him, letting out a noise that doesn’t sound like me.
There is a purplish bone pushing through the skin of his right forearm and his neck is snapped too far back. His skull is open and fresh, the contents scenting the night air. I can’t make myself think of the word
dead
, even though it’s pushing up my throat like a hand emerging from a grave.
Stay sane, I think. Keep calm. Take his pulse. Check his breathing. Call for an ambulance . . . phone the police . . . flag down a car . . .
I stand up, fighting the pain that grips me, trying to make the darkened landscape around me stop spinning. Everything seems bigger, scarier, twisted and evil, as if the trees are gathering and marching towards me and the hedgerows are curling around to grab me.
Evil, evil person
the countryside is whispering.
I have no idea what to do.
I could call an ambulance or the police, but they’ll arrest me, throw me in a cell for the rest of my life. It’s what I deserve.
I was driving. I was drinking. We stole a bike. Now the man I love is dead.
Then something clicks inside me. It’s as if he’s telling me what to do.
I go back to the ditch and retrieve the buckled helmet I was wearing, tucking it under my arm. And then I limp away. I don’t look back. I don’t want the memories that will haunt me, torment me in my dreams, soak my bed with night sweats. As far as I’m concerned, I was never a part of this.
I stop again – my feet unable to move for a second. There’s a car approaching. Panicking, I see a gate leading into a field and scramble over it, chucking the helmet ahead of me. Headlights arc above me just as I drop down behind the hedge, illuminating everything dark in my mind. I hear the engine slow, imagine the driver’s horror when he sees the scene.
Making sure I stay close to the hedge, crouching, hobbling, escaping, I disappear into the night. What will happen to me now, I have no idea.
1
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR LORRAINE Fisher slowed as she pulled off the main road. The journey from Birmingham was less than an hour but still long enough for her to make it only two or three times a year.
There was no space in her life for regrets and should-haves, therefore time spent with her younger sister in the country was usually limited to Christmas, birthdays, or the routine summer holiday visit as she was doing now. An entire week away from work suddenly seemed like an awfully long time. Or was it that an entire week in her sister’s company was daunting?
She loved Jo, had always protected her, watched out for her, picked her up and dusted her off, but there was usually a price. Lorraine wondered what it would be this time.
She glanced down at her daughter’s lap. ‘Don’t you feel sick?’ Stella had been staring at her phone for the last forty-five minutes, texting, tapping messages into Facebook, playing games.
Lorraine had been hoping to catch up with her, find out about her end-of-term test results, see how she was getting on with her Geography project, but instead she’d ended up filling the rumbling void of the M40 with a programme on Radio 4, which was now coming to an end. Stella had not been pleased by the early start, and had had to be cajoled into the car, still in her pyjama bottoms and an old sweatshirt, with the promise of hastily made bacon sandwiches and crisps for breakfast.
‘Dad would have a fit if he could see this lot,’ Stella giggled as they’d wrapped the food in foil and dropped various other junk into a carrier bag.
‘Then we won’t tell him, will we?’ Lorraine said, feeling slightly smug.
‘Dad can force Grace to eat his organic yoghurt and bucketloads of berries later,’ Stella said, also enjoying the subterfuge.
Lorraine had said goodbye to her older daughter the night before, knowing she wouldn’t be up before they left. Grace was meeting a friend later and they were off to an athletics camp. She’d been looking forward to it for ages.
Their week together would
There is a purplish bone pushing through the skin of his right forearm and his neck is snapped too far back. His skull is open and fresh, the contents scenting the night air. I can’t make myself think of the word
dead
, even though it’s pushing up my throat like a hand emerging from a grave.
Stay sane, I think. Keep calm. Take his pulse. Check his breathing. Call for an ambulance . . . phone the police . . . flag down a car . . .
I stand up, fighting the pain that grips me, trying to make the darkened landscape around me stop spinning. Everything seems bigger, scarier, twisted and evil, as if the trees are gathering and marching towards me and the hedgerows are curling around to grab me.
Evil, evil person
the countryside is whispering.
I have no idea what to do.
I could call an ambulance or the police, but they’ll arrest me, throw me in a cell for the rest of my life. It’s what I deserve.
I was driving. I was drinking. We stole a bike. Now the man I love is dead.
Then something clicks inside me. It’s as if he’s telling me what to do.
I go back to the ditch and retrieve the buckled helmet I was wearing, tucking it under my arm. And then I limp away. I don’t look back. I don’t want the memories that will haunt me, torment me in my dreams, soak my bed with night sweats. As far as I’m concerned, I was never a part of this.
I stop again – my feet unable to move for a second. There’s a car approaching. Panicking, I see a gate leading into a field and scramble over it, chucking the helmet ahead of me. Headlights arc above me just as I drop down behind the hedge, illuminating everything dark in my mind. I hear the engine slow, imagine the driver’s horror when he sees the scene.
Making sure I stay close to the hedge, crouching, hobbling, escaping, I disappear into the night. What will happen to me now, I have no idea.
1
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR LORRAINE Fisher slowed as she pulled off the main road. The journey from Birmingham was less than an hour but still long enough for her to make it only two or three times a year.
There was no space in her life for regrets and should-haves, therefore time spent with her younger sister in the country was usually limited to Christmas, birthdays, or the routine summer holiday visit as she was doing now. An entire week away from work suddenly seemed like an awfully long time. Or was it that an entire week in her sister’s company was daunting?
She loved Jo, had always protected her, watched out for her, picked her up and dusted her off, but there was usually a price. Lorraine wondered what it would be this time.
She glanced down at her daughter’s lap. ‘Don’t you feel sick?’ Stella had been staring at her phone for the last forty-five minutes, texting, tapping messages into Facebook, playing games.
Lorraine had been hoping to catch up with her, find out about her end-of-term test results, see how she was getting on with her Geography project, but instead she’d ended up filling the rumbling void of the M40 with a programme on Radio 4, which was now coming to an end. Stella had not been pleased by the early start, and had had to be cajoled into the car, still in her pyjama bottoms and an old sweatshirt, with the promise of hastily made bacon sandwiches and crisps for breakfast.
‘Dad would have a fit if he could see this lot,’ Stella giggled as they’d wrapped the food in foil and dropped various other junk into a carrier bag.
‘Then we won’t tell him, will we?’ Lorraine said, feeling slightly smug.
‘Dad can force Grace to eat his organic yoghurt and bucketloads of berries later,’ Stella said, also enjoying the subterfuge.
Lorraine had said goodbye to her older daughter the night before, knowing she wouldn’t be up before they left. Grace was meeting a friend later and they were off to an athletics camp. She’d been looking forward to it for ages.
Their week together would
Similar Books
