Doctor Who_ Wolfsbane - Jac Rayner [44]
She had to block everything from her mind. When she dwelled on what she was doing - even a little bit of it - she froze up. She was in a winter churchyard in the dead of night, and she was grave-robbing. In the dark, every sound became a monster, every rustle was a goblin creeping in to pull her hair or a knife-wielding madman with a bloodthirsty glint in his eye.
Of course, she couldn‟t even dismiss this as an overactive imagination, because in this village there had been murders and mutilations and unexplained goings on, so goblins and madmen probably weren‟t farfetched enough.
She kept digging, sleep-digging almost, numb with exhaustion. It was during the plague that they‟d decreed graves should be six feet under, having finally realised what most ancient cultures had known centuries before: that bodies can spread disease. But there was no plague now, why had the sexton, or whoever, felt the need to continue the tradition for Harry Sullivan in the twentieth century?
It wasn‟t six feet deep, though, nowhere near, and Sarah knew it really, but in her head it felt like it. The stings on her face twinged and she raised a hand to them, convinced for a moment that they were pustules of the plague, that before morning she would be fevered and raving, perhaps lying dead in a grave she‟d dug herself. The wolves wouldn‟t deign to touch her corrupted flesh and the Doctor would find her there when he returned. Perhaps he would show some emotion if it was her who had died, unlike all the deaths he breezed through each day, unlike Harry whose death he had regretted but not seemed to mourn.
If Harry was dead. She was about to find out.
The shovel hit wood. Because of the - she admitted it herself - frankly inefficient way shed been digging, this was nowhere near the end of the job, but achievement released her exhaustion. Her knees crumpled under her and without realising it was happening she slept, cheek against cold earth, curled up in her friend‟s grave.
As it was getting on for the middle of the night, the Doctor was sure no one would disturb them at the churchyard. And if they did - farmers guarding their sheep again, perhaps, who spotted a light - well, in that eventuality, he and Harry would be able to think of a plausible explanation for what they were doing, he was sure. Godric was left to guard the house, in case the wolf returned. In case the Doctor was wrong about Emmeline not being the murderer after all. The Doctor provided them with lamps from his cottage, and he and Harry made their way to the graveyard. The Doctor had happened to notice the gravediggers stow their shovels in a small shed in one corner on a previous occasion, and these they borrowed. „So, were you looking out for things in case you had to dig up a body sometime?‟ Harry had asked. The Doctor had said no, he just noticed things.
The earth was still loose and therefore quite easy to dig.
Harry had to admit he wasn‟t entirely convinced about this idea. Disturbing her rest, and so on. She would be more likely to rest in peace if they found out exactly was going on, the Doctor said.
Lifting the coffin from its hole proved difficult, so they removed the lid where it lay. To Harry‟s surprise, the corpse was lying face down. „That‟s not usual, is it?‟ he said.
„It‟s in case she comes to life again as a werewolf,‟ the Doctor said. „If she claws her way out of the coffin and burrows through the earth, she‟ll just be burying herself deeper. Old superstition. Like that.‟ He pointed to where the lamp light was making something gleam: a silver teaspoon.
„Werewolves can‟t bear the touch of silver.‟
Harry frowned. „Really? I thought that was just invented for the -‟ He hesitated, trying to think of a contemporary phrase -
„moving