Free Dying to Sin by Stephen Booth Page A

emerging bit by bit, but it was a painstaking job.
    Something dark and fibrous in the soil caught Fry’s attention. She couldn’t make out what it was at first. Then she realized it was a hank of black hair that had become detached from the head.
    In a way, she found it more bearable when a corpse had started to decompose. At least it definitely looked dead. Fresh bodies were more disturbing, because they still had the look of life about them, as if they might spring up at any moment and carry on as normal. At those times, it was hard to be unaffected by the most distinctive things about a dead body – the coldness, the utter stillness, and the knowledge that a human life had just been snuffed out an hour, or even a few minutes, before you arrived.
    In other ways, a body left in a shallow grave for years, undiscovered and unidentified, was the saddest sort of case. Somewhere, there must be family and friends, wondering even now what had happened to this woman.
    Fry knew that hand would live in her memory for a while. It was bent into a gesture, welcoming, almost inviting. It was as if the dead woman was greeting her visitors, enticing them down into her grave.
    She’d waited a long time to have company. And it must have been lonely down there.

6
Oh, I’m a man from a distant land,
A place where camels roam
It’s hot and flat, and dry as bone
And if they don’t like your face, they’ll cut off your hand
It’s the place that I call home!
    The Pedlar turned to the chorus, who joined in with the song. They were all dressed as Chinese peasants – colourful tunics and coolie hats. Within minutes, the scene had shifted to the street outside Widow Twankey’s house, which meant the Emperor Ping Pong would soon arrive with his beautiful daughter.
    Edendale’s Royal Theatre was full for the highlight event of the year, the annual Christmas pantomime. Ben Cooper was sitting several rows back from the stage, behind dozens of excited children waiting for the chance to boo and hiss and shout ‘ Oh no, you didn’t ’ at any opportunity.
    There were many variations on the script for Aladdin , but Eden Valley Operatic Society seemed to have opted for one of the more politically incorrect versions. Not that there was such a thing as a politically correct Aladdin , with the characters of Wishy Washy and Inspector Chu of the Chinese Police Force. But he was particularly doubtful about Abdulla O’Reilly, listed in the programme as ‘an Irish half-wit’. And then there was Ugga-Wugga, chief of the cannibal tribe.
    Cooper squirmed in his seat. Criminal investigations had been launched for less blatant examples of racist humour. But this was panto, and it was traditional. Surely no one came into the theatre without having a good idea what to expect? Cheap jokes, comic names, a cheerful confusion of racial stereotypes.
    In the next seat, Liz nudged him and whispered. ‘Ben, have you had a think about coming to my parents’ on Christmas Day?’
    ‘No,’ hissed Cooper back.
    ‘No, you haven’t had a think? Or no, you’re not going to come?’
    ‘We’ll talk about it later.’
    ‘Oh, yes. You’re always so busy, though.’
    A chorus of boos heralded the first arrival on stage of the wicked wizard, Abanazar. Within seconds, it was clear that he was being played pretty much as an evil Arab who’d accidentally wandered into a Chinese city. It certainly gave an extra edge to the lines of the opening song: ‘ And if they don’t like your face, they’ll cut off your hand .’
    Cooper settled a bit lower on his seat, hoping not to be recognized. Some hopes. He’d already been greeted by a dozen acquaintances as he came through the lobby.
    Liz nudged him again. ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘You look shifty.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’
    ‘Yes, it’s great.’
    ‘Only, we can’t leave. Not until after my friends have been on for their bit. They’re Chinese policemen, and they don’t