OPINION


rISIng from thE dEad


by terry maguire W


et clay patches dappled his oversized anorak, his reddened face was


muddied and his greying, thinning hair wet and woolly. he was smiling manically and exuded a strong stench of stale urine and strong alcohol. had it been closing-time, I might have dismissed him as a workman heading home from an aggressive afternoon in the pub.


being well before pub opening time, I was mildly alarmed as he handed me, in a civil enough way, a prescription for painkillers and we fell into friendly conversation. What a night he had had, he told me in an accent that suggested some years lived in England, and he continued with a frightening story that had started the previous evening across the road in the men’s hostel.


‘John’ had indeed just returned from England where he worked for many years on building sites. Unable to find suitable accommodation, social workers had set him up in the hostel about a week ago.


Staff members, he told me, were generally friendly and supportive until he had arrived back the previous evening with a large carry-out consisting of two dozen cans of high- strength beer, a bottle of fortified wine and a large bottle of vodka.


he planned on drinking all these brain-numbing units with his


28 - PharmacY In focUS


girlfriend who was coming to meet him. he was especially trying to impress her as it was 27 years since they had last met, and he was hopeful she might be agreeable to getting a room in a local hotel.


he was told by the hostel duty staff, in a tone - which he identified as unnecessarily strict - of the hostel’s no alcohol policy and, when he suggested he would drink outside, he was informed, coldly, of the city council bye-laws restricting the drinking of alcohol on public streets.


When he expressed his deep frustration, which included a number of non-local expletives, he was told that the staff didn’t care what he drank so long as they didn’t see it, but that, if he was intoxicated when he returned, they might not let him in. he found this inconsistent with what he expected from caring professionals.


So, as the sun dimmed in the march sky, John crossed the falls road and arrived at the gates of belfast city cemetery. he walked up past the manicured lawns and flower beds blooming with daffodils and tulips and made his way to an avenue of tall, victorian sandstone and marble headstones browned with age and green with moss.


When he felt appropriately alone, he snapped the ring on a can of Special brew, raised it to his mouth and drank deeply. after another few slugs, he felt better and sought a


suitable place to relax. he chose the slightly bevelled bed-shaped lawn where, according to the headstone, lay the remains of charles abernethy, who left this life on 19 September 1933.


he cosied up against the headstone, pulling his carry-out up beside him and, taking a long slug, finished off his first can. after he opened his second he searched for his mobile phone which he found stuck in a side pocket of his anorak and, pulling it out he struck his right elbow painfully and forcefully against the headstone and cursed.


he felt the ground move and lunged forward but, before he could get clear, the headstone fell forward, pressing him - face down - into the top of the grave, crushing his carry-out.


Unable to move, see or shout, he ignored the cold carry-out liquid as it seeped into his clothing and he lay motionless until, suddenly, his mobile phone, which was still in his hand, rang.


he gently moved his fingers across the familiar dialling keys and, finding the receive button, pushed it. he could hear his girlfriend asking where they should meet, but he was unable to reply other than exude a deep groan.


he heard alarm in her voice as she asked where he was, if was he ill, why he couldn’t speak. he groaned again. he heard her pleading that he


speak to her and, after five minutes, as the battery ran out, the phone went dead and there was silence.


he knew, from the dim glimmer of light that was visible, that his head was near the top of the fallen gravestone. an hour or perhaps more passed and the light faded.


finally, he heard a panting sound followed by vigorous sniffing and realised it was a dog. he moaned as loudly as he could and the dog barked back and started scrapping at the earth. the dog’s owner approached, calling the dog off. as he arrived, John moaned as loudly as he could, but heard only a rapid sprint away in the direction of the gates.


It was around 4.00 am when the emergency services finally arrived, having linked a bizarre story on social media of a ‘ghost in a graveyard’ with the frantic pleas of a woman claiming her boyfriend had been abducted in that vicinity.


following much consultation about John’s mental and physical health, a requisitioned heavy crane lifted the tombstone, releasing him from his premature burial and took him off to a&E.


It was there that he was assessed, found to be generally in good health and discharged with a letter for his gP. the letter was for painkillers and, he informed me, once I had dispensed them, he was going across to the hostel and to bed. •


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