Читать книгу Idle Lies - Lian Knight - Страница 6

Saturday, 4 November

IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. It had to be an accident.

The lifeless body lay sprawled in the cool grass. One leg stretched forward among the lush green blades, relaxed and peacefully still from the pleasure of a deep slumber. The other curled back awkwardly, pivoting the hipbone above the tight denim jeans like an odd piece of angle bracket encased in a layer of iridescent white paper. The twisted foot turned on a strange angle and rested ungracefully on a mound of dirt.

From the hips, a long, slender torso extended into the verge until it reached a pallid head, contorted to one side. A startled expression, frozen in time, mirrored the open mouth. Beyond a tangle of yarn, a solitary arm extended, two fingers idly outstretched, almost beckoning for someone to come. But no one came, nothing stirred, the park was quiet.

He stood over the motionless figure. Across his brow, small beads of sweat joined larger beads and began a slow trickle down his neck. He made no effort to wipe them away. He could not move, he could not look; his stomach cramped and his feet remained anchored to the spot. A passer-by, had there been one, might have thought he was a scarecrow, his rigid body guarding an unsuspecting prey that had fainted in fright. Or a strange statue, shielding another that lay fallen, its carved stonework flickering in the fading light. Whichever it was, the last remaining sunbeam, devoid of opinion, traced a lone path over the motionless objects to the slender ferns and the dogwood, away from the clearing that adjoined the picnic area. Soon the sun would disappear, and the bizarre spectacle would be swallowed by the shadows and fade into the darkness of the surrounding forest.

He fought the urge to move. Inwardly everything craved escape, but outwardly he could do nothing but stand transfixed. At last he felt a loosening of the invisible grip, a long, procrastinating release, and gradually he impelled his body to shift slightly. He looked down.

Blades of grass wavered in the light breeze, gracefully stroking the stiff denim and twisted wool. Longer stems patted the glimpses of bare skin, stroking the silent jaw and mingling with strands of hair that brushed the brow and tangled with the lashes. Glass eyes, still and unflinching, stared outwards, silently, across the green. Mesmerised by their unyielding gaze, he followed their direction over the quivering grass to the forest’s edge. Tall timbers swayed peacefully in the evening air and for a moment he was riveted by the gap in the trees, captivated by the silent leaves dancing in the waning light. But the moment dissipated and a painful awareness dawned. There was nothing. They were looking at nothing. The eyes were dead.

In a flash he sprang into action, pacing back and forth, fists clenched. A large grey kangaroo beginning its evening graze swiftly bounded away.

It was all a terrible mistake, a volley of strong words – sudden, incomprehensible anger, inexplicable fury, momentary retaliation. It had been out of control, but only for a few moments. Just how many moments he did not know, he could not remember, he could not think. He could only look now with appalling realisation at the frightful figure.

He dropped to his knees, head bent, fingers interlocked behind his neck. What the hell have I done?

Closing his eyes, he began to shake. Surely this could be fixed; he could not possibly live with this reality now. Maybe this was just a terrifying possibility. He opened his eyes and, still crouching, took one slow step forward. Gingerly, he lifted an arm and felt for a pulse. There was none.

The arm bounced on the soft grass. Recoiling, he lurched backwards and his shoe catapulted into soft tissue, making the body twitch. He twisted on his knees, stumbling and clutching frantically at the grass to hasten his escape. Gasping, he reached the gravelled path and, dodging a large black crow taking flight, sheltered himself behind the picnic table nestled among the shrubs, away from the awful sight. The crow, having been unexpectedly displaced, settled its wings and eyed him suspiciously from a safe distance. Oblivious of his feathered observer, he stared with wild, glazed eyes at the unopened takeaway wrapped in white paper and the solitary bottle of Coke that sat idly on the table.

His cheeks flooded and his neck pulsed. Shit! This was not what he had planned.

Raising his fist, he banged it so hard on the table that the bolts at the other end jumped and the bottle tipped over, hissing violently. Immediately he yelped and pulled his hand close. Part of a large splinter stood straight out; the rest of it lay firmly embedded in his palm. Droplets of blood began to fall on the table, bouncing onto the bench seat.

Cursing, he ran to the car, wrenched open the passenger door with his other hand and yanked at the glovebox lid. Holding the bloodied mess over the ground, he fished among the contents until he found the pliers. Taking careful aim, he clamped them over the exposed timber spike and, with one deep breath, ripped it out. He folded in pain as the crimson fluid began to spurt. He reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it quickly around the wound.

‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’ he shouted at the body.

Immediately he checked himself. He scanned the area urgently, eyes darting, but the air was calm, the park was silent. Nothing moved.

He let his shoulders release and exhaled slowly and completely. Slowly he retraced his steps to the table and sat down, resting his hands on his head. His palm throbbed.

What now?

Police. He would go and tell them. It was an accident.

No. That would not work. Right now, his face burned. It would burn again when he told them and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. They would see he was angry and exasperated. There was no one to back his story, no one to defend him. He’d languish in prison, maybe for years, locked away with armed robbers, paedophiles, rapists, kidnappers and murderers …

He gasped and the rawness bit his throat. He pushed away from the table, panic rising, but his legs were trapped. Wrestling, he bumped his sore fist.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

He sat back down, clutching his wrist. A tear formed.

Listen, his conscience whispered wisely. It is not all your fault.

He took a breath through clenched teeth.

None of this would have happened if it wasn’t … if it wasn’t for … He paused and tried to release his shoulders again but they gripped him like a vice. Forget about those words. Think, for shit’s sake! You’ve got to think.

He rubbed the pain in his neck.

Wait.

Sometimes people walked free because somebody had made them angry and they couldn’t stop. There was a term for it.

Maddened defence? Something like that. No, that didn’t sound right. Tormented defence? Maybe. That’s what a lawyer was for. He just needed to get his story straight.

It was simple. He had resisted until the urge was overpowering and then he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t his fault.

Right. He took a breath. There was a solution. He’d call the police, explain the argument and show them what had happened. He’d been upset, they needed to know that. Once they understood they’d bring him to the station where hopefully a woman, someone nice and kind, would take his statement. When it was all written down they would thank him for his help and send him home because it was, quite clearly and obviously, an accident.

It was unavoidable.

He took several deeper breaths and a tingling feeling overwhelmed him, a mixture of relief and euphoria, and with each inhalation the panic slowly subsided. The throbbing eased, his head drooped and he rested his elbows gently on the table, holding his bandaged hand high. Gradually his wrist sagged, and, laying his head on his good forearm, he closed his eyes. The wind whispered softly, caressing his hair, twirling it in tiny wisps, and the cool breeze danced on his cheeks. Cicadas began their rhythmic song as the large billowing clouds stole the last of the warm rays and the sun gently and slowly set. Darkness fell.

A sooty owl made its first evening call and another responded. The large kangaroo returned, sniffed the air carefully and then resumed his quiet grazing where he had been so discourteously disturbed. His herd of young females, less assured, kept a measured distance, their eyes never leaving the picnic table where the figure slumbered, nor the grass where the strange body lay, growing cold.

Slowly, beyond the nearby hills, an irritating noise began in the cool night air. Its familiar sound pierced his subconscious and he wrestled to push it out. The annoying sound persisted. The volume grew louder and louder until the screeching hurt his ears and his body flinched. Why could he not make this awful noise go away?

Suddenly the sound of the emergency vehicle siren jerked him awake.

Fuck. How did they know?

Leaping to his feet, he ran to his car, slammed the passenger door shut and bounded to the driver’s side in three big steps. In one swing he was in. The engine roared and without a moment’s hesitation the car reversed in a wide arc across the gravel, wheels spinning. Dropping the clutch, he shot forward onto the road, narrowly missing the crumbling escarpment that hugged the bend. He swerved violently, corrected the wheel and floored the accelerator. In a split second he was gone.

The siren wailed as the fire engine rounded the corner and reached the picnic ground. The driver slowed slightly to see through the settling dust before the truck changed gear and the vehicle hurried on. The siren echoed through the trees and then grew fainter as it passed and fell behind the hill, continuing on its way towards the smoke that wafted in the distance.

Once again, the park was quiet. A light breeze scattered tiny leaves across the shale and over the grass, some stopping and stockpiling where the corpse intercepted their journey. A small trail of ants began a track across the exposed waist, running this way and that as they forged a path over the stiffening frame. Some reached the face, crossing deepening purple marks that circled the neck. A few descended into the nose and others the open mouth, venturing over the tongue and tonsils. Calling to their colleagues, their numbers slowly grew as they set about their work.

A small vixen appeared from a bush, her delicate nose sniffing the air and detecting a new and different smell. Her eyes fixed on the inert figure and she studied it, checking the air occasionally, muscles twitching in readiness for urgent flight. She edged forward and lowered her nose to the ground, tracing the scent.

Nothing moved. A beam of moonlight fell on the centre of the table, now deserted, casting an eerie glow on the pecked and torn paper and the recumbent bottle. In the car park, a little red Mazda sat alone in the dark, its handles glistening now and then as the evening clouds shifted and the moon shone. A bag lay open on the front seat where it had been left, the metal buckles twinkling in unison with the silver buttons on the dash. Lonely and forlorn it waited patiently, indefinitely, for its owner to drive it away.

But nobody returned. A solitary bird gave a final evening call and the small red fox sniffed the air for one final time, and slunk away.