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A haggard-looking Matt trudged back towards the lights of the farmhouse, followed at a distance by Calham, who kept both shotgun barrels levelled squarely at his back. The farmer steered Matt into the barn where he’d been incarcerated and pointed with the shotgun to a straw-littered bedding area set against the wall. Matt complied blankly and stood on the straw and waited. Calham took a length of chain and a padlock from the empty chair in the centre of the barn and tossed them to Matt. Matt took the hint and began to run the chain through the spread of chicken wire behind him.
“Ah ah ah,” said Calham.
He shook his head and pointed to a thick wooden support beam standing next to Matt. Matt reluctantly unlaced the chain and fed it around the much sturdier beam instead.
“The feet this time,” said Calham. “Tight.”
Matt sat and looped the chain tightly around both of his ankles and secured it with the padlock. Calham nodded, satisfied with the job, and then headed out of the barn. As soon as he was out of sight, Matt went to work on his foot, trying desperately to squeeze the chain over his ankle.
But there was no way.
He cursed under his breath and repeatedly hammered on the support beam with a clenched fist. Tears of frustration began to well in his eyes, and he snivelled and wiped them on his sleeve. When he looked up again through watery eyes he saw that Calham had quietly returned and was now standing over him, watching.
“I’ve seen it,” said Matt. “I’ve seen what you do now. So why don’t you just get it over with?”
Calham squatted down next to Matt, the way he might do to reassure a sick animal. In his hands he held the dead woman’s bundled clothes.
“You’re not going to let me go,” said Matt. “Are you?”
Calham dropped the clothes into Matt’s lap. He then leaned forward and stuck a small sowing needle, attached to a reel of black cotton, into Matt’s thigh. Matt yelped and quickly pulled the needle out.
“Really small, careful stitches,” said Calham. “On the inside, so it’s not obvious.”
Calham dropped a reel of white cotton into Matt’s lap.
“You’ll need this too,” he said.
Matt forlornly watched Calham swagger back across the barn and leave for real this time.
* * *
Somewhere in that vast blackness, Matt could hear the baby screaming again.
* * *
Matt jerked awake. He was slumped against the barn wall with the woman’s clothes and sowing kit still in his lap. The sun’s rays pierced the gaps in the side of the barn and streamed in to create a dust-flecked latticework of light criss-crossing its interior. The barn door creaked open and Calham entered. He walked over to a dark corner nearby and opened a rusted old metal cabinet, then began to tinker there in the shadows with his back to Matt. He finally slammed the cabinet shut and approached Matt with two bowls of dog food. The farmer had a casual expression on his face that almost implied the events of the night before never took place.
“Morning,” said Calham.
He placed one of the bowls down next to Matt and picked up the woman’s clothes with his free hand. He glanced over the needlework and gave a noncommittal grunt, before heading back out with the other bowl of food. Matt watched him leave, his eyes following the other bowl in the farmer’s hand.
* * *
Outside, Matt relieved himself against the side of the barn, as Calham lazily watched over him with the shotgun. Calham then marched him out over the fallow field at gunpoint. The familiar hum of latent, buried energy rose up to greet them as they climbed the gentle slope. Matt noticed a hessian sack hanging from the back of Calham’s belt.
“You sickos like your early starts, don’t you,” said Matt.
“It’s a farm,” said Calham.
Matt grinned to himself, then his expression hardened.
“Can you hear that?” he said.
Calham remained silent.
“Nothing,” he said. “No birds. Not even this early. You must have one hell of a scarecrow.”
“Don’t need one,” said Calham. “Here.”
Matt looked up and saw they were approaching the shovel that had been left sticking out of ground following the woman’s hurried burial the night before. It leaned out of the plot at an angle like a crude, fallen cross. The two men stopped and Calham carefully circled the grave, examining the soil there. Matt looked down at the ground too, where the earth had been freshly turned the night before.
Where they buried the woman.
Matt stared at Calham with dark eyes.
The farmer, in turn, seemed to be scanning Matt’s features, trying to read them.
“What the fuck is this?” said Matt.
“I thought that would take the wind out of your sails,” said Calham.
Calham moved closer, his piercing eyes now smiling at Matt.
“Dig,” he whispered.
Matt looked down at the exposed earth and then back at Calham. He slowly shook his head.
“Carefully,” said Calham. “With your hands.”
“No,” said Matt.
Calham raised the shotgun and aimed it at Matt, but the younger man just stared back defiantly.
Calham slowly advanced, pushing the muzzle under Matt’s jaw, then forcing it up. Matt didn’t relent and didn’t take his eyes off him. Calham thumbed back the hammer, raising the stakes.
Fuck it, thought Matt.
He grimaced and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the end.
For a moment, nothing.
Then Matt opened his eyes again, in time to see Calham taking a step back.
“So the man’s finally had enough and is ready to die...” said Calham. “...but what if I were to tell you there’s hope? Would you be scared then?”
Confusion then curiosity lit up in Matt’s eyes, followed quickly by fear. Calham gestured again with the shotgun for him to dig. Slowly, reluctantly, Matt advanced towards the grave and dropped to his knees. He carefully began to push aside the earth with his hands. He smelt a rank odour escaping into the air as he clawed more and more soil away. He had to fight the urge to heave.
Calham took a cigar from his pocket and bit off the tip, spitting it to the ground. He struck a match and evenly lit the cigar, as he watched Matt work the soil. The pungent smell released into the air was so bad now that Matt had to turn his head away as his fingers explored the earth.
“Yep,” said Calham. “Didn’t have much of a use for this field. Not until old Duke died...”
Matt flinched as his fingers touched something wet and slippery beneath the ground. Calham exhaled a plume of smoke and sighed with knowing satisfaction. Matt forced himself to look closely at the earth in front of him. He saw something viscous there, something slick and moist glistening beneath the top layer of dirt. He hesitated and then delved his hands into the sticky soil again.
“...and we decided to bury him out here.” said Calham.
Matt’s eyes opened wide as he gripped the unseen thing before him and slowly pulled it from the earth like some strange, unholy crop.
“Yep,” said Calham. “That’s the look I had on my face the first time I saw it.”
Matt lifted it free of the soil, staring at it in disbelief. He wiped away the earth and blood and mucus from its face. The woman’s features were groggy, confused, slick with a thick coating of embryonic mucus, but she was very much alive.
Calham took the hessian sack from his belt and slipped it over the woman’s blank features. He then pulled all the way out of her shallow grave and up to her feet. She rose automatically, complying like a tired child with its parent; though she apparently found it difficult to stand on her trembling, weakened legs. Calham held her steady and watched Matt, waiting for him to react to his homegrown miracle.
But Matt was barely aware of the farmer’s mind games. He was quickly slipping into a dazed stupor, retreating to somewhere deep and dark and safe within himself. Calham frowned, unhappy at being denied the pleasure of seeing Matt confused and astounded and struggling to understand. He gruffly hauled Matt to his feet. Matt’s head swam again with intense nausea and disbelief, until he finally doubled up and puked. Calham slapped his back to fetch it all up as he clawedat the ground. When Matt was done, Calham gently pushed him and the hooded woman back down the slope in the direction of the farmhouse.