The chill touch of sloppy mud seeping into her trousers brought her back to reality. What the hell had just happened? She rubbed the needles-and-pins feeling from her fingertips and shook her head as if to dispel her silliness. For long moments she sat in the mud, rain tapping her head as if impatiently demanding she make a decision.

She’d touch him again, that’s what she’d do. Show herself there was nothing to it. Tara swallowed away her stupid fear and crawled closer to the corpse, into the shelter of the canopy. She climbed into the hole. Gritting her teeth with determination, she reached out a shaking hand and rested it on the man’s forehead.

Suffocating, she was suffocating. Tiny, shallow breaths into a chest gripped tight by something and she couldn’t move.

When Tara came back to her senses she was frantically digging away at the soil around the corpse’s chest. She stopped herself, horrified with her carelessness. She’d flung the earth asunder without a thought to taking careful measurements, or checking for artifacts. God, she’d ploughed her way through dirt she would otherwise have taken days to remove.

Dullaghan was going to kill her.

A small sound drew her attention and she fixed her eyes on the corpse’s lips. This time she had no doubt. They’d moved. In fact, his chest rose and fell with small, gasp-like breaths as she watched. There was only one possible conclusion she could come to: she’d gone insane.

So insane, in fact, that the memory of that closed-chest feeling moved her to grasp her trowel once more and carry on digging. She hacked at the soil around the body with total disregard for long-learned principles of practical archaeology. Her only consideration was to free the man from his earthy prison. Anxious glances in the direction of the tent showed no movement, no sign that Thomas had woken and was about to discover her need for a padded cell and men in white coats.

When at last she was sure he could be lifted easily, no longer in the grip of his grave, Tara set her trowel aside and knelt next to him. She leaned forwards, peered intently at his handsome face. He still wore a soil halo, and only once she’d washed him would she be sure of the colour of his hair.

Once she’d washed him? Where on earth were her thoughts going? She swiped a filthy hand over her face, heedless of the streak of dirt she probably left there. The best thing she could do now was to get away as fast as possible. That way she’d have a very, very slim chance of not being blamed for this travesty.

Except, she’d left the note in Thomas’ tent. Oh, God, she was so screwed, on so many levels.

And with that realization, Tara crossed a line. She was so far gone, so deep in trouble that nothing she did could make it much worse. Why not explore this experience to the full, so that at least she’d not have unanswered questions eating away at her when she sat in her padded cell?

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she placed her hand firmly on the man’s forehead again.

Able to breathe now, grit in my mouth, nose blocked, very cold. Broth. Warm broth.

This time she didn’t lose herself in his sensations. Was it because he was no longer panicked, suffocating? She stilled, rubbed her tingling hand. What exactly did that thought tell her? It meant she believed she felt the man’s feelings. The corpse’s feelings.

Hell. This was no corpse.

Tara’s whole body started shaking. Shock. Her mom always swore by sweet, hot tea for calming one down. With nothing to lose, the decision was easy. Tara dug out her flask, poured half a cup of steaming tea and drank it down. Then she poured another half-cup and held it over the man’s parted lips.

Drip-drip-drip.

She watched, not sure if she dreaded or desired this supposedly lifeless body to show some reaction. Long moments passed. Then the lips pressed together, his Adam’s apple moved.

«Oh. My. God.» Tara dripped more tea into his mouth, watched as he swallowed again. And again, and again. At last he’d drunk half a cup of tea, and she couldn’t stop smiling. Bugger the dig, bugger Dullaghan. She was taking this man home.

With feverish haste, Tara screwed the lid on the flask, then tossed it into her knapsack with the tools she’d brought along. She peered through the now almost solid veil of pouring rain. There was still no sign of movement from Thomas’ tent. That was normal enough. Though it felt to her as if ages had passed, it was still an hour before the normal starting time for the dig. Furthermore, he wouldn’t even have to leave his camp bed to realize there would be no digging today because of the rain. Hopefully, he’d take the opportunity to sleep in.

She got to her feet and ran past the tent, pushed open the never-locked gate and hurried to her car. The temporary fence was for keeping animals out — here, in the country, there was little if any chance of human interference with the dig. Once she was seated behind the wheel of her twelve-year-old hatchback, she flung her knapsack on the passenger seat. The engine purred to life at the first try and she drove carefully down the road, to the corner of the fence closest to her man. There was a bend in the winding, crumbly tarred path there, and she parked out of sight of the dig.

Quick as a flash, she opened the hatchback and put the rear seats down. Would he fit? How on earth was she going to carry him there? She’d make a plan, somehow.

It wasn’t difficult to undo the loosely twisted wire that kept the two sections of the fence together nearest her man. With more anxious glances towards Thomas’ tent, she stole to the former corpse’s side. This was it. From here, if she was caught, no explanation could possibly save her. Tara took a deep breath, bent down and scooped up the soil she’d loosened away from his shoulders. She grasped the man under his arms.

She did her best to support his head as she struggle-dragged him through the mud. Her heart did its best to climb out of her throat and abandon the body and mind that had clearly lost all traces of sanity. Fear gave her strength, and the rain-soaked ground helped her slide the man’s body ever closer to her car. God, he was heavy. They had left a brown trail of mud over the bright green heather once they made it from the churned ground.

Oh-God-oh-God. She was sure that at any moment Thomas would poke his head from the tent, stare straight at her and the game would be up. She was mad, mad to do this. And still she fought to drag her man to her car.

She was exhausted by the time they made it to the little hatchback. The rain had washed away much of the mud from her man’s face. She saw him squinting against the sting of the pelting drops, saw him lick his lips. The last traces of doubt that he was very much alive were blown away when he sneezed a gob of mud from his nose, then spat weakly. He opened his eyes for a moment, looked straight into hers.

Tara froze. She was convinced she’d seen those bloodshot eyes somewhere before. They seemed as familiar as her own blue ones. His were light green, like the Mediterranean Sea when the sun caught it just so. From somewhere, bizarrely, relief flooded her heart, as if something that had been missing in her soul had been returned. He smiled, then his eyelids fluttered closed again.

The car. She had to get him into the car. Would he even fit? There was no time to wonder or doubt now. She opened the hatchback, then squatted and took a firm hold of his upper body. His head rested against her breasts. She forgot about the flick of the raindrops, about the danger of discovery, about her tired muscles. For a moment, she just stayed like that, cradling him in her arms.

What was she thinking? She willed her mind back to the pickle they were both in, took a deep breath and lifted with all her might.

Weeks of hard manual labour paid off now. Grunting and straining, Tara managed somehow to struggle backwards into her car, hauling the limp body of the man in with her. One last heave and they both fell backwards into the car. Panting for breath, Tara rested for a few precious moments, hugging him to her soaked body. Was he OK? She could feel him breathing in her arms, a small tremor as if he was starting to shiver. It was the best she could hope for. Once she had him home, she’d be able to take better care of his needs.

Again it took an effort of will to remind herself that she was in deep, deep trouble, and didn’t have the luxury of time. She wriggled out from under him, lay him down as best she could and tumbled from the car. She had to bend his knees to get his legs in, but thank heaven he did fit. A picture of herself driving off with his legs dangling from her car, sporting a red flag from one toe, flashed through her imagination. She closed the hatch door, suppressing a hysterical giggle. Her mind wanted to hammer on the absolute lunacy of what she was doing, but she forced her focus back on to practicalities. Enough of her self-preservation instinct remained for her to think of ways she could cover her tracks.

Gusts of wind tugged at her sopping jacket and flung rain in her face as she ran back to the gap in the fence. There was one very, very slim chance of getting away with this. At least for the time being. She slipped into the site, crept to her man’s former grave. Each corner of the canopy was fixed to the ground by a guy rope. Tara kept her eyes on the tent as she dropped into the shallow hole. She had no tools with her, but adrenaline and fear helped her use her hands to fill the gaping hole in her dig area with loose soil. That task done as best she could, she glanced at Thomas’ tent again.

The flap moved.

She fell flat on her stomach in the hole, her heart in her mouth. Seconds passed like hours. At last she scraped together enough courage to take a peek. Thomas chose that moment to emerge, a poncho draped over his head. He jogged in a half-crouch to the Portaloo, opened its door and slipped inside. Tara ducked down when she saw him turn. She counted to ten, then risked another peek. The door was closed. It was now or never.

She sprang from the hole and raced to the first guy rope, pulled with all her might. The peg stuck for a moment, then yielded reluctantly and slipped from the ground. She dashed to the other one, coaxed it from the ground as well, then half fell back into the hole. Now she needed Thomas to come out of the confounded toilet; he seemed to have moved in there permanently. Minutes dragged by, then the door opened and he emerged. Another gust of wind tugged at the canopy and Tara’s breath froze in her chest. If the other leg fell over now, she’d be dead meat. She risked reaching out and grabbing the nearest metal leg of the frame to keep it in place.

Thomas didn’t even look her way. He crouch-ran to the mess tent, holding the poncho over his head, unzipped the door flap and stepped inside. Tara ducked down when he turned to zip up the door. She counted to ten again, risked a glance. He was gone.

She clambered from the hole, grasped the leg of the canopy she’d held in place and lifted with all her strength. It was almost a superfluous effort: another gust of wind near tore the canopy from her hands. It toppled over, leaving her man’s grave exposed to the deluge. Hopefully, all sign of foul play would be obscured by its wash. The mud trail to the fence would, with a bit of luck, also fall victim to the rain’s cleansing touch.

One last hurdle. She had to close the gap in the fence. Tara slipped through and pushed the fence sections back together, found the stiff wires that had kept it together before.

Why now did things have to go wrong? Her hands were too slick to grasp the wires she had to twist. They kept slipping from her fingers. How long before Thomas would turn to the plastic window to stare out over the dig as he drank his tea? His gaze would no doubt be drawn to the toppled gazebo straight away.

She couldn’t do it. The wires were simply too slippery. But who would come and inspect the fence this closely? She’d just have to remember to fix the wires next time she came into work. With that promise to herself, Tara turned and ran as fast as she could back to her car.

Her man was still breathing. He was shivering noticeably, and his skin was still as cold to the touch as it had been when she first unearthed him. She wondered what he’d been wearing when he died.

When he died! What an overwhelming thought. Had he died? What was his story? Was he even human?

She had nothing to cover him with. Her own clothes were soaked through. Though there was a bite to the air, it wasn’t that bad. There had to be more to the man’s shivering than cold. She turned the heater on full blast as she sped back home.