20th November 1756 was a cold, bright, day followed by a long, clear, night. At a little after midnight the moon was waning gibbous, maudlin amongst the stars, and I was breathing my last by the side of Figgate Burn. Although I ablaze with intolerable pain, I remember feeling an uncommon movement within the ground just beneath me, almost as though there were a knot of snakes writhing under the frozen grass. I, myself, was not moving at all: my limbs were broken and twisted into unholy and impossible angles; lord knows, my attacker was strong. Who, or what, they were, I did not know and I never found out. The most remarkable occurrence on that otherwise cursed night, however, was my continued existence as a consciousness after my body had released its last gasp with a blubbery, bloody, burble into the chill air. I attribute this quirk of fate to my having consumed vast quantities of pickle every day since I was five, just as my mother had always instructed me to do. Perhaps that old hag was not so ignorant after all. At any rate, I, Alisdair Dougal, formally a fat and earthly man, found my disembodied spirit inexplicably anchored within one small park for, perhaps, all eternity. The boredom has killed my spirit several times over and even the frolicsome fornication of amorous youngsters has ceased to entertain me.
The park my unbounded soul now haunts
On 30th of October 2016, however, I observed something of some interest. Towards the end of the morning, a group of about twenty people who referred to themselves as the ‘Dirty Weekenders’ entered into Figgate Park and armed themselves with spades, forks, rakes, and mattocks. “At last!” I thought to myself in what I will admit was psychopathic glee, “a paramilitary force has finally taken arms to purge this park of dread beasts and avenge my murder!” It turns out that I was wrong about this, but I live (kind of) in hope still. Instead, the Dirties, at the behest of the Friends of Figgate Park, set to work clearing a sizable area of grass near the far side of the park. The reason for this, they were told, was to enable bulbs and some saplings to be planted there in the coming weeks; I believe that they will be doing this too. A number of the party wielding rakes set to work gathering the leaves and patchy grass from under the larger trees whilst the remainder applied themselves to removing turf with their spades or mattocks, using various methods of their own devising. Every so often someone would trundle off with a loaded wheelbarrow to unload in a corner; this reminded me of a happy time when I was alive and would make my wife trundle me about in my own barrow whilst I whacked street urchins with my cane and shouted. “Move, you little cretins!”, I would yell and then chortle gleefully. O those halcyon days.
These so called “Dirty Weekenders”, if only they would exact the vengeance I deserve
Taking a lunchbreak that I heard was ‘constitutional’, the young Dirties dined on sandwiches and biscuits, many of the former appearing to contain notable quantities of pickle. “Poor souls, poor pickle-munchers”, I crooned to myself, “I fear that you too will now never die”.
Following the feast a curious and most exciting rite was performed to honour some pagan god going by the name of Ratchet Screwdriver. The ceremony, as far as I could ascertain, consisted of a ring of people sporadically attempting to wrestle their way to the feet of one in the centre (who would repeatedly proclaim their name and opinions) whilst others sought to prevent them. The naming of Ratchet Screwdriver would send them all into a brutal frenzy. I have always loved watching violence and these young’uns did not disappoint.
Ritual completed, the squad returned to their interrupted toiling both battered and refreshed and continued to deal violently with the turf. The incredible number of worms lurking just below the surface was of constant surprise; I myself finally realised what the writhing that I had felt just before my death must have been. Even with the worms, the task was completed in good time. Indeed, there was even time for one man to stagger about trying to balance a rake on his chin. I suspect that he may have been French or crude or rude or something. Finally, after snaffling some ‘special cake’ these Dirties headed back, out of my realm, and left me with an unusual sense of contentment.
A task performed most efficaciously!
Written by Amos Abrahams