D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

‘Why me?’ he said angrily. ‘Of all the lanes in all the country you had to fall into mine!’

The engine grumbled impatiently. The snow came down in thick, unrelenting globs. Deller’s End was still three quarters of a mile away with no other house between here and there. At least there was a landline to use in the farmhouse. Gareth bent to his haunches. Aside from his Land Rover and his own laboured breathing, the countryside was deathly quiet. It was unreal. His breath was pumping out in clouds to play around her face as he thought through the limited options.

He needed to get her in the vehicle then get home as fast as he could so he could call for an ambulance. But, having made his decision, he was hampered by the thoughts that he could do more harm than good in moving her. She might have a broken neck or something. He swept his hair back over his head in desperation. She’d freeze if she stayed here much longer, he thought. It would take ages to run to the farmhouse and make the call. The nearest cottage back the way he’d come was at least two miles distant.

Then, as if in answer to his prayers, the woman moved and turned her head, letting out a muffled groan before stretching her legs and falling still again.

No broken neck, he thought gladly.

There was nothing for it. He went to the back of the Land Rover, opening the door and clearing the deck of tools and shopping. He took off his jersey and laid it on the floor. Not much but it would have to suffice. He went back to the woman, paused over her, drew in a calming breath and bent down to take her weight, which, as he lifted her, was not too great. Undernourished rather than slim, he thought. She didn’t make a sound as he carried her to the rear of the Land Rover and placed her as gently as he could on his jersey. He tucked his coat around and under her head, noticing with a sinking heart that there was blood streaming down her forehead. He only hoped he hadn’t done any damage carrying her. He did his best to tend to the wound with a dab or two of the sleeve of his coat before he gave in, slammed the door shut and retrieved the carrier bag from the snow, tossing it carelessly onto the passenger seat.

He pressed the accelerator as gently as he could, both to gain traction and so as not to jolt the vehicle unnecessarily. It appeared to take an age to traverse the snow-packed lane, the drifts getting progressively deeper as he neared the cottage. He could not get all the way to the gate. The Land Rover got itself bogged down in a drift about thirty yards away, so he clambered out of the cab. He checked on the young woman, deciding to remove her coat which was wet-through and no doubt contributing to any hypothermia. He ran the rest of the way to Deller’s End.

Tossing the dripping coat over the back of his sofa he bawled into the phone that he needed help — ambulance, paramedics, helicopter, anything — and realised he must have sounded like an incoherent, babbling idiot, but they appeared to get the message and advised him to leave her in the Land Rover but to keep her warm and as comfortable as possible till they got there. On no account must he try to get her to the hospital himself. Having got his orders he stripped his bed of his duvet, grabbed a pillow and went back to the woman.

As he tucked the pillow under her head and wrapped the duvet around her, for the first time he noticed how pretty she was, in a plain, everyday sort of way. No makeup. Face dirtied by her fall. Late twenties, early thirties tops, he thought. Slightly familiar, if he were to be honest, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. But his attention was more drawn to her lips, which appeared as bloodless as her skin.

‘Can you hear me?’ he asked, getting in beside her and closing the door on the swirling snow. He picked up the torch he kept in the back and shone it at her. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be long and they’ll be here.’

He put the flat of his hand on her forehead. Why, he had no idea, because he didn’t have the faintest idea what he was looking for. She felt cold, but was that good or bad? If she’d been hot and feverish would that have been preferable to cold and clammy, given her condition? And what exactly was her condition?

Jesus, he thought, I could have killed her! And she might die if they don’t get here soon.

‘I’m called Gareth,’ he blurted, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Stupid bastard, he thought; like she’s going to hear you. But it made him feel better, to offer what little support he could. The only way he knew how. ‘Welcome to Deller’s End,’ he said, looking through the fogged-up window of the door towards where the ambulance would appear. If they could get down here, he thought bleakly.

At that moment a flurry of snow rattled softly against the sides of the Land Rover as if to taunt him.

About three-quarters of an hour passed. The temperature inside the vehicle dropped sharply and he was hoping the young woman was still warm beneath the duvet and was deliberating whether to fetch more from the house when a shadow flitted by the steamed-up window. At first he thought his tired eyes had imagined it, but he distinctly heard someone — or some thing — tramping softly in the snow outside. He thought that somehow they’d arrived without him noticing, to take her to hospital, but it was only when he swung open the back door and jumped down from the Land Rover into the thick snow did he realise no one was there. No ambulance, no paramedics, nothing.

Nothing except a deep and fresh set of footprints pockmarking the drifts. ‘Anyone there?’ he called out, flicking his torch beam into the ragged, thorny undergrowth by the side of the lane. The thin beam did little to penetrate the scrub. Gareth traced the footprints, fresh snowflakes already settling in them. They appeared to circle the Land Rover and then head off towards the cottage, where they looked to meld with his own footprints of earlier. He aimed the torch down the lane, and then swung it to his left; the beam struck out across an empty expanse of ghostly white field. There was not a soul to be seen.

His curiosity was just dipping into the first prickling of fear when he saw the starlight-blink of headlights in the distance, shining sharply through the curtain-like screen of denuded trees. He went back to the Land Rover and waved the torch in their direction, relief flooding through him, warming and welcome.

He insisted he travel with her in the ambulance to the county hospital, just outside St Davids, but when the paramedics discovered he wasn’t family, and in fact was the man who had nearly killed her, they told him it wasn’t a good idea and that it would be better if he didn’t. That didn’t stop Gareth. He followed the ambulance, with difficulty in the worsening conditions, to the hospital.

Why? He asked himself that and concluded he didn’t rightly know. No, he thought, that wasn’t the entire truth. He didn’t follow the ambulance because of guilt, though he did feel the odd-pang screw up his stomach — after all, it wasn’t entirely his fault, was it? It was simply because during the lengthy time he spent with her before the ambulance came, tucking her up in the duvet, touching her forehead, staring at her face, as peaceful as if she were asleep — during that time a connection had been made.

She hadn’t spoken a single word, had only looked into his eyes for a split second before the moment of impact, and, he thought, let’s face it she might not have even seen his face through the windscreen, the bright headlights washing him and the Land Rover out all but completely. But something happened back there in that lane. Something he couldn’t figure out but which was drawing him along as easily as if he were tied to her by an invisible cord. Something that made him try to keep up with the ambulance, headed back out into a snowstorm he had so desperately tried to escape.