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Authors: Stephen Carr
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That was how they found it, shortly after a police helicopter spotted the van on the banks of the Llwyn Onn reservoir on the edge of the Brecon Beacons.
The basket, the food untouched and the clothes neatly folded on the rug at the centre of the lake.
The old record player still turned, its needle wearing into the grooves of the disc. There was no sign of Marcus Smith, or the missing mannequin.
All they found was a hole in the ice, a short distance away, and no sign of a body in the dark waters beneath. As they gazed into the murky blackness, the record played on. “Tap tap on my window, could it be that you are still in love with me. Here we go again…” sang the crisp, crackly tenor.
* * *
Part 2
On The Way To Abamae
IV
HE found it on the roadside amid the sea of broken glass – a glimpse of bronze on a background of shards that reflected the flashing blue chaos of the scene. In the noise and confusion he picked it up and shoved it into the depths of his pocket. He could not explain this action…not now…nor later that night when he considered the matter at length, far away from this carnage. Steven Elan put it down to journalistic instinct.
The roadside was a mess. Glass and blood mingled on the cold, unforgiving tarmac. Men in uniform, their faces sombre, lifted the last of the bodies and carried it away from the wreckage of twisted steel and melted plastic. Their luminous arm and wastebands caught the glare of the neon streetlights and pulsing blue beacons as they moved the corpse to the rear of a waiting ambulance. They lowered the anonymous shape to the ground, placing it neatly alongside three other bodies before affording it the meagre dignity of a blanket. Soon enough they would be loaded and driven away to the mortuary but, for now, the vehicle and its specialist equipment was needed for those still able to benefit.
Steven waited until the paramedics had returned to the scrambled frame of the bus to help with the injured passengers. Glancing around he spotted three policemen, their backs turned to him. They were directing traffic – queues of buses and service vehicles – around the debris-filled carriageway. A fourth officer was busy scribbling into a pocket notebook, moving from one witness to another, their faces ashen with shock. The police were too occupied to pay him any attention.
He moved toward the row of corpses, checking the rear of the ambulance to ensure he was not observed. As he reached the bodies he pulled the digital pocket camera from his coat and checked the battery reading. It would suffice for another dozen shots. Sliding its switch to on, he stepped alongside the first body and bent low, lifting the corner of the bloodied blanket until the face was uncovered. It was unrecognisable, mashed to a pulp of blood and bone with no features resembling eyes, nose or a mouth. The victim wore a dark uniform, polished silver buttons spattered with crimson and the heavy material marked by hundreds of pin-pint fragments of glass. Steven wondered if there was any point taking this victim’s picture. It was too shocking for his newspaper to publish, nevertheless the uniform and its insignia may provide some clue. Fighting back the urge to vomit he clicked the button on the camera and the image was digitally stored for later retrieval. He set aside a tinge of conscience with the knowledge that the registration plate clinging to the remains of the twisted black Jaguar saloon was a Eurostate Government plate, and a military one at that. The registration was already stored away in the camera and his instinct told him there was a story behind this tragic accident.
Steven dropped the fold of the blanket across the faceless head and moved on to the next body. It was a man, features still intact though pale and swollen, with traces of blood where
That was how they found it, shortly after a police helicopter spotted the van on the banks of the Llwyn Onn reservoir on the edge of the Brecon Beacons.
The basket, the food untouched and the clothes neatly folded on the rug at the centre of the lake.
The old record player still turned, its needle wearing into the grooves of the disc. There was no sign of Marcus Smith, or the missing mannequin.
All they found was a hole in the ice, a short distance away, and no sign of a body in the dark waters beneath. As they gazed into the murky blackness, the record played on. “Tap tap on my window, could it be that you are still in love with me. Here we go again…” sang the crisp, crackly tenor.
* * *
Part 2
On The Way To Abamae
IV
HE found it on the roadside amid the sea of broken glass – a glimpse of bronze on a background of shards that reflected the flashing blue chaos of the scene. In the noise and confusion he picked it up and shoved it into the depths of his pocket. He could not explain this action…not now…nor later that night when he considered the matter at length, far away from this carnage. Steven Elan put it down to journalistic instinct.
The roadside was a mess. Glass and blood mingled on the cold, unforgiving tarmac. Men in uniform, their faces sombre, lifted the last of the bodies and carried it away from the wreckage of twisted steel and melted plastic. Their luminous arm and wastebands caught the glare of the neon streetlights and pulsing blue beacons as they moved the corpse to the rear of a waiting ambulance. They lowered the anonymous shape to the ground, placing it neatly alongside three other bodies before affording it the meagre dignity of a blanket. Soon enough they would be loaded and driven away to the mortuary but, for now, the vehicle and its specialist equipment was needed for those still able to benefit.
Steven waited until the paramedics had returned to the scrambled frame of the bus to help with the injured passengers. Glancing around he spotted three policemen, their backs turned to him. They were directing traffic – queues of buses and service vehicles – around the debris-filled carriageway. A fourth officer was busy scribbling into a pocket notebook, moving from one witness to another, their faces ashen with shock. The police were too occupied to pay him any attention.
He moved toward the row of corpses, checking the rear of the ambulance to ensure he was not observed. As he reached the bodies he pulled the digital pocket camera from his coat and checked the battery reading. It would suffice for another dozen shots. Sliding its switch to on, he stepped alongside the first body and bent low, lifting the corner of the bloodied blanket until the face was uncovered. It was unrecognisable, mashed to a pulp of blood and bone with no features resembling eyes, nose or a mouth. The victim wore a dark uniform, polished silver buttons spattered with crimson and the heavy material marked by hundreds of pin-pint fragments of glass. Steven wondered if there was any point taking this victim’s picture. It was too shocking for his newspaper to publish, nevertheless the uniform and its insignia may provide some clue. Fighting back the urge to vomit he clicked the button on the camera and the image was digitally stored for later retrieval. He set aside a tinge of conscience with the knowledge that the registration plate clinging to the remains of the twisted black Jaguar saloon was a Eurostate Government plate, and a military one at that. The registration was already stored away in the camera and his instinct told him there was a story behind this tragic accident.
Steven dropped the fold of the blanket across the faceless head and moved on to the next body. It was a man, features still intact though pale and swollen, with traces of blood where
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