I don’t even remember writing this one, that’s the great thing about writing every day (it probably helps that I write them first thing in the morning, when I’m not always properly awake—)
Yes, well, that certainly helps explain things!
BUTANYWAYSHUTYOURFACE! and I hope you enjoy it!
The last delivery of the day, and his favourite. But when he dropped the bag of corn outside the chicken coop and knocked on the door for Mrs Byrne, she had no kisses or tender words for him. She was in a right state.
The thing was, he liked their little arrangement, how they went back to their families afterwards. She hadn’t said that with her husband dead, she’d expect him to marry her. But you couldn’t run a farm without a man. Even the chickens would get uppity, if there was no man about.
And here he was, carrying the man of the house over his shoulder to his cart.
He had enough sacking to cover it, and he ki-yahed the horses until he got to the river. He let them graze along the banks. The back of the cemetery lay through the trees on the other side. He was lucky. There was nobody else there, though it was a popular spot on nice evenings like this. He wouldn’t even need to think up an excuse to tell his wife. She knew he came back late on Fridays. He was just missing out on Mrs Byrne’s affections. Oh well, nothing came for free.
He flipped back an edge of sacking. Mr Byrne’s face was bruised and blood caked his lips. She’d really given it to him this time. Poor bugger, he’d never known how to handle his wife. Not the way she liked.
He hefted the body over his shoulder. Once he had dropped it over the wall into the cemetery, it would no longer be his problem, the priest would have to take care of it. He’d hide it under the coffin next time someone was being buried, same as usual. There was sometimes such a stink with so many bodies in one hole!
He decided to stop off at Mrs Byrne’s place on the way home. She might need some comforting. He certainly did. And he could stay as long as he liked, now that there was no chance of her husband coming in and finding them.
Her lights were off. That was no good. She should keep up the pretence that everything was normal until her husband was found. That was the way things were done. He tripped over Mr Byrne’s boots in the dark hallway.
“Annette?” he called. She was crying in the bedroom, snuffling. He made his way towards the sound. There she was, wrapped up in her blanket in the dark. “All taken care of,” he said.
The priest threw back the covers, and whanged his head with a shovel.
He woke when his body dropped into the narrow hole, landing on something soft: Mr Byrne. He turned and opened his mouth to ask for help. The priest threw a handful of dirt into it, choking him. Annette started shovelling dirt while the priest put his arm around her. It looked like he knew how to handle her.
