As they pried open the freshly dug grave and lifted the coffin lid, the two men froze in stunned silence. What lay inside would forever divide their lives into “before” and “after.”
A biting autumn wind howled through the wreaths of artificial flowers, making the mourning ribbons flutter like restless souls unable to find peace. It was the fifth funeral procession of the day winding its way 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.
Trevor and Nigel sat in a crumbling brick gazebo, sheltering from the insistent wind. Their eyes, accustomed to constant vigilance, lazily followed the ceremony. The ritual of grief was just background noise to them, part of the job. They stood, brushed off their threadbare trousers, andassuming appropriately mournful expressionsapproached the group of weeping mourners. They moved from person to person, mumbling vague condolences and shaking chilly hands. No one paid much attention to these two shabby men in their worn jackets. Grief is the great equalizerit erases social boundaries. In moments like these, any kindness, even from strangers, feels like a drop of warmth in an ocean of icy loss. No one asked who they were. No one stopped them from saying goodbye. The collective numbness of grief played right into their hands.
It was the last procession of the day that caught their attention. Everything about it screamed moneythe polished dark-wood coffin with heavy bronze handles, lavish wreaths of real flowers thick with sickly-sweet perfume, and the cars parked by the gates: not battered old Fords but sleek imports with tinted windows.
Trevor went first. He peered into the coffin, his face contorting in a flawless imitation of bereavement. He crossed himself fervently, lips whispering a rehearsed prayer, and stepped back, pretending to wipe away a tear. Nigel waited, then repeated the act with even more theatrical sighs. Their eyes met briefly, the ghost of a smirk twitching at the corners of their mouths. Without a word, they retreated to their gazebo hideout. Tonights “payday” promised to be more than decent. All they had to do was wait for nightfall.
The deceased, as theyd learned from a chatty old woman on the burial crew, was one Margaret Eleanor Whitaker. She lay in the coffin in an elegant velvet dress, her faded earlobes adorned with heavy gold earrings set with deep red stonesrubies, most likely. And, as tradition demanded, a thick gold cross should have rested on her lifeless chest.
When the grey dusk swallowed the last colors of the day and the cemetery fell silent save for the rustle of fallen leaves, they got to “work.” The sky, as if to spite them, had clouded over, unleashing a cold, relentless rain. 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 reward pushed them forward. This job had to be finished. There was no turning back.
Their fates had collided years ago in prisontwo broken lives, two men discarded by the world. The society they returned to was just as merciless as the prison walls. Trevor grew up in a childrens home where dreams were a luxury and survival the only lesson. Nigels own family had disowned him the moment he was convicted, treating him like a leper. Freedom offered them nothing but poverty: no home, no work, no chance at redemption. Their crimes had been laughably pettyTrevor pinched a few thousand quid from the factory till where he worked as a loader; Nigel got into a drunken brawl that left the other guy with a broken jaw.
No one wanted to hire convictsmiddle-aged men who reeked of despair and prison. So they took the easiest, ugliest path: grave-robbing. They soothed their guilt with a cynical mantra: *The dead dont need it. Itll just rot in the groundbetter we get some use out of it.* The thought dulled the shame.
Slipping between the graves like shadows, they reached the fresh mound. Their shovels bit into the soft earth until, at last, wood met metal with a dull thud. They yanked off the ropes and heaved open the coffin lid.
And recoiled in horror, icy fear washing away all their cynicism.
“Trev You see that? Shes *breathing*?” Nigels voice cracked into a whisper, thick with dread. In the weak glow of their torch, the lace on the old womans chest seemed to stir.
“Shut it!” Trevor hissed, unable to tear his eyes from her deathly pale face.
Then it happenedsomething that turned their blood to ice. A thin, blue-veined hand shot out of the coffin, bony fingers clamping around Nigels wrist with unnatural strength. Both menhardened ex-cons who feared neither God nor the devilhowled in unison, stumbling back.
“Let go, you witch! Sod off!” Trevor babbled, crossing himself with a shaking hand.
“Shut your trap! Shes *alive*, you idiot! *Alive!*” Nigel roared, shock overriding fear.
They didnt take the gold. Instead, they hauled the “corpse” out of the gravelight as a skeleton wrapped in skinand collapsed onto the wet grass, gasping between hysterical laughter and sobs. The old woman coughed, her body shuddering, and she opened cloudy but very much *living* eyes. Without a word, they scooped her up and staggered toward the cemetery caretakers hut.
They laid her on the narrow cot, covering her with Nigels filthy jacket.
“We we should call an ambulance,” Trevor stammered, still struggling to believe it.
Then the woman the world had mourned found her voiceweak, rasping, but startlingly firm.
“No. No doctors. *He* buried me alive. A very *specific* man. He needs teaching.”
She blinked, her gaze sharpening. Then she took in her rescuerstheir dirty clothes, the shovels.
“And you why were you digging graves at night?” There was less judgment in her tone than curiosity.
Trevor and Nigel exchanged glances. The truth was bitter, but lying now was pointless.
“Trying to make a living, maam,” Nigel muttered, hanging his head. “Your jewelry we needed it. Were grave robbers.”
Her face showed neither horror nor condemnationjust cold calculation.
“Then to avoid awkward questions, boys, go back and fill in my grave. Clean up the mess. Ill pay you for the job. And for saving meseparately.”
So they returned to the gaping hole, shoveling with even less enthusiasm than before. They were burying evidence, burying a terrible secret.
Back in the hut, soaked and caked in mud, Trevor asked, “Where do you live? Should we take you home?”
Margaret shook her head bitterly. “I doubt Id be welcome. My *dear* husbandtwenty years my junioris probably celebrating his newfound freedom with his mistress right now.”
Nigel whistled. “No offense, love, but what did you expect?”
“He was a con artist, and I was a fool who believed in love,” she said, her voice tremblingnot with tears, but with icy rage. “He slipped something into my tea. Thought I wouldnt survive. But Ive always been strongsports, clean living. He planned to inherit everything. And death well, its easily mistaken for a deep sleep when the doctors are *paid* to look the other way.”
The ex-cons took her to their dingy rented flat on the outskirts of towntwo rooms steeped in poverty and despair, now a refuge for three people bound by a horrific secret.
Meanwhile, in a gleaming corporate office, a somber memorial for Margaret Whitaker was underway. Her staffwhod feared and respected her in equal measurestood in silence. Her husband, Andrew, a polished and handsome man already settling into his role as heir, gave a suitably grief-stricken speech. Everyone knew the truth: hed been a leech, a flatterer whod charmed his way into the life of a lonely, brilliant woman. Now the sycophants would rise, the loyalists would be purged, and the company would crumble.
Andrew, barely concealing his triumph, was mid-speech when the doors burst open.
And *she* walked in.
The room fell dead silent. Andrew turned, his face draining of color. The microphone shook in his hand.
“Hello, darling,” Margaret said, her voice like shattering glass. “You dont look happy to see me. And after such a touching farewell”
“M-Margaret, weyou” he stammered, stumbling back.
“I came back. Unfinished business.” She advanced, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. “But I havent the patience for lies. Let the professionals handle it.”
The police entered. A search of Andrews flat had turned up vials of drugs and damning messages to the bribed doctor. His protests died in the stunned silence.
His lackeys were sacked on the spotno severance, no mercy. In their place, Margaret
