Bumping Uglies

The Deepest Cut III

5th December 1796 – Near Halesowen.

The night was cold, and steam rose from the piss before it could soak into the ground at Conn's feet.

Conn sighed with relief and tossed back his head to take in the expanse of dark sky above him. He had been holding that in for some time while he tried to finish the menial task that the foreman had given him.

Conn smiled. The foreman had actually given the job to Enda, but Conn had found him fast asleep; curled up like a gigantic baby on the lumpen mattress of straw in his lean-to shelter. Conn liked to watch Enda when he was asleep. Sometimes he would sketch and doodle pictures of his friend using a sliver of coal and a sheet of parchment, but only when there was no chance of the huge man awaking and feeling embarrassed or angry.

On that evening, Conn did not think Enda would have woken even if he had shaken him, and he did not have the heart to try. Enda was in the deep and restful sleep that he often experienced after a session with one of the camp Jennies. He would likely not stir until just before dawn when the work began again.

Work... Conn spat, tucking himself back into his trousers.

Just as he had expected, their foreman had moved his crew down towards Lapal and the tunnel that was causing so much delay and the loss of money and blood.

They were assisting with the completion of a large basin and wharf complex that would be used to load and unload the boats filled high with materials and goods that would be plying this waterway as soon as it was open. The foreman was giving Enda and Conn a succession of pointless or menial tasks by way of punishment for their altercation with the local Watch, and for being at the wrong place at the wrong time when that poor young girl was found dead.

Tonight, Conn was shifting coal.

He was to fill a barge butty worth of sacks with fuel so that it could be distributed along the works in the morning. His bladder had betrayed him with barely a quarter of the job remaining.

In a tiny and petty way, the joke was on the foreman as Conn bent low to sort through the lumps of coal for some suitable shards that might feed his nocturnal artwork. Pocketing the slivers felt like a tiny act of defiance which gave Conn a buzz of satisfaction.

As he retrieved his short-handled shovel so that he could return to filling the rest of the sacks before getting back to bed, the movement of the blade caused a small disturbance on the coal pile. Black lumps flowed and bounced down the mound like a miniature avalanche.

Conn shifted the shovel handle in his grip with a view to scooping the flow of coal up and into a waiting sack, when he caught sight of something bright, golden and very-much out of place that had been revealed beneath the coal that had moved.

It took several seconds of staring in the dim moonlight before Conn recognised what he was seeing. When his mind did make the connection, the realisation made his blood run cold.

Hanging limply beneath the coal pile was a tress of golden hair.

Conn dropped the spade and scrabbled at the coal. Someone was trapped beneath the pile, what must be over a tonne of coal could have crushed them. They could still be alive, so he used his hands to uncover them rather than the sharp-bladed shoved.

It took only seconds to reveal the head and face, then the torso, and moments more pushing coal away with great sweeps of his arms from the lower body and legs.

It soon became clear that the woman beneath the coal was dead. Her body was cold, her face and dress blackened with soot and her eyes glassy and lifeless.