D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

Nor did he think it odd that he sat inside Accident and Emergency in an insipid corridor on an uncomfortably hard, plastic chair, staring at notices on the wall opposite telling him not to use his mobile, which he found ironic, because the thing would probably work here where he least needed it. He sat impatiently, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for news of her condition.

He knew it was faintly ridiculous, but he was worried sick for her. He suspected the doctor also thought something similar as he badgered her for an update and she politely explained she’d inform him as soon as she had details. She indulged him though, and gave him directions to the nearest coffee machine, and advised him to avoid both the tea and coffee and stick to the hot chocolate.

A police officer turned up after a while, mumbling that he could not get here any earlier due to a number of weather related accidents stretching the available force. He looked weary and hollow-eyed, like he really didn’t care but he was going through the motions.

‘So she jumped out in front of you?’ he asked.

‘Ran out in front,’ I corrected.

‘Do you think she meant to do it?’

Gareth frowned. ‘Like suicide? No, I don’t think so. There are easier ways. She looked too surprised, and I think she slipped in front of the car. I’m not sure she actually meant to go under it.’

He grunted something and his pen flicked over the paper of his pad. ‘Seems odd she didn’t see or hear your car, don’t you think?’

He thought about it. ‘She appeared to be running fast, as if she was being chased.’

He looked up. ‘Did you see anyone else?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly? Can you explain?’

‘It might be nothing, but I heard someone moving outside the Land Rover just before the ambulance arrived. I saw footprints too.’

‘But you didn’t see anyone?’

Gareth shook his head. ‘Not a soul.’

‘And how long after you’d hit her did this happen?’

‘I’m not sure. Best part of an hour.’

He gave a low chuckle. ‘She had a good head start then!’ He snapped shut his book and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Thank you for your help, sir. I have your contact details should we need to speak with you further.’

‘So you’ve no idea who this woman is, where she was going or what she was doing out there at this time of night?’

‘No ID. And not exactly dressed for the weather either. Probably as high as a kite on something or other, wandered, got lost, panicked, saw you and ran to get your help. Bang! Ends up here. As soon as she comes to we’ll interview her.’ He rose to his feet and looked down at him as he plonked his cap back on his head. His radio crackled and thin insistent voices buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps. ‘If you take my advice, sir, you’d best be headed home. You can’t do any good here anyhow, and like I say, she’s probably not going to thank you for your concern; I’ve seen this type before.’

Gareth wanted to protest, but held it in check. He bade the officer good night and wandered down to the coffee machine. He should have heeded the doctor’s advice — the coffee was dire. Resignedly he sat back down on his chair and waited for news, sipping and grimacing and wondering what on earth he was doing here.

The doctor came to his side, almost taking him by surprise.

‘Is she going to be alright?’ he asked, rising from his chair.

She nodded. ‘The suspected fracture of the skull turned out to be a quite sizeable blow to the head that caused concussion, but thankfully all she should suffer when she finally comes round are a few stitches to the head, dizziness and a thumping headache. There were no broken bones, no internal injuries. A day or so, depending on how she reacts to the crack on the head and she should be OK.’

He gave an obvious sigh of relief. ‘So she’s still unconscious?’

She nodded. ‘Sleeping.’ She glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘If you want to see her you’ll have to wait till tomorrow. That’s when the police say they should be back to ask her a few routine questions.’ She made as if to leave, her shoe squeaking on the tiled floor. ‘One curious thing, though,’ she said. ‘Though she’s escaped having any broken bones this time she’s had more than her fair share for one so young. Long-healed, but either she’s very accident prone or suffered quite a bit of trauma in the past.’ She smiled. ‘Accident prone, I guess, judging by tonight…’ Her bleeper went. ‘Goodnight. You really must be going; you’ll never get home and you could be stranded here all night.’

He left the building. It was now approaching 9.30 p.m., and they’d stopped clearing the hospital car park of snow a while ago. All traces of tarmac had vanished and cars were transformed into spectral white humps, fast disappearing under the blizzard. He located the Land Rover and drove carefully into town. It looked like a snowplough had been along a while ago and cleared a little, but it was already whiting over with fresh snow. He sized things up and decided it was madness trying to drive back to Deller’s End now.

There was a pub-cum-hotel he knew of not too far away in St Davids, at which he’d stayed on his first visit to the area when buying Deller’s End. He banked on it not being full. If so he might have to spend a freezing night in the back of his Land Rover, a prospect he did not relish.

The sullen young man who greeted him at the hotel looked faintly annoyed with having to tend to a new customer, especially one liberally dusted with snow, shoes dripping wet and looking like he’d been blown in by the weather. Fortunately, he said, there was a single room free due to a recent weather-related cancellation. They ran through the formalities of checking-in double quick and Gareth went up to his room. It was only when he’d shrugged off his sodden coat that he remembered the carrier bag and cardboard box belonging to the young woman, which he’d tossed into the passenger footwell. Not wanting it to become a lure for opportunist thieves he reluctantly went back out to the car park and retrieved it.

He tossed the bag idly onto the dressing table beside a balding sprig of tinsel someone had placed there in deference to the jolly season, and switched on the TV whilst he showered. It chattered comfortingly away in the background as the warm water fizzed out of the limescale-encrusted showerhead and he began to relax. The late news was on as he towelled himself dry; the usual stuff, snow causing absolute chaos on the roads, even though we expect it every year, indecision and anger about the proposed NHS reforms, and police had found the body of a murdered woman in a Manchester flat and in a state of some decay.

It didn’t pique his interest. Why should it? There was always someone somewhere being found dead. But his ears pricked involuntarily at the nature of her death. The police weren’t giving much away at this stage, naturally, but the thick-necked officer looking ill at ease before the cameras, his tie slightly askew, an older guy who from his worn expression looked like he’d seen many years in the force, said calmly that some dismemberment had taken place. He said there had as yet been no formal identification of the body, but she was believed to be aged between twenty-five and thirty-five, perhaps foreign, perhaps Polish. He asked for witnesses to come forward. Then it went back to the weather. More snow on its way. Great, he thought, and he flipped through the channels to find something a little less depressing.

His evening meal consisted of a microwaved pasty and a packet of crisps, which was all that was available without trudging through high drifts to find some late-night cafe open. He sat on the bed and sullenly watched the TV babble away to itself. Then his attention was drawn to the carrier bag. OK, so he shouldn’t be nosey, he thought, but he brought it over to the bed and took out the cardboard box, which turned out to be an old shoebox that, according to the illustration pasted on it, once held size ten Nike trainers. Something metallic rattled inside. He sat the box on his lap and removed the lid. He shook his head in disbelief.