He took away the glove and sucked in a deep lungful of the moist night air while it was still clean. With a crowbar, Jim eased away the lid at various points along its side, a faint cracking sound audible each time he lessened its grip. He worked quickly and respectfully for a minute, Nigel unsure whether to watch or look up at the sky. At one point Jim stopped and looked away; a second later Nigel knew why. A choking, acrid smell invaded the air around them. He closed his eyes, tried not to vomit. Nigh on a century of decomposition had just escaped into the atmosphere, he knew. He felt light-headed, whether from the stench or the fear and apprehension he was unsure. Jim nodded to Foster again. ‘The lid’s about to come off,’ he said to Nigel. ‘Don’t look at her, look around her and see if there’s anything there. Then we’ll get it out.’ Nigel nodded, incapable of unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth to speak. Foster nodded to Jim to open the coffin. Nigel felt himself calm.
