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That’s why I
think it might have come here with that ballast wood. As to how it got into the churchyard: that’s easy. Come and see for yourself.”
    I followed him where he made his way between the weedy plots towards the leaning, half-timbered shack. “Is that the source? Johnson’s timber yard?”
    He nodded. “For sure. But look here.”
    I looked where he pointed. We were still in the graveyard, approaching the tumbledown end wall, beyond which stood the derelict shack. Running in a parallel series along the dry ground, from the
mill and into the graveyard, deep cracks showed through the tangled brambles, briars and grasses. One of these cracks, wider than the others, had actually split a heavy horizontal marble slab right
down its length. Garth grunted. “That wasn’t done last time I was here,” he said.
    “The sea’s been at it again,” I nodded. “Undermining the cliffs. Maybe we’re not as safe here as you think.”
    He glanced at me. “Not the sea this time,” he said, very definitely. “Something else entirely. See, there’s been no rain for weeks. Everything’s dry. And it gets thirsty same as we do. Give me a hand.”
    He stood beside the broken slab and got his fingers into the crack. It was obvious that he intended to open up the tomb. “Garth,” I cautioned him. “Isn’t this a little
ghoulish? Do you really intend to desecrate this grave?”
    “See the date?” he said. “1847. Heck, I don’t think he’d mind, whoever he is. Desecration? Why, he might even thank us for a little sweet sunlight! What are you
afraid of? There can only be dust and bones down there now.”
    Full of guilt, I looked all about while Garth struggled with the fractured slab. It was a safe bet that there wasn’t a living soul for miles around, but I checked anyway. Opening graves
isn’t my sort of thing. But having discovered him for a stubborn old man, I knew that if I didn’t help him he’d find a way to do it by himself anyway; and so I applied myself to
the task. Between the two of us we wrestled one of the two halves to the edge of its base, finally toppled it over. A choking fungus reek at once rushed out to engulf us! Or maybe the smell was of
something else and I’d simply smelled what I “expected” to.
    Garth pulled a sour face. “ Ugh! ” was his only comment.
    The air cleared and we looked into the tomb. In there, a coffin just a little over three feet long, and the broken sarcophagus around it filled with dust, cobwebs and a few leaves. Garth glanced
at me out of the corner of his eye. “So now you think I’m wrong, eh?”
    “About what?” I answered. “It’s just a child’s coffin.”
    “Just a little ‘un, aye,” he nodded. “And his little coffin looks intact, doesn’t it? But is it ?” Before I could reply he reached down and rapped with
his horny knuckles on the wooden lid.
    And despite the fact that the sun was shining down on us, and for all that the seagulls cried and the world seemed at peace, still my hair stood on end at what happened next. For the coffin lid
collapsed like a puff-ball and fell into dusty debris, and – God help me – something in the box gave a grunt and puffed itself up into view!
    I’m not a coward, but there are times when my limbs have a will of their own. Once when a drunk insulted my wife, I struck him without consciously knowing I’d done it. It was that
fast, the reaction that instinctive. And the same now. I didn’t pause to draw breath until I’d cleared the wall and was half-way up the field to the paved path; and even then I probably
wouldn’t have stopped, except I tripped and fell flat, and knocked all the wind out of myself.
    By the time I stopped shaking and sat up, Garth was puffing and panting up the slope towards me. “It’s all right,” he was gasping. “It was nothing. Just the rot. It had
grown in there and crammed itself so tight, so confined, that when the coffin caved in . . .”
    He was right and