which housed the chemical toilet. He emerged a moment later and, after splashing his face with water from the cold tap in the kitchen, he began dressing. The muddy clothes which he’d worn the previous night to bury the foetus were pushed out of sight beneath the bed. Finally, he pulled on his overall and together he and Greaves began the walk across the open ground towards the main building. Harold looked up at the sky which still promised rain but now was falling in small droplets, quite different from the downpour of the previous night.
“I hear there was a blackout last night,” said Greaves.
Harold nodded.
“It’s the worst storm I can remember,” Greaves confessed. “Still, the electricity company should have everything fixed by this afternoon. I heard that one of the cables was brought down.” He stopped and looked behind him towards the field where the damaged pylon was. “They’re trying to fix it up now.”
Harold spun round and his eye bulged. There were indeed men moving about in the field near to the pylon, some climbing on it, others using ladders to reach inaccessible areas. There was even a small crane crawling through the mud.
“Oh my God,” he murmured, softly.
The men were all around the pylon. They were working in that field.
Near to the grave.
Harold swallowed hard. If they should find it. . .
Greaves walked on but Harold remained where he was, his gaze fixed worriedly on the men in dark blue overalls who swarmed over the pylon in their efforts to repair it. He saw the crane, the large white and blue van parked nearby and he began to tremble. They would find it. They must do. But, it was at least fifty yards from the base of the pylon he told himself. It should be relatively safe. His ready-made assurances did not have the desired effect and he wondered if the rain might have washed the shallow covering of soil right off exposing the bodies beneath. He hurried on to join Greaves, his mind in a turmoil.
He spent most of the day thinking about the men in that field, expecting at any time one of them to walk into the hospital and tell of the grave that they’d discovered. Then his secret would be there for all to see. His crime would be exposed. For that was what they would call it. A crime. Not understanding, they would punish him, they would not want to listen to his reasons. They would not be able to comprehend the thought behind his actions.
Every chance he got, he stole a look at them, to see how far their work was progressing. To see if they had stumbled on the grave. He could eat no lunch, so knotted with fear was his stomach. He spent his entire break standing in the rain outside watching the blue-clad men repairing the damage to the pylon.
When, at three fifteen that afternoon, they finally left, Harold breathed an audible sigh of relief.