twisted at an impossible angle, blood flowing from his mouth. Lane walked around the mashed hood to the passenger side, and saw that a woman had been decapitated, her head lying on the road—hair still wrapped in some kind of striped headscarf—eyes staring up at him, crimson lips framing a question they would never ask.
Then he heard soft whimpers coming from behind the crumpled rear of the car. Bev beckoned him from the truck and every cell in his body urged him to walk away from the wreck, leave whatever lay keening and disappear into the night.
But when he moved it was toward the rear of the car. He took two steps, froze. Listened. Heard weeping.
The shock finally hit Lane, his legs shaking, a cold and greasy sweat dripping from his hair. He had to hold onto the wrecked car to stay upright, fighting for breath, puking booze and chemicals.
When he had composed himself the cries were stilled, and he knew that it was over, that whoever was back there was dead now.
Then he heard the whispered word, “Mama.”
Lane pushed himself away from the wreck and took the last few paces around the back of the car, the road turned daylight-bright by the glare of the Toyota’s headlights.
A child lay prone on the asphalt. A very small brown child. His legs had been severed above the knees, and he dragged himself along the road toward the car, leaving a slug-trail of blood, whimpering, “Mama, Mama.”
Lane knelt and reached out a hand to the child, but couldn’t bring himself to touch him, the boy turning his head and looking up at Lane, his dark eyes wide with agony and terror.
“Michael,” Beverley was beside Lane, shaking his shoulder. “We have to go.”
“Christ, Bev, he’s still alive.”
“But he won’t be for long, Mike. Come.”
He stared up at her, her short hair haloed by the truck’s lights. “I can’t just leave him here like this.”
“You have to. If another car comes along you’re fucked. The cops’ll test your blood and you’ll be way over the limit. You’re looking at jail time, Michael.”
She shook his shoulder again and hurried off toward the truck.
Lane stood, the child still staring up at him, still crying for his mother, thick gouts of dark blood oozing from his lips.
Lane turned and stumbled toward the Toyota. Beverley was behind the wheel, and he fell into the passenger seat and hadn’t yet closed his door when she took off, swerving onto a side road. She zigzagged though back roads until she found her way to the sand track that led to his uncle’s house and parked the Toyota and killed the headlamps. They sat for a while, listening to the engine cluck as it cooled, listening to the pounding surf.
“What if somebody saw us?” Lane said.
“Nobody saw us, Mike. There were no other cars. We were lucky.”
“Lucky? Jesus.”
She left the truck and unlocked the house. He followed her into the kitchen as she grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort from the table, took a hit and passed it to him. He drank until he coughed and retched.
Bev seized him by the hand and led him to the bedroom and stripped off her clothes, stripped off his too, threw him onto his back and fucked him. He tried to push her away when he heard the faraway wails of emergency vehicles, but she carried on riding him, her first climax weaving into the cat’s choir of sirens, and they fucked for hours. Fucked until they were both insensible, the bottle lying empty beside the bed.
Lane, hungover and sick, woke in the morning to the sound of running water and the hiss of a hose. He went out and saw Bev in a pair of cut off jeans and a T-shirt, washing the truck. Already battle-scarred from years of his uncle’s adventures, the Toyota bore no visible signs of the collision. The headlamps were caged in mesh, and were undamaged. The bull bars showed a few scratches but they weren’t fresh.
When he looked at Bev she shook her head and put her fingers to her lips, and they never spoke of the accident
Then he heard soft whimpers coming from behind the crumpled rear of the car. Bev beckoned him from the truck and every cell in his body urged him to walk away from the wreck, leave whatever lay keening and disappear into the night.
But when he moved it was toward the rear of the car. He took two steps, froze. Listened. Heard weeping.
The shock finally hit Lane, his legs shaking, a cold and greasy sweat dripping from his hair. He had to hold onto the wrecked car to stay upright, fighting for breath, puking booze and chemicals.
When he had composed himself the cries were stilled, and he knew that it was over, that whoever was back there was dead now.
Then he heard the whispered word, “Mama.”
Lane pushed himself away from the wreck and took the last few paces around the back of the car, the road turned daylight-bright by the glare of the Toyota’s headlights.
A child lay prone on the asphalt. A very small brown child. His legs had been severed above the knees, and he dragged himself along the road toward the car, leaving a slug-trail of blood, whimpering, “Mama, Mama.”
Lane knelt and reached out a hand to the child, but couldn’t bring himself to touch him, the boy turning his head and looking up at Lane, his dark eyes wide with agony and terror.
“Michael,” Beverley was beside Lane, shaking his shoulder. “We have to go.”
“Christ, Bev, he’s still alive.”
“But he won’t be for long, Mike. Come.”
He stared up at her, her short hair haloed by the truck’s lights. “I can’t just leave him here like this.”
“You have to. If another car comes along you’re fucked. The cops’ll test your blood and you’ll be way over the limit. You’re looking at jail time, Michael.”
She shook his shoulder again and hurried off toward the truck.
Lane stood, the child still staring up at him, still crying for his mother, thick gouts of dark blood oozing from his lips.
Lane turned and stumbled toward the Toyota. Beverley was behind the wheel, and he fell into the passenger seat and hadn’t yet closed his door when she took off, swerving onto a side road. She zigzagged though back roads until she found her way to the sand track that led to his uncle’s house and parked the Toyota and killed the headlamps. They sat for a while, listening to the engine cluck as it cooled, listening to the pounding surf.
“What if somebody saw us?” Lane said.
“Nobody saw us, Mike. There were no other cars. We were lucky.”
“Lucky? Jesus.”
She left the truck and unlocked the house. He followed her into the kitchen as she grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort from the table, took a hit and passed it to him. He drank until he coughed and retched.
Bev seized him by the hand and led him to the bedroom and stripped off her clothes, stripped off his too, threw him onto his back and fucked him. He tried to push her away when he heard the faraway wails of emergency vehicles, but she carried on riding him, her first climax weaving into the cat’s choir of sirens, and they fucked for hours. Fucked until they were both insensible, the bottle lying empty beside the bed.
Lane, hungover and sick, woke in the morning to the sound of running water and the hiss of a hose. He went out and saw Bev in a pair of cut off jeans and a T-shirt, washing the truck. Already battle-scarred from years of his uncle’s adventures, the Toyota bore no visible signs of the collision. The headlamps were caged in mesh, and were undamaged. The bull bars showed a few scratches but they weren’t fresh.
When he looked at Bev she shook her head and put her fingers to her lips, and they never spoke of the accident
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