Sometimes, on a Saturday night, when the world is held tight in the grip of that old frosty bitch called winter, all a man can do is find a dark place to sit and swallow down some hellfire. You don’t do it to have fun. No, sir. Not to get warm either, and not even to forget. You drink in the hope that the vile stuff might scour you clean from the inside out. And maybe, just maybe, fill you with something else. Something more than what you are.
Now, it may be that I had dirt inside me. More than a maybe, truth be told. The same dirt that lived under my fingernails, in the cracks of my palms, in the creases of my overalls, and on the soles of my shoes; from digging all them graves and closing them up again. It’s a hard living, making homes for the dead. But it is a living, nonetheless, and it lets me stay.
They take some of you with them, I heard once, the people you bury. Like you might be their last hope of finding their way back, if a way back there is. And when you’ve done it daily for the better part of twenty years, it’s hard to believe you still have all your soul left inside you. So you drink, to fill the holes they make in you; the dead.
The dark place I chose was a grieving little pub at the end of an even sadder little street. It was the kind of place you didn’t want to end up in, but had very little say in if you considered, honestly, the life choices you’d made. Neon lights, with more black in them than neon, slithered from pane to pane across the small windows and over the arch of the doorway.
Welcome to the Hell Hole, it said.
If there is a place more aptly named, I have yet to find it.
I didn’t see her at first. I was sitting in the darkest corner I could find, trying to stay out of sight of the regular drunks, who were always glad to see you until you told them you couldn’t afford to get both of you pissed. I only heard her shouting at some rando, who answered that shrill, scalding voice with the middle finger of his right hand. He laughed as he did it and shuffled off to the bathroom behind the bar, her collection of crude yet creative profanities following him to the place they properly belonged.
That made him laugh even louder, which drew from her an even cruder and, dare I say, more inspired string of smut. Curiosity got the better of me. And because discord in a place like that could turn bloody quicker than a man could drain a glass, I left my seat to see what was happening and to put a face to the voice.
Mostly so I could avoid it.
In my line of work, you see every kind of person there is. The overly dramatic, who’d jump in after the casket if no one watched them close. The screamers, who wailed and spoke to God as if He were an old drinking mate. The stern-faced uncles and hollow-faced aunts. The confused little kids wondering what all the fuss was about. The close relatives with dazed looks, wearing the expressions of people who had no idea what kind of tortures the future might hold. And then there were the actor types, who mourned so terrifically you’d think the deceased had left a film crew behind.
Then there were the parents.
Theirs was a different kind of sad, if there is such a thing. Something careful. Measured, almost. As if they had to hold back, lest their anguish make it harder for their precious child to find peace in the afterlife. If they could not have them back, then they would deny their own grief just long enough for their angel to find a place beside God.
I knew her as soon as I set eyes on her. She had been in the paper not too long before. Her daughter had been killed by some unknown thug who thought another life was worth less than whatever sickness lived in him. They had buried the girl not a week ago.
And I had put dirt between them.
When you are filled with that kind of hurt, all you can do is find a place to put it. But hurt won’t be put away. So you live with it, and you go looking for something that hurts worse. Only you never find it. So you live until it hurts a little less, then you live some more, until your heart breaks only once a day.
She was there to hurt herself. But it was none of my business.
So I moved on and stole a glance as I passed her.
“See something you like?” she spat.
I walked faster, eager not to catch what she had. Like I said: hurt like hers doesn’t heal clean.
I found that dark corner several times over the next few weeks, and that shrill, scalding voice became part of my routine. She drowned herself in booze, danced and sang like only a drunk person can, and welcomed the judgement and harsh criticism slung at her by people worse than she was. She, at least, had reason to behave the way she did. Or so I thought. What reasons did they have, other than plain self-indulgence?
I walked by her often, always stealing a glance, and as time passed her eyes and retorts grew softer. I found myself wondering what her name was, because I could never find that newspaper again. I might have asked on a few occasions, but thought better of it. She wasn’t there for anything but to get hurt. Maybe hurt enough to forget.
So I steered clear and did no more than glance.
I kept the dirt between us. And I could tell she knew.
In her own drunken way, she thanked me for it by letting me care about her from a distance.
One night, I found my corner again, but this time was different.
It was quiet.
Not quiet in the traditional sense. The Hell Hole still groaned and cursed and laughed like it always did. Glasses knocked against tables. Men shouted over one another. Somebody fed coins into that miserable old jukebox and made it sing. It was the kind of quiet you get when you hear everything except the one thing you came to hear.
I walked over to the bar but didn’t see her at her usual table. I checked the dance floor.
Nothing.
I even took a seat near the bathroom in case she was in there. After an hour of eyeing the ladies’ room like some kind of pervert, I decided to go home.
She wasn’t there, and the place didn’t feel the same.
I went back every night after that, but she never showed. I’d stay for a while and then leave without having a drink.
I wasn’t there for that anymore.
The last time I went to the Hell Hole, I only peeked in. I didn’t even bother to sit down. As soon as I saw she still hadn’t shown, I left.
I walked down Main Street hoping I’d hear her shouting at some undeserving soul, but the same kind of quiet greeted me there. I walked on, aimless as a stray dog, until my eyes caught on something in a shop window.
A familiar face.
Hers, in happier times.
She was smiling brightly, arms wrapped around her daughter. It was the same photograph I had seen in the paper before, the one from the article about her daughter’s murder. Only this was the latest issue, and that meant whatever had happened, had happened recently.
I hurried inside and picked up a copy.
I paid the clerk and sat at a small table by the window, one of those places where a man could have a quick coffee and read before work, if he had work worth going to. I looked at the title again, then turned to the page mentioned on the cover.
I read through it with a heavy heart.
My eyes grew wet as I read her story and finally learned her name. I read about the life she had before everything was taken from her. I read about neighbours who called her kind. About the church ladies who said she always helped when there was helping to be done. About a daughter she had loved so fiercely that, when the girl was gone, there was nothing left in the world strong enough to hold her.
I asked myself, and God too, how such awful things could happen to good people.
No answer came.
Only the old sadness.
It took hold of me, firm as winter, and bent my back the same way digging did.
Then I folded the paper, set it down, and told myself:
“You have another grave to dig, gravedigger.”
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About
Marco du Preez was born in Cape Town, South Africa. He holds two degrees from the University of Pretoria. Balancing a full-time military career with a passion for storytelling, Marco writes poetry, noir-inspired short fiction, and fantasy. He resides in Pretoria with his family and their eight-year-old Jack Russell terrier, Bullet.
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