Before the spade reached six feet, Arnie found a coffin that wasn’t supposed to be there, crudely made and old. Uncovering it turned a two-cigarette job into a fiver. Arnie tried to move the casket and the lid came loose, revealing the contents. He swore.

The top of the skeleton was that of a regular person, with the hands perhaps bigger than usual. But the hips were distorted, with the spine extending below them, pairs of ribs emerging from either side and ending in a fin at the bottom. Arnie laid the lid back over the coffin and went to find the screens that were kept in case of exhumations, which he had never needed before. Once the site was secure, Arnie went to tell the vicar that he’d found a coffin that seemed to contain a mermaid’s skeleton.

The vicar looked in the hole, then phoned the bishop from the graveside. Arnie lit a cigarette while he waited. The vicar ended the call. “May I have a cigarette too?” he asked.

They guarded the grave until the bishop arrived, each silent with their own thoughts. He did not take long, having abandoned whatever duties that he had for the day. Arnie had met the bishop a couple of times, but never in so intimate a scene. He remembered the bishop from TV shows before his conversion, when he presented pop-science programmes.

The bishop considered the skeleton for a minute or so, then took a sack from his coat pocket, handing it to Arnie. “Put the bones in there.”

“What will you do with them?” asked Arnie.

“Throw them in the sea where they belong.”

Arnie took the sack but wasn’t sure. “What about investigating? I don’t know, DNA? Finding out what’s going on? We should make sure this isn’t real.”

“I’m very sure it’s real,” said the bishop. “Tell me, how long have you worked here?”

Arnie detected an edge to the question – that it would be tricky for him to find another job in the current economy. He lowered himself into the grave and began to transfer the bones to the sack, still uncertain: “Surely if this real we need to tell someone?”

The bishop scolded him: “Don’t you think that if people were burying mermaids in a churchyard, there should be more evidence than just bones? You wouldn’t be learning about it from a grave.”

“I don’t understand,” said the vicar. “You said this was real?”

“It is a mystery,” said the bishop. “But there are things untaught in theological college. A vicar towards Winchester found a human skull with horns, hidden behind a panel in the vestry. I’ve seen the body of a child that had wings. It is not relevant where these things come from. It is the church’s duty to eradicate the wrong type of mystery – to maintain our monopoly.”

And with that, the bishop left, carrying the sack of bones. There was nothing for Arnie and the vicar to do, but to make the hole tidy, ready for the next day’s burial. Without the bones there was no story to tell, not without Arnie making himself look like a fool. The bishop had dealt with the thing in the churchyard.

Background

This is a story written for my writing group. It’s one which could arguably be longer, with more time spent establishing the scenes. But I’m not sure what another two thousand words would add. Taking more of the reader’s time would require more details, including Arnie’s thoughts and descriptions of the churchyard. I’d rather focus in on the mermaid’s skeleton and the bishop’s actions.

It’s a fine balance. My friend Rosy has sometimes reviewed my work and told me that I’ve written the description of a story, rather than the story itself. It’s an easy thing to do when writing at such a short length. I think I’ve got the balance right here. But I’m always interested in what other people think.

There is the body of a mermaid in Brighton’s Booth Museum. If you’ve not seen it, you should definitely drop in when you’re passing.

Recommendations

Life in Hebden Bridge is wonderful for many reasons, one of which is having a cinema a short distance from my house. Even better, it’s a second run cinema, showing many films a few weeks after their initial release. It means means that I can catch films after seeing my friends review them on Letterboxd.

Last weekend, I went to a sold-out showing of a new movie Wild Water, a documentary about wild swimming at Gaddings Dam. This is the country’s highest beach at 325 meters above sea level, and it’s reached by a steep climb. Wild Water looks at the people who swim there regularly, their stories, and the communities they’ve formed. The photography shows off the beauty of the area. The swimmers are there in all weathers, and there is footage of channels being cleared in the ice.

It’s a small movie, but all the better for that. I don’t think it has distribution, but the makers are planning to tour it over the next few months. You can read about it in the Guardian. If it turns up near you, do try to see it.