Witnesses Page 7

  “Oh, this is terrible!” Dilly said, wanting to avert her ayes from the scene but finding herself unable to do so. As she neared the crash, she saw oil and gasoline leaking out from beneath the wreckage, running in rivulets that joined to form a stream, which trickled across the road surface. Saw too another fluid, this one much thicker, much redder than those others, running out of the mangled car door, a flow of crimson that stained the cream-painted metal and dripped onto the road to pool there.

  She felt her stomach flip over but still allowed her gaze to move towards the shattered glass of the windscreen. Spider-webs of fractures prevented a clear view of the interior, but still discernible was a dark shape, slumped against the broken window, a dark shape from which more of that deep crimson emanated, blossoming outwards from it, finding its way along the maze of cracks in the glass.

  She stopped walking towards the crash. Her legs felt weak and she was unsure as to whether or not they would carry her any further. Chris continued towards the wreckage, but she let him go, unable, or unwilling, to get any closer to the carnage.

  The voices, the shouting, slowly diminished, fading as if someone had placed pillows over the mouths of those speaking. Activity carried on in front of her, but she felt herself becoming more and more detached from the whole thing, becoming a distant observer of the action rather than being a bystander, up close to, involved in what was happening. This sensation was accompanied by a pleasing sense of calm, of relaxation.

  A hand on her shoulder startled her from her reverie. She jumped at the touch and glanced down at the hand, which was steadily increasing its grip on her. A slim hand, a fine hand, the ring finger adorned with a thin silver band bearing a small red stone. Red painted nails, too, at the end of those slim fingers, fingers that too were red, stained red by the blood that ran along them.

  Time slowed so that the mere act of turning her head, of taking a step to the side to facilitate the movement, required an eternity to complete. And yet, still too short a time, she thought, would that it had taken even longer for her to see the ruined face staring back at her, painted in that same red that covered the hand that had touched her, the empty eye socket filled with more blood, this time dark and black, the flap of skin hanging from one cheek, the odd shape of the head itself, flattened on one side…

  Dilly screamed.

  And screamed.

  * * *

  The rain hammers against the window, beading the glass with drops that coalesce to form rivulets that run down to pool on the sill outside. The accompanying wind howls through the streets, blows litter and debris across roads that look more like rivers, such is the deluge of water running along them. Across the street, shutters bang against a wall with every gust of wind, the noise they make an irritation. This tropical storm is forecast to continue well into the night and you have already resigned yourself to staying here at the station tonight. It would be foolhardy to venture out into those conditions – which are predicted to worsen as the evening progresses – to risk your life on a journey to home, to another night alone. Others have already made the decision to stay, and it is likely that you will work long into the night before there is any chance of rest and relaxation.

  You turn away from the window, look instead at the photographs pinned to the notice board in your office. Grainy black and white images of the devastation of a week ago. The images are evocative, and all too easily the sights and sounds you experienced at the mall flood back, filling your head. Once again you feel the confusion and panic you thought you had left behind.

  A violent gust of wind rattles the window in its frame, the sudden noise enough to drag you away from those memories. You pick up the cup of tea from your desk and take a sip. The liquid has cooled and you wince slightly as you drink.

  Replacing the cup, you rifle through the paperwork on your desk. The official report on the bombing is your responsibility since you were given control of the task force investigating the incident, and is still incomplete. Alongside the typed sheets you have already completed are reports from the forensics division and the mall security, along with the most recent communique from BIN, the National Intelligence Agency, with whom you have established a not altogether amicable working relationship.

  You sigh, and wonder – not for the first time – if this job is beyond you, that the task you have been set is too big. As always, this dip in confidence is accompanied by the images seared into your subconscious during your visit to the bombed shopping mall.

  You worry about your mental state. You have seen things no man should ever see. Death and destruction, the terrible things human beings do to each other. You lean back in your chair and close your eyes, attempt to summon the images from the recurring dream you have been experiencing these last few weeks. No nightmare, this, rather the images that populate your sleeping hours are soothing and restful, you awake from them refreshed and calm, happy even…

  The wind and rain continue to hammer against the window, but the noises slowly fade as you manage to exert some kind of control over your thoughts. You begin to smile as the familiar scene reasserts itself, the dusty road cutting through fields, along which you travel; the setting sun a glowing ball of orange on the horizon. And the bridge, a box girder construction that the road takes you over.

  You never reach the other side of the bridge; you always awaken before the journey is complete. But the feelings you are left with are not those of frustration or disappointment. Somehow you know that your final destination is a good place, a place of happiness. Perhaps one day the dream will continue for long enough, you will sleep on for long enough that you finally get there.

  * * *

  Mickey returned from the bar clutching two pints of bitter. He placed one of the glasses on the table in front of Dave. “Here, mate. Get that down your neck.”

  “Cheers, Mickey.” Dave picked up the glass as his friend settled down onto his stool and took a deep swig of the brown liquid. “Ah, that’s better…”

  “Cure for all ills, my friend, well known fact.”

  “Food of the Gods.”

  They both raised their glasses and clinked them together, careful not to spill any of the precious contents.

  “Spilled some on the way across mind. Went right down me arm. It’s the wettest thing in the world, a wet shirt cuff, another well-known fact.”

  Dave nodded sagely in agreement. “Too true.”

  Mickey took another deep draught. “So, you’ve gone a bit Sixth Sense then?”

  Dave gulped down his mouthful of beer, tried not to choke as he laughed at his friend’s remark. “You could put it that way, yes!”

  Mickey set his glass down on the table, made a great show of scanning the pub around them, eyes darting from side to side. “All… The… Time?”

  This time Dave did burst out laughing. “Fuck off. Twat.”

  “Cheers!” Another clink of glasses.

  “Seriously though, mate,” Mickey continued, “what’s going on?”

  Dave sighed, put his glass down. “I really don’t know, mate. I don’t know if this is really happening or whether I’m cracking up or what.”

  “So you saw this soldier bloke the other day? The one that’s been on the news? Gary Wallace?”

  “Yup. Days after he’d been killed. And then those kids, I saw their picture on the telly, I could swear I saw them by that roadside shrine a couple of weeks ago.”

  Dave didn’t need to see the small green flashes in Mickey’s aura to know how confused he was. Shit, he’d be the same if it were the other way around, and it was him sitting here listening to all this bizarre crap about ghosts. Actually, knowing Mickey as well as he did, he’d be suspicious of being the victim of an almighty wind-up.

  “Shit, mate, I don’t know what to say. This is kinda outside my realm of experience, if you know what I mean?”

  The doors to the pub opened and a party of three stepped inside. A man and two women, dressed in black. They made their way to the bar, where t
he man ordered drinks. Dave saw the man nod towards the far corner of the lounge, at an empty table. The two women made their way towards it and sat down on the couch running along the wall behind it, leaving the stool for the man, who waited at the bar for the drinks.

  “It was his funeral today,” Dave said, his voice low, barely discernible over the hubbub in the bar. “I’m guessing that’s where they’ve just come from.”

  Mickey swivelled round to see who Dave was talking about. “Oh, aye, must’ve.” The man at the bar was talking to another man perched on a stool next to him. The expression on the other man’s face was one of deep sorrow. He reached out a hand, placed it on the mourner’s shoulder. He looked across at them a little bit longer than Dave would have liked, avoiding an awkward conversation…

  “Still, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Mm… What? Oh, yeah, sorry, mate. Miles away. Bit strange though, to put it mildly.”

  “I mean, I know I’ve been putting in the hours on the thesis lately. Most of the time I feel like I’m only half awake. Mebbes it’s just overload. I’m getting things mixed up in my head, seeing things that aren’t really there…”

  It didn’t need Mickey’s raised eyebrows to make Dave realise how weird that sounded.

  “I mean,” he continued, eager to get that thought out of his mind, “I’d had a run-in with Gary Whatsisface a while back. I don’t think I covered myself in glory with that one. It’s probably been playing on my mind, made me a bit paranoid. It could have been anyone I saw. I just transplanted my own subconscious thoughts and images into the situation.”

  A silence hung between them. At the point where it became just too uncomfortable to bear, both men took deep drinks of their beers.

  Mickey placed his glass on the table. “You don’t half talk some shite, mate. You really do.”

  They both laughed, felt the tension drain away. “I know, I know. I’m just trying to make myself feel better about it, though.”

  “I know, mate. And yes, you might even be right. The mind’s a funny thing, can do strange things. And you have been overworking yourself lately. You know it’s just a little thing, not up to much. You wanna be careful.”

  “Fuck off. Twat.”

  “Anyway, this one’s nearly dead.” Mickey lifted his glass and waggled it from side to side. “How’s about you do something about it?”

  “You going for a record or something? I’m only halfway down mine!”

  “I say again, it’s nearly dead. Given your experiences with the recently deceased, I’d have thought you’d be very keen to do something about it.”

  Dave smiled, glad that he’d decided to come out with his friend tonight. It was good just to talk about stuff, even though he would get no answers, or sense, for that matter, out of Mickey. That wasn’t what he’d come for. Just some sense of perspective, something his friend had supplied admirably. “Same again then?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Dave downed the remains of his drink in one and picked up both glasses with his fingertips. Shuffling sideways along the couch seat, he stood and made his way to the bar. No-one else was ordering drinks, so he was served straightaway, handing the glasses over to the barman for refills. As he waited, he glanced across at the three mourners sat against the far wall. No-one in the small group was speaking, all sat looking down, unwilling to make contact with the world around them, lost in their own worlds. The man and older woman held hands, the knuckles of the woman’s hand showing stark white against the fake tan and chunky gold rings she wore on her fingers, betraying the strength of the grip she had on the man.

  “It’s a crying shame.”

  The words had come from beside him, and Dave turned his gaze from the mourners to the man sat on the stool by the bar.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That laddie.” The man nodded towards the mourners. “Their son. Bloody tragedy.”

  “Oh. Yes. I mean, yes, terrible thing to have happened.”

  The man nodded sagely, took a tiny sip of his beer. “A bloody waste, is what it is.”

  Dave felt his heart sink. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in a discussion with this bloke, especially about Gary Wallace. He smiled and nodded, focussed his attention on the wall behind the bar.

  “Not a scratch on him, apparently,” the man continued, oblivious to Dave’s attempts to ignore him. “Bomb went off right next to him, but not a scratch on him…”

  Dave reluctantly returned his gaze to the man, a quizzical look on his face.

  “Still killed him of course, but not a scratch on him. Shockwave, you see. Mashed up his insides but left him intact on the outside.”

  The old man started to shake his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying himself. Dave found he was doing the same.

  “Seven pounds, please.” The barman’s voice interrupted.

  “Crying shame,” the man said again, taking another miniscule sip of his drink. Dave paid the barman and took the drinks back over to the table. The old man didn’t appear perturbed by this, didn’t even seem to notice Dave’s departure. The story would be oft-repeated, he thought, no doubt to anyone who came within earshot.

  “What was all that about?” Mickey asked as he sat down, shuffling back behind the table.

  “Oh, he’s just banging on about Gary Wallace, to anyone that’ll listen I reckon. Actually, even if they don’t want to listen. Cheers!”

  “Cheers!” Glasses were raised and clinked, deep draughts drunk.

  “So what was he saying?” Mickey asked.

  “Apparently, and God knows how he found out, it was internal injuries that killed our friend Gary, not physically being blown to bits. Like the blast wave knackered up his internal organs.”

  “Gross. But then not as gross as being shredded, I suppose. Not the way I’d choose to go, I have to admit, having someone picking up pieces of me…”

  “Yeah, that’s you all over, that is.”

  “Cheers!”

  “I’d make a crap soldier,” Dave said.

  “Why’s that then? You a pacifist or just scared of getting hurt? Too intelligent, maybe?”

  “Ha, well Military Intelligence is a well-known oxymoron! Nah, I just don’t think that I believe strongly enough in anything to be willing to give up my life for it.”

  “Plus, you’re a coward.”

  “Plus, I’m a coward. They’d have to pretty desperate to call on me to defend anything, I reckon.”

  “I’ll drink to that. Me too, mind, I’d be useless, what on account of this.” Mickey patted his belly, grabbed hold of a roll of fat and gave it a wobble.

  “They’d soon get that knocked off you, man, boot-camp and all that. Nah, it’s not the physical stuff, I just don’t think I have the right psychology to be a killing machine.”

  A clatter of coins came from the fruit machine in the corner of the bar. Not the jackpot but a fair-sized pay-out by the sounds of it.

  “Aye well, here’s hoping the eventuality never arises. We’re too old anyway.”

  “For this shit…”

  “For any shit.”

  The lucky gambler scraped his winnings from the fruit machine and strode across the room towards his companions, waving his fist in the air, a huge smile on his face. He passed the mourners and received a look that could kill at twenty paces from Gary Wallace’s father.

  “Their son’s sacrifice hasn’t done much for them, has it?” Dave said. Mickey too had watched the gambler pass the group, seen the look. “Or anything, for that matter.”

  “Don’t go all contemplative and melancholic on me my, man. We’re here to enjoy ourselves!”

  “In which case let’s get on with it. Sup up, your round.”

  “I’m not round, just portly. Bastard.”

  “Cheers!”

  * * *

  Loud banging on the outside door woke Dilly from the deep sleep she had fallen into. She gasped at the shock of her rude awakening, sat bolt upr
ight on the bed. The drapes were drawn despite it being mid-afternoon, and pale sunlight encroached into the bedroom, creeping in past the edges of the floral material hanging in front of the windows, casting a dim glow over the room.

  The knocking came again, heavy and insistent. Dilly swung her legs out of bed, fully awake now, instinct kicking in, imperative that she answer the door before Mama could complain. As she shuffled her feet into her slippers she heard the door opening and voices from the hallway below.

  Mama had opened the door. Something was wrong, Mama never opened the door. Dilly felt a wave of panic spread from her stomach. She ran to the window and pulled back the drapes. A police car was parked outside the house, alongside another car she had never seen before.

  More conversation drifted up from downstairs, Mama’s distinctive tones alongside a male voice, no, two male voices. She felt the panic transforming into dread. What was going on? She immediately suspected her mother of something. Their relationship had grown even more strained since the incident in town where she’d witnessed the car accident, the accident and whatever it was that had followed it…

  She’d been a mess. Chris had driven her straight home only to receive a tongue-lashing from Mama when they’d gotten there. He’d been so gentle and kind with her on the journey, something she’d appreciated even through the layers of shock that were encircling her. And then he’d had to put up with that from the wicked old woman.

  Footsteps across the wooden floor of the hall now. Whoever the men were, Mama had invited them into the house. Maybe they were detectives, come here with the other policemen to ask her about the accident. But why? There were plenty other witnesses there. Surely the police had collected all the information they needed? Why were they here?

  “Dilly!” Mama’s voice echoed up the staircase. “Come on down here, darlin’, there are some gentlemen here to see you.” Somehow the woman’s attempt to sound friendly and reassuring made Dilly even more afraid of what was happening. She paused, offered no reply. “Dilly!” all pretence at friendliness now gone, Mama’s voice was sharp. “Get down here right now!”