Nice Day for a Picnic Read online

  Graham lurched forward and swiped the cake from his hand. Tim made no sound. He stared at his father, mouth open with shock. The wasp flew in a loop and landed on the boy’s sticky lower lip.

  Tim’s eyes widened as the insect made its slow exploration.

  “Don’t move.” Graham switched into calm teacher mode. “Keep absolutely still.”

  “Ah.” Tim was trying to say, “Dad!” without moving his lips.

  Was the boy allergic to stings? Graham couldn’t recall any incidents. Lucy had never said… Surely, if there was a danger of their child suffering anaphylactic shock, a picnic was the last thing she would allow… But still, he ought to know.

  Time stopped. Graham went so dizzy that his ears rang. All that existed in the world was the wasp, with its curved stripy abdomen and tiny sting poised on his son’s lip…

  He blinked. Time shifted. The migraine, briefly forgotten, came back like a spear through his skull. The wasp had departed and Tim was now stuffing a sausage roll into his mouth as if nothing had happened.

  Graham wondered if he’d blacked out for a moment from sheer terror, or if he’d simply hallucinated the worst thing that could happen.

  “Why are you staring at me?” Tim mumbled through half-chewed pastry. “It’s gone, didn’t you see it fly off? Truffle, stop it!”

  The terrier-beast insistently pushed his nose over Tim’s raised elbow, sniffing.

  “Get off! No begging.” The boy tore off a bit of sausage meat and flung it away. Truffle raced down the knoll in search of the morsel, vanishing into the tangle of weeds and long grass below. Tim giggled.

  “You shouldn’t feed him. It only makes him beg more.” Graham sighed, sat back on the rug with his knees raised. His legs were red-raw with nettle rash. Headache pain trickled like ice water through his neck muscles. “I should have told Lucy not to pack anything sweet. Mind you, we always forgot there would be wasps. Every single time.”

  “You threw my cake away.”

  “But I saved you from eating the dreaded wasp!”

  Tim laughed. “Are there any more? Cakes, I mean.”

  “You can have mine. Go on, get stuck in.”

  Graham tipped back his head and looked up at the blue sky. He shivered. He shouldn’t be cold in this heat, but migraines always made him feel that way. His head throbbed and he wanted to scoop up his son and rush him away from this place, take him home. Back at the flat they could watch a film or play computer games and Tim would be safe…

  “Where’s Truffle?” Tim’s voice startled him. “Truffle! Come here, boy!”

  Graham found himself lying flat and suspected he’d fallen asleep.

  “How long’s he been gone?”

  “I don’t know. Ages. At least ten minutes.”

  “Oh, lord, he’d better not have found his way back into the woods. Give me a bit of sausage roll and I’ll tempt him back.”

  Tim put his fingers to his lips. “I ate them both.”

  “You seem to have eaten almost everything.” Graham checked the boxes: there was half a cheese sandwich left. Wasps and flies crawled over fragments of icing in the cake box.

  “Sorry, Dad. I asked if you wanted anything but you just snored.”

  Damn, I really was asleep. Graham cursed himself for inattention. “It’s a good job Truffle’s crazy for cheese.”

  Graham rose to his feet, scanning every direction for the damned dog. Lucy and Tim doted on their pet. He’d been so focused on Tim, it hadn’t struck him that losing Truffle would be an almost equal disaster.

  Then the ginger head appeared, ears flapping. Truffle had something in his mouth. A grey flat object. He heard Lucy’s voice, Don’t let him eat anything disgusting.

  “Drop it.” Graham took two strides and seized the dog by his collar before he could turn and run off again. What in God’s name had he picked up? Graham gripped the object’s edge, but Truffle dug his teeth in, growling. They played tug-of-war. Great fun for Truffle, perhaps.

  Not a stone. Something softish. Leather? No, some kind of metal.

  Lead.

  “Truffle, drop it!”

  The mutt dipped his head and let the item drop onto the grass. Definitely a piece of lead, dull and flat and ragged round the edges. Christ, how much lead did it take to poison a dog? What if he’d swallowed part of it?

  Graham seized a plastic water bottle, got hold of Truffle and forced his jaws open. He trickled water onto the lolling tongue. Truffle thought this was a great game and began snapping at the stream of water, tail wagging.

  “What are you doing?” Tim said, excited.

  “Washing his mouth out. God knows what he’s eaten.”

  “Let me!”

  Tim spun in circles with the bottle and Truffle pranced after him, catching the water in his jaws, lapping, spraying it everywhere. Wonderful fun for them both. Tim’s laughter and Truffle’s joyous yips grew deafening. Graham sank down onto the grass, light-headed with relief that they were enjoying themselves, that the dog wasn’t lost after all.

  If Truffle fell sick later… Lucy wouldn’t necessarily blame him, would she? She didn’t need to know about the scrap of lead. He quivered with feverish chills. This outing had been one long panic attack. But to see his son laughing… worth every moment.

  He picked up the object and wiped off the dog-slobber with a napkin.

  Not a fragment of roof flashing, as he’d thought. It was old. A few inches square, bent, the edges corroded, covered in scratched characters.

  Thanks to the history lectures he and Lucy used to love, he knew what it was.

  The letters scratched into the metal were Latin. A curse. He knew the sort of things these tablets usually said: To the bastard who stole my cloak from the baths. May he freeze naked! Septimus, the old goat who would marry my mother – let his bits shrivel and drop off. He who betrayed my beloved sister – betray him in turn, O blessed goddess.

  But he was no expert. This, he couldn’t translate at all. He sat up, catching his breath. The letters danced, rising off the surface like a holographic illusion. He wanted to tell someone – but there was only Tim, too busy playing with his pet to be interested. If only Lucy were here… He held an imaginary conversation with her in his head.

  “Look at this! A Roman curse tablet. There must be an old ruined temple under here. That’s what the mound is: the remains of a temple!”

  She would be so excited. He envisioned what lay beneath: perhaps a mosaic floor with an image of the particular deity they’d worshipped here. The gaps in the walls would be stuffed full of similar tablets. Prayers, curses. Lucy would start to make plans. They would talk of bringing the history club here. They would contact the archaeologist who’d given the lecture. Organise an official dig…

  But wait, hadn’t they been here once before?

  Déjà vu again.

  That’s why the rough green patch felt so familiar. The weather had been poor that day, Graham recalled, steel-grey and drizzling. They’d approached from a different direction, across the fields rather than through the woods. He remembered that a couple of people had taken one look at the knoll and hurried away. Their unexplained departure cast unease on the rest of the group. Then a friend of theirs – a retired teacher in her sixties – had felt faint. They’d helped her to sit down. She had remained on the edge of the mound with her head in her hands for ten minutes, murmuring to herself,

  “There’s something bad here. Something really bad. Can’t you feel it?”

  The other five had stood around, unsure what to do. At that point, a man had come up from the farm and started arguing with the group leader. The leader swore he’d got permission from the farmer, but the farm worker insisted that they were trespassing and must leave at once or shotguns would be deployed.

  Well, it was easy enough for a group to scare itself. Any group of teenagers could give themselves nightmares in a dark old house, or playing with a Ouija board. That sort of primal terror was highly infectious. Mid-quar
rel, the clouds had collapsed under their own weight and unleashed a massive downpour of rain. End of argument. Heavy curtains of water drove the group downhill, over the stream, through the flooded fields and back to their cars mired in the farmyard…

  Tim uttered the dreaded words:

  “Dad, I’m bored.”

  Graham started back to the present. The sun still shone, too hot yet failing to warm his icy skin. Truffle was resting with his head on his paws.

  “How can you be bored?” He put on the jovial dad act again. “When I was your age, we’d play outside from dawn until dusk.”

  “Only because you had nothing else to do in the old days.” Tim rolled his eyes.

  “The old days? I’m thirty-nine, not eighty-nine.”

  “Still ancient, though.”

  “You cheeky devil.” He poked his son in the ribs, making him giggle. “Do you want to head home, mate?”

  “No, not yet. I just want something to do. Have you got your phone?”

  “There’s no reception.” Graham took out his smart phone and tapped the screen awake. One small bar of signal flickered in and out.

  “I don’t need a signal to play a game! You must have games on there.”

  “Tim, you are not playing electronic games on a picnic! Screens are banned.”

  “I’ll tell Mum!”

  Graham smiled. “Tell her. She’ll agree with me on this, at least.”

  “Ohhh,” Tim complained with a rising note of frustration.

  “What about that tennis ball? We could play catch.”

  “Oh, the ball!” Tim jumped to his feet and pulled the repulsive yellow-grey sphere out of his pocket. “Truffle, come on! Fetch!”

  Secretly Graham was relieved. He wanted to play with his boy… but he was so tired, felled by the damned headache as if it were a spear pinning his head to the ground.

  “Don’t throw the ball too far,” he called as boy and dog vanished down the side of the mount. “Don’t go back into the woods. Stay where I can see you. An hour, then we’ll head home, all right? Told your mum I’d have you back by six.”

  They were gone. He gave in with a rueful grin and lay back, shielding his eyes from the sun with his forearm. Dreaming of Lucy. Her blue eyes and sweet, tender face. “She doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor!” everyone said. How her patients loved her. And so did he. He would wash the mud off Tim’s trainers and brush Truffle’s coat. Arrive smiling, clean and bright-eyed, with a box of her favourite chocolates.

  When Lucy had dropped her guard and smiled, he’d seen tenderness in her eyes. Sadness and yearning. She was softening towards him, he was certain.

  Mistakes had been made, lessons learned. There was no need to let one lapse ruin the rest of their lives. Steve the “boyfriend” would vanish, like the invisible man when his bandages were unwound… Because it had to be Graham and Lucy again. Had to be. They both knew.

  -

  Migraines always made him fall asleep. The body needed rest and would not be denied.

  Graham felt the lead tablet under his fingers. He imagined he could read the words like Braille. He pictured the inside of the temple, stuffed full of similar objects, leaf upon leaf, tons of lead pressing down. All those prayers and curses and spells scratched on lead… What were they for? He dreamed he was underneath the temple, buried beneath a great weight of rock and soil and human intention. These curses were not directed at multiple targets. No, every single word was focused on a single aim: that of keeping something bound, imprisoned, confined.

  He struggled in half-waking nightmares, delirious. Gasping for breath.

  When he opened his eyes, it was dark.

  The migraine had eased, but his mouth was dry and sticky. He had no idea where he was. He was in that strange stupor where the mind wakes but the body won’t move and nothing makes sense. Then he remembered… the last sound he’d heard was Tim calling the dog to action. And hadn’t he issued a warning as they went? Don’t throw the ball too far… Told your mum I’d have you back by six.

  “Tim?”

  He felt the rug beneath him, damp now. The world was a dull grey, as if dusk had only recently fallen, aided by thick cloud. Panic rose like a storm, too big to contain or fight.

  “Tim? Truffle! Tim! Tim!”

  All at once he guessed what had happened. The dog, full of terrier instincts, must have resumed digging into the mound where he’d found the lead tablet. Perhaps there was a rabbit hole or a crack in the ground. Artefacts from the ruined temple had started worming their way to the surface. Truffle had gone exploring and got stuck.

  And of course Tim had followed to rescue him.

  Perhaps he’d shouted for help, but Graham – fast asleep in his horrible shivery cocoon of illness – had not heard.

  Hands shaking violently, Graham fumbled the phone from his shorts pocket and pressed the standby button. The screen displayed a low battery warning. He flicked the warning away, saw that the time was seven-forty.

  Jesus.

  He scrambled down the side of the knoll, sweat and tears streaming down his face.

  “Tim, I’m not angry,” he called as he felt along the sides of the mound. Weeds tangled around his forearms. Nettles grazed his skin. “Call out, so I know where you are.”

  A whimper? His hands found a crack in the ground, like the entrance to a badger sett. Big enough to admit a terrier-sized dog, or a small boy. He tried to use the phone as a torch, but it revealed nothing and kept switching off. A black pit in the earth, that was all.

  “Tim?”

  He pushed his head in. A terrible stench oozed out, suffocating. A smell of wet mould, leaves rotting away to slime, dead things… The cloying sour smell of decay. He caught his breath and gagged.

  “Tim! It’s Dad. Say something.”

  Silence.

  Graham felt into the hole, deeper and deeper. He held his breath, snatching air only when he absolutely must. A couple of feet in, his fingers found something.

  A fold of fabric… a sleeve?

  He felt further in, plunging both hands deep. There wasn’t room for his shoulders, so the action pushed his face into the side of the mound. Soil, bits of stone and twig, slimy lichen, husks, centipedes… he didn’t know what lay under his hands, didn’t care. He found an arm, then a small skinny torso.

  His muscles and joints protested as he struggled to get a grip on the boy. Sweat ran beneath his shirt, hot and salty. His breath came fast between his clenched teeth but he endured the dreadful stench, kept his hysteria under control.

  “Tim, I’ve got you,” He tried to sound calm and reassuring, like a rescuer. “How did you squeeze yourself in there? It’s okay, I’ve got you now. Can you hear me?”

  No answer.

  The slick of sweat on his body went cold.

  “No. No no no.”

  On the ground near his right hip, his phone began to ring.

  Never letting go of his son, he groped for the phone with one hand and managed to hit the speakerphone icon. He heard Lucy’s voice, crackling and breaking up.

  “Graham? Where the hell are you?”

  An incoherent moan of pain came from his throat. He couldn’t find a single word to explain this. If their son was dead, he might as well be dead too. And then… The irreparable tragedy. The estranged father who murdered his son then killed himself to spite his ex? That’s what the world would see, what Lucy would see.

  Or just a tragically incompetent father. If anything, that was worse.

  He should yell for help.

  He tried. Nothing came out but a rasp.

  “Graham?” She was nearly screaming now. “What the hell is happening? I’m here in the car park. I’m right by your car!”

  While she shouted, he went on tugging, pulling at the arm with both hands. He felt the boy’s body shift slightly – enough for him to get a firmer grip on the shoulders. He felt around, located the top of the head… Tim was on his front, lying face down. Seemed like he’d got so far in,
then managed to turn around before the burrow had partly collapsed on him.

  Carefully Graham eased the head to one side, praying that he hadn’t already suffocated. At last he managed to hook his hands under both of his son’s armpits.

  Tim was slippery with wet soil, rotten vegetation and animal faeces, caked in it. Graham began to pull. He shook and strained with the effort. Half an inch at a time… Christ, this was like…

  Flashback to Tim’s birth. The obstetrician with forceps, trying to ease his son into the world while Lucy groaned and Graham stood helpless…

  Then he felt a movement under the collarbone. The ribcage rose and fell with the tiniest breath. Graham cried out with relief. As he dragged his son towards the open air, a grunt of effort broke from him.

  “Come on,” he said. “Please, Tim. Please.”

  “Graham!” came the furious voice again. “Can you hear me? Now my bloody torch has gone out. I get here and find your car, and Truffle running around loose, and Tim by the car crying, but absolutely no sign of you…”

  “Lucy, I’ve…”

  Her voice faded and came back, yelling now. “Tim says he got lost and couldn’t find you! Truffle led him back to the car! Where the hell are you? What the hell were you thinking, letting them run off like that?”

  It took moments for her words to sink in.

  Tim, by the car…

  “I’ve called the police. I’ve got to take them home, they’re exhausted, but I’ve called the…”

  “Lucy?”

  He shouted, but no answer came. She was gone. The night was huge and empty around him. Nothing came from the phone but a faint hiss of white noise, a lost connection.

  The creature came out of the mound in a slithering rush and landed heavily on him as he fell backwards. It settled on his chest, snuffling the air. He saw its eyes: dim green moons set along the top of its head. Too many eyes.

  -

  Lucy returned from the hospital, tired out as always. She threw off her coat, saw the babysitter out, then pulled her son onto her knee. She hugged him close. Truffle laid his head on her thigh and gazed up at them both. The house was otherwise empty. Steve was long gone.