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.
1
Sunday, 1 October, one month earlier
KATE ANDERSON FELT MATT stir and turn over. The morning sunlight was creeping through a crack in the curtains and the birds were well into their regular dawn chatter; she sensed it would not be long before it was time to get up. This was the chance for one last snuggle.
Sleepily she turned too and reached her arm around his chest but he pulled away, threw back the bedsheet and sat up, tossing his legs over the edge of the bed. His hair, ruffled from a night on a pillow, seemed unable to decide on a preferred direction and as a matter of habit he ran both hands through to smooth it. The angle of his elbows emphasised his toned shoulderblades and gave him a profile that any elite sportsman would be proud of. Kate opened one eye momentarily and admired his blurry physique.
‘Are you coming back?’ she asked drowsily.
Moments passed. Perhaps, with his back to her, he hadn’t heard the question. Her eyelids were still heavy and she could feel herself drifting off to sleep again. She wrestled the luscious warmth of the soft bed and compelled her body to stay awake.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Okay,’ said Kate, her muscles sinking gloriously into the mattress. She could enjoy just a little longer while her mind gradually increased its revolutions and reached sufficient speed to comprehend.
‘Leaving for where?’ she murmured, feeling more alert. She couldn’t remember what he’d mentioned for today, but as it was a Sunday it would probably involve a game of golf, or a bike ride, or a run, or whatever fitness activity Matt wanted to do. She waited to hear if it was something she could join him on. Sometimes it was things she wasn’t good at, like cycling, so she would content herself with another activity around the house until he got home. Then, around late morning, he’d sit on the deck reading the paper before they’d enjoy some lunch together. The afternoon was often spent at his friend Paul Ritter’s house, watching some sort of sport – football or the Tour de France in winter, cricket in summer or motor racing whenever an event was on. She’d been a few times, but with Lewis and Jason there as well the conversation generally revolved around either game tactics or electronics and she struggled to remain interested. Paul’s hosting style was uncomfortable too. While fastidious about his appearance, he was less focused on his personal surroundings and his home looked like a cheap motel guest lounge that had never seen a cleaning appliance. His winks and sly smiles didn’t draw her to his company either, so she usually found an excuse to avoid a visit. It