Mothers Do the Locks

"Watch out, Boss," Kuba said, an hour later. "Watch man."

"Friday, Ewa," said Marek, tapping his watch. "I pour on Friday, and I get my bonus on Friday. I want her out of my road by Thursday night."

"She's had 350 years. She can have three more days."

"Friday," said Marek.

At noon the church bell in the village began to ring.

"Mama," Ola said. "They're all going, look. The mothers are taking the girls by the wrist, and Hela's left her bucket in the grass."

"It's lunch. Everyone eats at noon here. In the container, all of you."

"31 degrees," Kuba groaned. "God bless air that works."

"Tomek says hi from Gdansk," said Ola. "My train's Saturday. I told you."

"You told me four times."

"I'm going to study law, Mama. Not dig holes."

"Holes bought those shoes," Ewa said, chewing egg.

Ola looked up. "Who said that?"

"Said what?"

"My name. Somebody said my name. Out in the wheat."

"Pan Rysiek's dog," said Kuba. "It does voices. It costs extra."

"Eat your egg, Frog," said Ewa.

"Boss," Kuba called from the spoil heap, the big pile of dug earth. "It's twenty past twelve and somebody's been in our trench."

"Nobody's been in our trench."

"Feet have, bare and small. They come out of the wheat, over the heap, down the slope, and stop right at her."

"And back?"

"There's no back, Boss. None of them go back."

"Somebody from the village who wants to stop the road. Write it down."

"Nobody stops a road with their feet."

"Mama," Ola said quietly. "Her hands."

"What about them?"

"You drew them this morning. On your sheet they're at her sides."

"So?"

Ola crouched. "So now they're on her foot. Her fingers are round the lock, Mama, tight, like you'd hold a door shut in a storm."

"She's trying to get it off," Kuba whispered. "Boss. She's trying to open it."

"Bones don't try. Somebody moved them, and I'm phoning the police."

"Police say Thursday, Boss," Kuba said later, phone to the blade. "And look at this. If this is meant to cut her when she sits up, why's the sharp side facing the sky?"

"Is it?"

"The edge points up. It wouldn't cut her at all. It'd cut whoever leaned over her."

"Then they put it in wrong. People did things wrong in 1650 too."

That night Ola would not get off the bed.

"Toruń will send a van at nine," Ewa told her. "We lift her tomorrow. Whole, lock and all."

"Mama, the voice in the wheat. It didn't say Ola."

"What did it say?"

"Frog. Nobody calls me that but you, Mama, not since I was four."

"Then it was me. I say it all day long."

"You had egg in your mouth." Ola looked at her. "It said it so nicely, Mama. Nicer than you do."

"Go to sleep. Tomorrow she'll be in Toruń, and Saturday you can tell Tomek all about it."

"Marek will be thrilled, anyway."

"I'm not doing it for Marek."

"Who for, then?"

"For the record."

In a box, Ewa thought. With a lid. Before noon.

On Tuesday they lifted her into a crate lined with foam, bone by bone.

"Do you think her mother loved her?" Ola asked. "To do all that?"

"I think she was frightened."

"You'd never put a lock on me."

"I'd put 10 on you. Hand me the foot."

"That's not funny, Mama." Ola lifted the last small bones. "Oh. It's come off. The lock just slid off her toe."

Ewa caught it in her palm.

"It's cold," Ola said. "It's 31 degrees, Mama, and it's cold."

"Bag it. Number it. Box it with her."

"Noted," said Ola, very quietly.

"You're taking her away," Hela said from the fence.

"To Toruń. A lab with air that works. She'll be safe there."

"Safe. Missus, if you lift her, you'd better have a lock of your own."

"If she's going to Toruń," Kuba asked, "can I still post the clips?"

"Post what you like," said Marek. "Just get her out of my road."

The van left at 11:40.

"You're a professional, Ewa," said Marek. "Friday. Beautiful."

"Best clip ever," said Kuba. "Best clip of my life. 300 views already."

Ewa sat in the shade, shoulders down.

"Eggs or cheese?" she called.

Nobody answered.

The bell began.

"Boss!" Kuba was on the spoil heap. "Those are Ola's boots! Boss, why are her socks folded on top?"

Ola lay in the empty grave cut, barefoot, arms at her sides, eyes open to the sun.

"Ola. Get up. Ola!"

The bell rang four. Five. Ewa climbed down and knelt beside her.

Ola's hand shot up and closed on her wrist.

"It's still warm," Ola said, pleased, in a voice that was not hers. "She kept it so warm for me, Mama."

"Kuba! Monday's prints. Which way did they go?"

"In, Boss! Only in!"

"In. Never out. She wasn't trying to open the lock, Kuba. She was holding it shut."

"Boss, the bell's on nine..."

"And the blade points up, at whatever leans over her." Ewa got both arms round her daughter. "Mothers do the locks, Kuba. She didn't lock her in, she locked it out."

"Locked what out?"

"Whatever comes over that field at noon. 350 years it's tried that lock. And I sent her to Toruń in foam."

"Boss," Kuba said. "Ola's 19."

The bell rang 12, and stopped.

Ola's hand went slack. She blinked, and began to cry.

"I was eating cheese. Then the sky was so big. Somebody was being so kind to me, Mama."

Ewa rang Toruń.

"Piotr. It's Ewa. The girl from grave 14. I need her back."

"Back? She's still in the van, Ewa. She'll be here in 20 minutes."

"Turn the van round."

"She's human remains. She can't go back to a building site, you wrote that rule yourself. Six weeks of forms, minimum."

"Then send me the forms."

"And put her where?" Piotr asked. "Your man pours concrete on Friday."

That evening Ewa sat in Hela's kitchen.

"How do I stop it?"

"You don't. It comes at noon, and it'll come at noon tomorrow."

"You knew. You sold them this field, Hela. You knew she was in it."

"200,000 zloty, for my grandson's flat in Bydgoszcz." Hela poured the tea. "I thought, she's locked. What's the harm in a road over a lock?"

"What did her mother do? Before the lock?"

Hela pushed the cup across. "Before, she didn't have a lock."

"Tell me."

"My grandmother said the girl walked into the wheat every day at noon. Her mother pulled her back every day, till one day she was too slow."

"And then?"

"She sat by her three days. Then she did the lock and the blade, and dug her in right where she fell."

"So it couldn't have her."

"So it couldn't have her twice," said Hela.

On Wednesday morning Ola woke up to the chain.

"That's off the container gate," she said. "That's the site padlock, Mama. You've put it round my ankle."

"Over your sock. And round the bed."

"Where's the key?"

"On a string. Round my neck."

"My train's Saturday. Tomek's meeting it."

"I'll phone Tomek. I'll tell him you've got flu."

"In August."

"In August."

"Every day? All summer?" Ola's voice cracked. "Mama. You can't keep me on a chain."

"Only at noon. Only for a bit, till I find out what else works."

"Is this what her mother did?"

"Her mother was too slow. I won't be."

"And if nothing else works?"

Ewa did not answer that.

At ten to twelve Ola stopped crying and looked at the string on Ewa's neck.

"Mama," she said, in her own voice, small and sure. "Don't give me the key. Whatever I say."

The bell began.

"Mama," said Ola, in exactly the same voice. "Give me the key."