Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

The rain was steaming on the warm earth, and swathes of mist were rising. A piece of wasteland covered with tall grasses opened out at the edge of the cliffs, shielded from the wind by pines. Crumbling foundations and rusty iron rods still stuck up out of the grass. Maybe an old bunker or a weather station had once stood there. Henry could feel the palms of his hands grow moist; his heart was beating more rapidly. As soon as he saw Betty coming, he would get into her car and tell her everything. He looked at the clock; it wasn’t yet eight. It had to be done quickly. His message would be like a sharp butcher’s knife — inflicting no pain and wielded by a sure hand. Maybe she would scream and hit him; she was bound to cry.

Betty’s green Subaru was already there. Close to the cliffs, as usual. Henry switched off the lights and rolled up to the car from behind. He could see Betty’s silhouette behind the steering wheel, illuminated by a little light in the rearview mirror, the inevitable cigarette in her right hand. She was probably listening to loud music and hadn’t noticed him yet. She had to stop that damn smoking, he thought. Maybe she’ll stop if I give her the watch.

There was a slight lurch as the bumpers touched. Henry put his foot a little way down on the accelerator and the Maserati effortlessly pushed the Subaru forward. Henry saw the brake lights flare up, then the car tipped over the edge of the cliff and vanished.

For a while Henry sat there motionless; he left the engine running. Hope the airbag didn’t go off, he thought, closing his eyes and leaning back on the leather headrest. She must be hitting the windshield now and trying to open the door. It’s dark down there; the cold salt water will help her die. Maybe she died when the car hit the water. The child in her belly won’t notice anything; it doesn’t know that it was ever alive, poor thing.

After about ten minutes he opened his eyes and switched the engine off. He got out to have a look around. The rain soaked his shirt instantly. He went and stood at the edge of the cliffs and looked down. The rock face fell away vertically; the car had fallen straight in without touching it. There was nothing to be seen; the sea had swallowed up the car — the black, indifferent sea. This would have been the right moment to jump in after it. But Henry felt nothing but the cold rain and the certainty that he had done something irreversible. He examined the front of his car. Not so much as a dent on the license plate. He ran his thumb over it; rainwater fell in his eyes. He was a criminal now, a murderer. Just as he had foreseen.

On the way home he headed for a gas station and bought a packet of chewing gum to get rid of the nasty taste in his mouth. He paid in cash, giving the money to an obese cashier who looked like an albino rabbit that had managed to escape from the laboratory. As he was paying her, he caught a glimpse of himself in the surveillance mirror over the till. Just look at that, he thought, I look the same as ever. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest someone would inform the police. Who would it be? Probably Moreany. The good man was always so easily worried, and everyone knows instinctively when it’s bad news. Then the waiting would begin, and the hoping and worrying — and in the end it would all turn out just as he feared, or even worse. The hardest thing, Henry was sure, would be the waiting itself.

It would probably be parents and concerned friends who would start to look first, get hold of a key and go to Betty’s apartment. There the ultrasound image of his baby would be hanging on the corkboard next to the fridge for all to see. But no, a pregnant woman doesn’t hang a scan by the fridge; a thing like that she carries around with her, in her handbag, for example. Maybe Betty had told the gynecologist who the father was. But why should she? It wasn’t relevant after all. This reminded him that he had always wanted to ask Betty if she kept a diary. Doesn’t every woman keep a diary at some point in her life? Presumably Betty had too. He should have asked her.

Henry was almost at the door when he heard a woman’s voice.

“Hey… you?”

Henry stopped in his tracks and turned around. The giant rabbit at the till was waving the packet of chewing gum at him. He’d forgotten it.

Henry went back, took the chewing gum, and got in the car. She would remember him. Sooner or later the police would be knocking at his door. He was prepared and he would pass every test, because he had nothing to reproach himself for. He had done what had to be done. He drove home to make Martha her chamomile tea.

The light was on in Martha’s room. That meant she’d already gone upstairs to commune with the nocturnal writing demon. Henry put down the marten trap quietly at the foot of the stairs and crept into the kitchen to boil water for the tea, and to feed the dog. The enormous kitchen was neat and tidy as usual; it smelled of grease on metal. Poncho was wagging his tail as usual. It was absolutely silent as usual. Everything was as usual. Then he suddenly thought of the phone. He tried to remember whether or not he’d taken out the little SIM card. He’d been thoughtless.

What if the phone was still working and Betty had rung him up in extremis? Who else would she call? After all she couldn’t know that he had been the dark shadow who’d pushed her over the cliffs from behind — who suspects a thing like that? The phone in the trash can next to the parking lot ticket machine would have rung; he hadn’t turned it off. Maybe someone had heard the ringing and answered it — but no, you don’t make phone calls underwater. No one can talk underwater; the cold sea gets into your mouth and into your nose. You want to live, you flail around, you blow bubbles, you struggle until your hands are battered and bleeding. No sensible person makes a phone call in such a moment. Do they?

Henry supported himself with one hand on the kitchen island’s countertop and drank scotch straight from the bottle. The cigarettes. Betty was forever flicking the burning butts into the countryside. How often had he stamped the damn things out in annoyance, preventing how many forest fires? It’s well known that cigarette butts are the first thing the forensic team looks for; every child knows that from television. Betty’s saliva on them was a major lead. And then there was his puked-up lasagna too, full of murderer’s DNA. Half a kilo of it. It was just a question of finding its owner. He might just as well have nailed signs to the trees displaying his photo and phone number. Wouldn’t it be better to call a lawyer straightaway? But what was he to say? That he’d killed his mistress by accident? That he’d just forgotten to brake?

No one would believe him. No, if anything he ought to talk to Martha first and explain everything to her; he’d done it for her after all. Martha would be bound to understand him and forgive him. Martha was never cross with him. Then again — maybe she would be this time. But she definitely wouldn’t go to the police. Poor thing, who was to look after her, if he wasn’t there anymore?

On a sudden impulse, Henry went to the window. It was still raining. Only I know what I’ve done, he thought. Who in the world would suspect him? And who would ever think of searching by the cliffs? There was no chance of tire tracks of any evidential value being found now. That was good. The rain and sea were his allies, not that he’d ever been able to bear either of them.

Henry relaxed. Strictly speaking, it could just as well have been an accident — no, it really had been an accident. Because it would all have happened just the same without him; it was entirely Betty’s fault. A case of fateful inadvertence. She had stopped at the very edge of the cliffs, hadn’t put the car into gear, hadn’t even put on the hand brake — thoughtless, the way women are. She had simply rolled a little too far. Who was going to think anything else? Who could prove the contrary? And who would ever find her?