Fragile Lies Read Free

the impression that she is witnessing a surreal ballet sequence performed on a wet, glistening stage. But this is a fleeting impression, instantly registered then forgotten, and all she will remember in the months to come are the crack of his body hitting the bonnet and a duller thud when he tumbles back to the road. The car seems possessed of a manic energy, shuddering, screeching, bucking against her hands as she fights to bring it under control. She brakes and slumps across the wheel. A guttural sound rises from her abdomen and escapes from her mouth. She is disassociated from the sound yet she knows it belongs to her – and to the horror that awaits her when she steps outside.
    Her companion is already bent over the sprawled body. The young man lies to the right-hand side of the car. In the headlights, she sees blood trickling down the side of his mouth. Otherwise, his face seems unmarked. A woolly hat is low on his forehead. His head appears dwarfed by the width of a padded anorak and his hands, in fingerless gloves, are limply splayed across the concrete. Compact discs, stolen from the glove compartment, have fallen from his pockets – The Chieftains, U2, Bob Dylan, Billie Holiday – but there is no sign of the stereo.
    She pulls her coat collar over her cheeks. The wind sweeps in from the sea and lifts her hair, blowing it over her eyes, offering a blinkered protection from the sight in front of her. Darkness presses down, threatens to engulf her. Her companion shudders as he reaches out to touch the young man’s wrist. His breath escapes in a sob. He draws back on his heels, sways unsteadily to his feet. The horror of what has occurred makes words impossible. Fear and self-preservation overwhelm her. Already she is thinking like a different person. She ignores his protests and insists they leave now, before they are discovered. The car is a beacon, flaring a signal for anyone to witness. She takes his arm and pulls him towards its protection. Once again she moves into the driver’s seat. This time he does not protest.
    When they reach the roundabout he looks around, as if awakening from a nightmare.
    “We have to make a call.” He searches his jacket pockets for coins, fumbling loose change which spills across the seat.
    “Not here,” she says, pressing harder on the accelerator. “It’s too close … too close –”
    “Jesus Christ! We must call an ambulance. He could still be alive.”
    “He’s dead.” Her voice fills the car. “It doesn’t matter when the ambulance gets there.”
    For an instant she thinks he will wrench the steering-wheel from her. Instead, he stares through the window, defeated by her determination. She does not stop driving until they reach a road filled with small terraced houses and a phone kiosk. The houses are in darkness, the road empty. She parks the car and picks up the coins, unable to remember the last time she used a public phone. It will provide anonymity and, if their call is traced, they will be many miles away. She holds a scarf before her mouth and names the location of the accident, wondering how long it will take an ambulance to arrive. Not that it matters. The twisted angle of the tramp’s body, his utter stillness, can mean only one thing. Street lights illuminate the car. She notices a deep dent in the bonnet but the main damage was done during the robbery.
    Her companion is back in the driver’s seat. His injured hand is clenched painfully on the steering-wheel. His face remains expressionless as he drives towards the late-night car-park where they met earlier when their night held nothing but promise. They do not kiss each other goodbye.
    An ambulance should have arrived by now. The police will find shattered glass and a shattered life. Nothing else. She does not hover on the edge of this chasm but leaps it cleanly. The young man had been drinking. A vagrant, homeless. She knew by the smell underlying the alcohol, unclean, musty. Probably a junkie as well