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Have
Spade Will Travel
Father
Mulroy, looking more like a gangster than a holy
man with his slicked back grey hair complete
with parting. The piercing blue eyes didn’t
belong to the craggy weather beaten features of
the Irish priest. He sat beside me in the pew,
the odour of furniture polish evident in the
ancient church.
St Judes, the parish of my misfortune was to be
the venue for my confession. I had related to
Father Mulroy that the confession was not to be
a formal affair; me being a protestant; off the
record as it was.
It all began on that awful September day. At
twenty eight, I enjoyed the pleasantries all
young men bestowed upon themselves; Billy Fury,
Bentleys, Rock’n’roll, Adam Faith, and of
course girls. I loved the feel of brylcreem on
my hair, my Teddy boy suit, and mimicking my
hero’s off JukeBox Jury.
Yes, I was almost a normal young man, almost.
What set me out different from the others was my
macabre occupation, grave digging. My uncle John
had set me up in business as he left all of his
possessions and his parish addresses to me. I
was probably the only free lance gravedigger in
the country.
I was watching the nameless stations pass me by
as I travelled to Oakhampton, Devon. Father
Mulroy had sent for me, “It was urgent,” he
had said. “Five graves to dig, usual rates
apply.”
It was a living I suppose, not one that I was
proud of as I hid my occupation from the local
girls. Who would want to go out with a
gravedigger? As I passed a schoolyard, I watched
the children jumping up and down on their pogo
sticks and playing marbles. I felt as if my
childhood had never happened. At the tender age
of twelve I was travelling the country digging
graves with my Uncle, “learning the trade,”
so he would tell me.
I hated the journey down to Devon, eight bloody
wasted hours on the train. If I knew what would
befall me this day, I would gladly alight on the
next station and walk back home to the North.
The tall oak trees swayed in rhythm with the
strong breeze, depositing their brown leaves
onto the sodden consecrated ground. The overcast
sky, grey and morose, befitting the settings of
the tranquil bleak cemetery. I watched as the
mourners shuffled towards the exit after paying
homage to their loved ones.
I hate cemeteries and hate the services.
Funerals only made people miserable, when I die
I want my friends and family to party, bopping
to Bill Hailey and the Comets, now that would be
something. A rock’n’roll party in a
cemetery.
I peered into the void; a small coffin occupied
the hole in the ground. This is the part that
made me sad, burying the children. Aiding them
on their journey to the gateway to heaven. Henry
Keeler, a fellow gravedigger, told me once that
as he threw the dirt onto a coffin, he heard
scratching and screaming. After opening the
coffin, the victim of the premature burial, a
young man scrambled out of his tomb and ran
screaming towards the exit, never to be seen
again.
I’m not sure if this is a true account but I
have read of such things happening nationwide, a
doctor certifying the victim as dead only for
him to wake up.
As I covered the small coffin with dirt, I felt
the presence of somebody watching me. I turned
around to face a small unsmiling girl in a
bright yellow dress, her hair in pigtails, her
little nose upturned. She was sat on the stump
of an old oak tree, her eyes red, she had
clearly been crying.
“Hello, what’s your name?”
“Anna,” she whispered.
“Well Anna, I’m Simon. What are you doing
here?”
“Are you Simple Simon?”
“Well, I suppose I am. Where do you live
Anna?”
“Down there, in the darkness.” She was
pointing towards the coffin.
I swallowed deeply, I could feel my bowels
rummaging, I could take most things, but ghosts?
This was my worst nightmare or was it?”
“You mean you live over there?” I asked
pointing past the grave.
“No, down there, in that box.”
My first thought was to run; but then I looked
at this small sad looking girl and realised she
couldn’t hurt me.
“You’re playing games now aren’t you?”
“My father used to play games with me, he
wasn’t my real father you understand, but my
mother made me take his name. He used to touch
my bumps and tell me I would be a beautiful
princess one-day.”
“What do you mean Anna when you say you live
down there?”
“He said he loved me, he put his giant hands
around my throat. I screamed but nobody came.
Have you come to help me?”
“Well no. I mean yes; I’ve come to cover you
up.”
I realised how stupid that sounded as the
absurdity of it sank in. Father Mulroy and old
Henry Keeler must be behind this; well I’d
show them.
“Wait here Anna, I’ll be back in a
moment.”
“Will you help me? Please don’t let them
punish my mother. It was my father.”
“Wait here.”
I marched swiftly to the church; this had gone
too far. I meandered between the graves, angry
blood flowing in my veins. Nobody would make a
scapegoat of Simon Darwin. The bells tolled two
'o'clock as I pushed open the creaky wooden door
to the church. Father Mulroy was lighting
candles as I approached.
“Simon, that was quick. I didn’t expect you
so early.”
“Father Mulroy, it’s well known that you
like a joke, the comic priest as you’re known.
Who is the girl?”
“Do they really call me that; it has rather a
ring to it don’t you think?”
“The girl Father?”
“Girl? I know not of any girl.”
“Come off it Father, the little girl in the
cemetery. About twelve years old, wearing a
yellow dress.”
The priest looked genuinely puzzled.
“Perhaps it’s one of Henry’s jokes?”
“Henry is in York; he hasn’t been here all
week. Come Simon; take me to this girl.”
There was no sign of the girl as we returned to
the old oak stump.
“Perhaps she was a local girl Simon.”
“Father, who was buried here?”
“Anna Fairhurst, a twelve year old girl. She
was murdered, her body found in Fallow woods,
not far from here.”
My heart skipped a beat as I listened to the
Irish priest.
“She was strangled right?”
“Ah, so you’ve read about it then?”
“No Father, she told me. Her father strangled
her.”
“Simon, do you realise what you’re
saying?”
“Anna told me, she said not to let them punish
her mother.”
“This is unbelievable, true her mother is
believed to have killed her, but ghosts. Simon,
go home and forget about this, let the dead rest
in peace.”
“Don’t you understand Father? She was asking
me for help.”
“Her mother is a cruel woman Simon; witnesses
have come forward telling of her wrath. She used
to constantly beat her daughter. Her stepfather
Richard Fairhurst often used to intervene. It is
thought that Paula, her mother is insane. Maybe
you read of the story in the newspapers, you
must have fallen asleep and dreamt the girl.”
“She was real I tell you, I saw her as I now
see you.”
“Forget about it Simon, tomorrow is another
day.”
“If her mother is found guilty, she’ll hang
right?”
“I’m afraid so Simon, unless of course they
find her insane. We live in such a brutal and
unforgiving society. Hanging has no place in the
fifties; it ought to be abolished.”
“I must go to the police.”
“And say what? They’ll probably cart you off
to the asylum. Besides, Richard Fairhurst is a
respectable man. A lay preacher in fact; he
often conducts sermons in here. In fact he’s
expected tomorrow; that is of course if he’s
in the right mind to turn up. It must be a
devastating blow to lose your stepdaughter. He
spoke of her often; he was devoted to her.”
“Anna said he used to touch her Father.”
“Simon! Enough of this nonsense. Do what you
must. If what you say is true then perhaps it's
a message from God. Highly unlikely though
don’t you think? Go Simon and sleep on it. The
girl was probably playing games on you.”
That night in the local tavern my mind was made
up. The murder was high on the agenda of most
conversations. I sipped pint after pint,
attempting to obliterate my experience at the
graveside from my memory. As I gave up another
twopence for my ale, my eyes connected with a
young innocent face on the front of a newspaper.
Anna was how I remembered her.
“Excuse me, could I borrow your newspaper for
a moment?”
“Of course,” said the elderly gentleman in
the flat cap; be my guest.”
There was no mistake; it was her. A photograph
of her mother and stepfather accompanied the
story. The tabloids already had her earmarked as
the murderer; she was already condemned to hang
in their eyes. I gulped down another pint trying
to forget; the more I drank, the more frantic I
was becoming.
As I staggered back to my cottage adjoining the
cemetery, I found myself on a country lane I did
not recognise. Funny, I hadn’t passed this on
the way here. I continued on my way and came
across a yellow taped cordoned off area. After
closer inspection I realised the police had been
there. The tape extended into the woods. I
stared into the dark cluster of trees and a
strange yellow glow appeared. Amidst the glow I
could make out a small shape. Anna was stood
there crying, even though there was only a half
moon she was clearly visible by the yellow aura
surrounding her.
“Please don’t let them blame her, pleeeeze.”
She faded away as I approached. It was at that
moment when I finally made up my mind.
I stepped off the tram and headed towards
Oakhampton police station. Before entering I
paused and considered what I was about to do.
Before I could change my mind I was facing the
red-faced desk Sergeant. He looked none too
happy to see me on this Sunday morning.
“I want to report a crime.”
“Oh ar, and what crime be that then?”
“The murder of Anna Fairhurst. I saw her
father carry the body into the woods.”
He looked me up and down and retreated from his
newspaper.
“Just you wait there young sir.”
He returned two minutes later and I was ushered
into an interview room by two detectives.
Have a seat sir; I’m Detective Inspector
Harris, and this here’s Detective constable
Porter. I believe you have something to
report.”
Harris had large eyes that seemed to stare
straight through me. They reminded me of a tawny
owl.
“I saw someone carrying a body into the woods
on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday you say? Why have you just decided
to come forward now?”
“At the time I thought nothing of it. I
thought someone was dumping rubbish.”
“And what makes you think different now?”
“Well I read about the murder of the little
girl and saw the photograph of her father in the
newspaper. It was definitely the same man.”
Owl eyes kept staring, I swear he never blinked
the whole of the interview. Could he see I was
lying?
“You’re not from around here are you?”
“I can see why they made you an Inspector, I
joked.”
“Mr...”
“Darwin, Simon Darwin.”
He jotted my name down.
“Do you live in Oakhampton?”
“No, I’m from Whitby. I’m employed by
Father Mulroy, digging graves.”
The two detectives smirked, I wasn’t annoyed,
I was used to it.
“Would you be able to pick out this man in a
line-up?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well Mr Darwin, DC Porter here will take your
statement, better late than never I suppose. You
probably saved Mrs Fairhurst from the
hangman’s noose. I really thought she done it.
Another thing, you never saw the photograph of
Richard Fairhurst, ok?” He winked at me.
After making my confession I retreated to the
pub across the road for a well earned drink I
prayed they didn’t check where I really was on
Wednesday, a couple of hundred miles away!
As I walked the line, I had no trouble picking
out the lay preacher. He had one of those
distinctive faces you couldn’t fail to notice.
He was a large man; his bulky frame made him
stand out. The first thing I noticed about him
was his hands, so large. He had curly grey hair
that was seriously in need of a comb. His broad
nose hovered above his thick lips. His
appearance oozed evil vibes. This man definitely
didn’t strike me as being a holy man. An image
came to me of the huge hands choking the last
living breath out of Anna. There was no going
back now; I had made up my mind.
I faced him trying not to hold his gaze. I could
smell the garlic on his breath.
“Number four,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Asked the Sergeant.
“Oh I’m sure alright.”
“This is absurd; you are very much mistaken
young man,” complained Fairhurst.
“I don’t think so.”
He was led to the cells, his objections falling
on deaf ears. The Inspector patted me on the
back. My task was complete. Now perhaps Anna
could rest in peace.
I was in awe of the magnificent decor in the
courtroom. Who would have thought it? Me, a key
witness in the central criminal court at the Old
Bailey. The defence and prosecutor were
resplendent in their scarlet robes and white
wigs adding to the glamour of it all. I was in a
sort of trance; the whole trial passed me by.
Fairhurst bowed his head as the judge placed his
black cap onto his head. I glanced across at Mrs
Fairhurst, a pretty woman, her features unmoved
as the judge passed sentence. She looked at me
quizzically, and smiled. She mouthed thank you
as her husband was led away. Before he was taken
to the cells, his powerful voice boomed;
“Forgive them Lord, for they know not what
they do. As God is my witness, I am innocent.”
I checked my watch as I stood at the foot of
Anna’s grave. One minute to ten, almost time
for Richard Fairhurst to meet his maker. I felt
obliged to be besides Anna as her killer was
ousted to the depths of hell.
A red mist appeared before my eyes. An
apparition developed; I watched as Fairhurst was
led from his cell to his place of execution, his
ankles shackled, his hands strapped behind his
back. The chaplain gave him communion before the
white hood was placed over his head. He mumbled
something inaudible as the hangman pulled the
lever. I heard the bang and then watched as his
body jerked, dancing around on the rope like a
marionette.
The apparition faded away to be replaced by
Anna, only she seemed different. She hovered
about a foot off the ground as she smiled at me.
Then she laughed loudly, an evil sounding laugh.
Her eyes were crimson, her long forked tongue
protruded through her drooling lips. Her breath
reeked of staleness as she spoke a strange deep
rasping voice.
“Thank you my pathetic friend, my bastard of a
father was well rewarded. I hope it doesn’t
play on your conscience too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“I used you, he didn’t kill me. It was my
mother.”
“What are you saying? Who are you?”
“Who am I? You could call me the devil’s
disciple if it pleases you.”
“This is not happening; you’re not real.”
She hovered towards me, her face inches from
mine; her rancid breath making me want to vomit.
“Oh I’m real alright. You have rid your
fucking world of another bastard unbeliever.
Let’s say we have reprieved a servant of evil.
She is free to continue her slaying of the
Christians.”
I backed away as she stretched out her hands and
laughed even louder. I turned and ran from the
cemetery; looking back at the red haze as it
faded.
“So you see Father, I have sinned. Richard
Fairhurst went to the gallows an innocent
man.”
“A remarkable story Simon, so Paula Fairhurst
goes free.”
“Yes, she was the real killer after all.”
“I know she was.”
I looked at the priest who sat motionless.
“You know?”
He stood up and walked down the aisle towards
the exit.
“What do you mean you know?”
He looked back; his eyes were ruby red. He
grinned broadly as he put on his hat.
“I know.”
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