‘The girls, what happened?’
‘What girls?’
‘What girls do you think I’m talking about?’
He shrugs, but he knows. “I had nothing to do with them.
And nor did Bruce.’
‘He buried them. He admitted to that. Did he kill them?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Or did you kill them?’ I ask.
‘This is bullshit. All you’ve done is kill my son and you don’t even know why’
‘How about you explain it to me?’
‘You’re asking the wrong man.’
‘Who should I be asking?’
‘Who the hell do you think? Your pal Father Julian. Go ask him all about it.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Fuck you. I’m not saying another word until you let me out of here.’
I back away from the grave.
‘Where the fuck are you going?’ Alderman calls out.
I don’t answer him. I walk over to his SUV It’s dusty and there are several rusting stone chips across the front of it. The driver’s door is open and there is a ‘ding, ding’ sound coming from the dashboard — his keys are still in it. I pop open the back door. My daughter is sprawled out in the back beneath a dark blue tarp, her hair all matted and limp, her favourite dress in better condition than her body. Her little body has been ravaged by decomposition. I lean against the SUV and I keep my eyes downcast, fighting the nausea, not wanting to look at her face because much of it has gone. It has rotted away, leaving a mask of such horror that all I want to do is scream. She should be in school right now. Should be two years older. Should be looking forward to going home and getting her homework out of the way so she can spend time having tea-parties with teddy bears. Jesus, this world is so fucked up that it’s starting to make me think what Bruce Alderman did last night isn’t such a bad option.
I close the door. I walk back to the grave. Alderman is still making his way out of it. He’s struggling because the dynamics are difficult for him. He’s drunk, his body can’t perform as well as a younger man’s could, his shoulder hurts and his fingers hurt, and he’s having difficulty getting up over the edge. He needs to be taller or stronger or younger or sober, or he needs a ladder. He looks up at me.
‘You son of a bitch,’ I say.
‘So I was wrong. So you did find her.’
‘It’s time you gave me some answers,’ I say, and I reach down and grab a handful of his hair in one hand and the front of his shirt in the other. I pull him up hard, wanting it to hurt, and he grunts as his body is dragged over the edge of the grave.
‘Ah, fuck, slow down, damn it,’ he says, but I have no intention of slowing down.
“I didn’t kill your son,’ I say, and I keep pulling him upwards.
He braces both his hands over my hands to relieve the pain that must be flooding through the top of his head. I can hear scalp and hair beginning to tear.
When he’s out far enough, he gets his knees on the ground and stops trying to hold onto my arms. Instead he twists his head, pulls down on my hand and clamps his teeth over my thumb.
‘Shit,’ I say, and I pull back my hand, but it’s no good. He’s biting hard, trying to sever the thumb.
I can’t crash my knee into his chin because it’ll push his teeth all the way through. Instead I let go of him and hit him. His head moves, making his teeth rip at my thumb like a great white shark sawing through its prey by shaking its head. So I push forward.
We both stumble, and a moment later we’re falling through the air.
And back into the grave.
chapter twenty-three
Mostly I land on Sidney Alderman. My elbow crashes into the
coffin and my thumb is jarred from his mouth. My knee hits
the wall, but the rest of me lands against the old man so the impact is cushioned. Alderman isn’t so lucky. He doesn’t have anybody to land on. Just his wife, except that her years of offering any support are over. So he lands hard up against the wood with the shovel beneath him — harder, I imagine, than if he were falling in there by himself. Because I’m falling with him, there’s my weight and there’s momentum and the laws of physics, and they all add up very badly for Sidney Alderman. His head bounces into the edge of the coffin.