At the dead of night, four men stood with shovels, and one man lay motionless on the ground. It was past midnight, the field lay empty, but for the figures of men arguing and grunting as they put spades to the earth. The hurried event of burial was, to mark each one for the remainder of their lives. The dark hid most of their treachery, and by the morning the evidence of foul play had vanished momentarily under the earth, out of sight. Dragged feet, muddy, sticky soil of clay, dragged tarpaulins covered in the same clay soil, back to the truck and home. And each one sat amongst his kith and kin, watching their hearth fires ablaze in silent gaze. Not one word said, and then they slept. (If you had the chance to put something right what would you do...)
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