The Nightmare Twenties

Chapter 1The sun finally hid behind the horizon. The sky had been shimmering in shades of pink for a long time, gradually fading into a darker colour and finally becoming a strong, cold purple. Although the daylight was fading and there was still some time before the night began, thick clouds gave the impression that it was later than it really was. For most people and animals this spelt sleep and a well-earned rest. For most of them. A few – people as well as game – were just beginning their hunts. Mighty, thick clouds covered a major part of the sky, and somewhere in the distance one could hear the bass grumbling of an incessantly upcoming storm. Which was accompanied by the waspish whirr of an old, used Ford truck driving unhurriedly along the roadside, gouging deep ruts in the gravel road. The faint yellow light coming from the headlights flooded the nearest landscape. Boston was becoming desolated. The streets and alleys were being emptied, becoming a refuge for stray men and women, who were rushing home or often to illegal work. Automobiles were rare; an old truck, a model still remembering the Great War, was one of two machines in this area. The other one was a classic Model T, gliding in the opposite direction at low speed. When it passed, the puddles gently spouted with water. Sitting behind the steering wheel of a truck, was a man who nervously tapped his fingers on the rim, while heavily inhaling a homemade cigarette – a roll-up. In the evening twilight it was hard to tell what he looked like. He certainly had a weather-beaten face, covered with a sparse, yet greyish stubble and an old frayed flat cap placed low on his forehead. A thick jumper was hitched up to his chin, protecting its wearer from the spring chill. Alongside him, in the middle of the front couch seat, sat a much younger and thinner man with glasses, a thin moustache that was aimed to resemble Chaplin and his hair combed back. He was nervously clutching his cap in his hands, not wanting to give in to the stress and tension. Even though the light was dim, it was obvious that he was there because he had to be even if he did not feel very confident. His total opposite was the third man. He, sleeping by the side window with his flat cap pulled down low on his face, was a stocky, heavyset gentleman in a work uniform, his hands were like loaves of bread, filthy with grease. His cheeks were covered with a five o’clock shadow. His hair was short and dark, at least that is how the single strands sticking out from under his cap looked like. He stank of sweat, fish and grease, and above all he was snoring. The first drops of spring rain were falling on the windscreen of the truck. Some of the residents of Boston, feeling the cold water on their faces, sped up their pace, trying to avoid the splashing water from the puddles. For those three men in the vehicle, the rain was a particularly bad sign. The driver smacked his lips, while chewing the roll-up and then pressed the accelerator. The automobile coughed once, then twice and began to speed up. “Damn it, we will not make it in time before the storm. The ground will get soaked!” “It will be easier to dig” muttered a sleepy man, dirty with grease. He moved and stretched. Either he had had a shallow sleep or sounds of the approaching storm had woken him up. The young man was silent, unsure if he wanted to take part in this conversation. Eventually he slipped his glasses off his nose to rub his eyes and gain some time. “Easier my ass,” bridled the driver. “Have you ever dug in wet soil? For starters mud is up to your ankles, and then it only gets worse!” “I have, not only once. Why? Because I was ordered to. How come that Irish prick is still running the port...” “What, Reilly ordered it? My God, I feel sorry for you.” “Anyway, we have this kid to do the dirty work, you found him yourself, Steve.” “Me? What about me?” the specky broke in, hastily slipping his glasses on. He looked at his older friends with a little fright, realising that the hardest and the worst job was intended for him. “You, me, and Adrien,” said the driver, ignoring the young man. “Digging in the mud will be a nightmare, but we don’t do it for free. We share equally, one third.” “Well, for that much money you can live like a king. Not how it used to be, a lot of work for a few bucks. Young man, check who died recently, maybe we will come across a fresh one,” the filthy worker, Adrien, reached under the seat and pulled out a slightly crumpled and torn newspaper. The specky muttered something under his breath, corrected his glasses and flipped through the Boston Courier looking for the latest obituaries. The twilight – or rather the gloom, since the further away from downtown Boston the fewer streetlights – did not foster reading the tiny letters. The youngest of the three squinted and lifted the newspaper closer to his face. He spent a good few minutes doing this, meanwhile the truck slowed down and pulled over to the roadside, which was overgrown with towering poplars and birches. As the engine stalled, the storm’s ominous murmurs grew louder. The rain also began to fall more and more heavily. “Hmm... Jessup Clayton Ostig, age sixty-five and Samantha Therese Erwin, age forty-two,” the kid finally spoke up, tearing his face away from the newspaper. “Only those two were recently buried at Evergreen, Mr Collins” he added hastily, needlessly explaining himself to the worker. “And probably half a dozen others, nameless, homeless and hopeless souls. We are all about those ones, kid,” added Steve, the driver, chewing on a roll-up and looking out of the windows of the parked car. Satisfied with the emptiness and silence, he smiled. “But the professor pays more for the fresh ones!” fully awaken Adrien exclaimed, correcting his flat cap, and reaching for the handle. He was the first one to get out of the truck and immediately headed to the rear, from where he pulled out a large jute sack and tossed it over his back with ease. The metal and wooden tools rattled. “He pays, but we must be careful,” the driver continued, slamming the door behind him. “No one will miss the homeless people. The soul has returned to God, but the body remains with us, remember these words, Bob,” he adjusted his flat cap as he looked at the dark sky and the churning clouds, then spat hastily on the ground. Small puddles glistened in the faint light and their surface shimmered with more raindrops. The young specky was the last one to leave the automobile. Reluctantly, as if with fear. He puffed into his hands to warm them up before the work, and reached inside the truck for a shovel, a crowbar, and a pickaxe. He grunted, trying to hold everything in his arms, but as soon as he took a few steps, the tools fell to the wet ground with a loud clatter. “God damn it!” he cursed in a trembling voice. He bent down to collect the scattered equipment when a soft, yet jarring light flooded the nearest area. The specky glanced anxiously at the driver's weather-beaten face, who was raising the storm lamp. The man only shook his head, looking around. It was empty and quiet. The graveyard was surrounded by a not particularly high wall of fine brick and stone, overgrown with ivy and weeds with a huge wrought-iron gate. However, there were no ornaments: no angels, crosses, nor saints – the reason for that was that the people buried here were of every faith and religion, but above all those who had no relatives and were lower on the social ladder. Of course, there were those from higher classes as well, but they were rare. Adrien stood in front of the gate for a while, considering whether he would manage to break the chain and the padlock. Eventually, however, he spat over his shoulder and moved along the wall, heading towards a small hill. The brick wall was slightly lower there, but one had to watch out for roots, loose stones, and mud. Although the rain was easing up, one had to bear in mind that it could change quickly. The three robbers had to get to the graveyard as soon as possible. Climbing up the slope was not easy, but it was not a great obstacle either; the most difficult was the sack. Reaching the wall, accompanied by cursing, wheezing, and spitting, took maybe a little over a quarter of an hour. It took another fifteen minutes to get over the wall and carry all the equipment. “I’m getting too old for this,” groaned the driver, falling to his knees as he was the last of the three to enter the graveyard. The older part of the necropolis had the largest number of tombs and crypts, dating back to the nineteenth century. And although most of them were in a deplorable condition – cracked walls, crumbled steps, damaged carvings, worn out inscriptions, rusty rims and so on – it was impossible not to get the impression that one was dealing with history. Steve was the first and by far the most faithful of all to cross himself and say a short prayer. The others reluctantly repeated his gestures and gathered their equipment, continuing their way to the newer part where the poor and forgotten were buried. After walking several yards or so, the robbers felt more secure; no one could see them from the road. The watchman guarding the graveyard was probably sitting in his equipment room drinking to Volstead, only glancing at the storm clouds. For criminals, this timing was perfect. It was dark, a real downpour was about to begin. The broad old maples, firs and spruces muffled the glare of the storm lamp. The needles of these trees, lying on the ground in quite a thick layer, in combination with successive raindrops muted the steps of the men. When it thundered, it was obvious that no one would hear or see them. Most of the alleys were not narrow, but they could not be called wide either. They were just wide enough to fit a horse-drawn cart to transport one coffin or more. It was enough to reach the main alley and follow the ruts and traces of hooves to reach the destination, but the mud was mercilessly sticking to the shoes, which was hindering the march. “Come on, kid, let's get to work,” Adrien said quietly, tossing the bag with the tools onto the wet ground, obviously avoiding the forming puddles. A moment later, he took some of the equipment from the specky, looking around the row of graves for a moment, he stuck the shovel into the ground. “Not here, for God's sake,” Steve corrected him, while he was taking off his flat cap and wiping his sweaty forehead down. “He died before Christmas; the bugs are already eating him up. This time the professor doesn’t pay us for the eaten corpse. We dig there, the maid first, then the peasant,” he pointed first at a simple plaque with the approximate date of death, and then to a mound of earth at the other end of the alley. “How do you even know him? This professor?” Adrien mumbled something else under his breath, and a moment later they were all working quickly and efficiently, as if digging out coffins and robbing bodies were perhaps not an everyday occurrence for them, but something, horrifyingly, common. “Remember when we were working for Shaun in the winter?” replied Steve, shovelling the dirt quickly. “The one from Libby Murray, you know.” “Yeah, I remember Libby. I still have that burning sensation in my groin.” “Shaun mentioned a few times that some changes were coming; that God himself would come down for people like us and that there will be a lot of kale, and then he set me up for a meeting and that was that. It was alright,” he concluded, digging with the shovel, and wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Alright...” Collins repeated, without stopping his work. It sounded sensible, that was the way things were done in the criminal business. Through connections. Through recommendations. The so-called word of mouth. The specky remained silent, as he listened to the conversation, his face looked paler and paler. This is not how he imagined his illegal job to look like.