They’d wiped the blood from the pitch fork. An hour earlier it had been found up to its hilt in the back of the young man on top of the hay stack. How it got there they had no idea, who the young man was they had no idea either. He took it out slowly. He was clearly dead. The blood round each spike was dried a dark red. It had been some hours since his fatal wound. He placed his foot at the base of the young man’s spine and withdrew it. It didn’t ooze but there was an audible slurp as metal unstuck itself from his vital organs. Poor chap, they thought. What had he done to deserve this? They had been in the middle of hay making on their little farm, the pitchfork left at the bottom of the ladder, there was more to do tomorrow.
They left him there. The flies were already laying their eggs in the warm sun, by this afternoon the smell would be unbearable.
They were quiet people, they never troubled anyone, they had no contact with their neighbours. Why should they now? It wasn’t their problem. Who would find him? He clearly hadn’t been missed. The buzzards would finish him off. It might take a while but they wouldn’t need the straw ’til next winter.
They said little to each other, they both knew the score: keep quiet and live a simple life. When she went to join him he had started a new rick.