Swan Song

by Tom Butler

  The chimes of an ice cream van brought him back to reality, and he suddenly felt like walking. Maybe that would warm him up and help him think straight. There was a girl now in his eye line of about the same age as Mary, his very own little princess. She was struggling to control a small terrier type dog that was on one of those extendable leads and was showing interest in a long-haired Border collie whose elderly owner seemed not to have noticed its presence.

  Angelica and he had discussed getting a puppy several times, and he knew how much Mary would have loved it. And so would James, he supposed though he wasn’t so sure about Noah.

  But dogs were a big commitment, and with Angelica working part time, it had not got past the discussion stage yet. Last year, Michael had come home with a hamster very much like the one he himself had presented to him when he was around his daughters age. The new addition to the family had been immensely popular with James and Mary, but Noah seemed to give it a wide berth, going on and on about how much it smelt.

  ‘Well, you smell worse than that,’ his daughter had told her eldest brother which had led to a scene. One of those unmemorable moments when the children would throw insults around on the indelicate subject of bodily functions.

  ‘If I smell like poo then you smell like rotten eggs,’ Noah had retaliated.

  ‘And you smell of wee too,’ James had joined in, teasing his brother.

  There was the usual grappling before order was restored, and not so willingly, apologies were made. If the hamster which Mary named Billy did smell, Michael couldn’t remember. But he did remember the day it died unexpectedly about three months after he bought it and the tears that were shed, prayers that were said and the ceremonial burying of it in a shoebox two feet down in the back garden.

  He had never replaced it, and in time, Billy was soon forgotten. There had been a couple of stick insects that also died soon after they arrived and talk of a rabbit that a neighbour was trying to rehome. But somebody else took it, and Mary threw only a mild strop. Again she got over it quickly.

  The walk he had embarked upon over the heath wasn’t without its risks. Seeing a man trudging without much purpose alone without a dog or a child ahead or behind wasn’t usual, and he did get some funny looks. There must have been some reddening around his eyes, and quite apart from that, he was wearing a smart suit, not the normal attire for walking the heath.

  It was only now that he noticed a splash of dark red on one of his lapels and another staining his waistcoat. There was also a small smattering on his right hand coat sleeve. How careless. He couldn’t possibly go back to his office looking like that even if when he did get there, he would be on his own. He looked further down as he walked and now spotted more red stains around the knees of his trousers at which he became annoyed, trying to avoid other walkers by detouring slightly off the main well-trodden tracks and meandering around quite thick clumps of gorse and heather.

  Fishing a handkerchief from a pocket, he wet a small section of it with his tongue and rubbed hard against one of the trouser stains, but it didn’t seem to make it better; if anything making it look more obvious. A middle aged man with a well behaved Spaniel walking obediently by his side viewed him with suspicion, slowing his brisk pace right down to an amble and taking several backward glances after he had gone past. Michael offered him a contemptuous look as if telling him to mind his own business and maintained the expression for a long time after he had gone from sight.

  The bloodstains were worrying him immensely now, and when a woman with two small mongrels drew level with him and stared, he stared right back at her. He was beginning to get angry.

  ‘Why are you looking at me? Have you got nothing better to do?’ he snapped, frightening her considerably.

  Taking flight, she rounded up her dogs and sped away from where he was now dabbing hurriedly at the stain soiling his waistcoat. He did it in such a way he looked demented and any hope of not drawing attention to him was gone.

  Suddenly, taking a less well used pathway, he stumbled through bracken and caught the sleeve of his jacket on a prickly bush. He felt sure it would rip as he impatiently pulled at it, but he managed to get it free without any noticeable damage.

  The benefit he had hoped to gain from walking had been neutralised. His head was spinning, preventing him from thinking of anything worthwhile to lessen the malaise he found himself in. His stomach too was churning over, and coupled with his head, he found himself at war with a dizziness that meant he must sit down.

  He did so on a mossy infested tree stump, and literally, as his bottom rested on it, he had to lean forward and crouch down in order to be sick.

  Surely, he thought after he had vomited, he would feel better. That was usually the way it went, and why should this be any different. His body heaved again, but this time there was nothing but bile. It dribbled down the front of his jacket, and he swished at it with the bloodstained handkerchief.

  Now he was down on one knee and in no hurry to get up. Despite it being a warm, dry day the ground beneath him still felt damp. The shaking was more intense, effecting his whole body, prompting him to sit down in the hope his surroundings would cease rotating.

  From where he was, he could see very little. Occasional voices and dogs barking competed with birdsong and the gentle rush of the wind. His back was pressed hard against the tree stump, and he kept his head tilted forward in case the sickness returned. As if it wasn’t enough that he felt ill, the tears were back, and it felt like he might drown in them if he couldn’t make them stop. A minute or so passed and so did the urge to be sick again. He thought that if he bent his knees upwards and gripped them tightly with hands it might help to suppress the shivering and shaking and to some extent it did.

  The tears were still relentless, but in some perverse way, they were therapeutic, letting out his emotions. Even his mind was wandering off in different directions, thinking about the children, unfinished work and how best he could remove the awkward stains from his suit. He had three others hanging in a wardrobe at home, including one crafted in Italy that Angelica had bought him only last Christmas which he’d been reluctant to wear for work.

  Turning up in that tomorrow would surely upstage his bosses, he thought, and the idea began to appeal to him. And the black shirt with faint silver stripe and bright yellow tie too. He couldn’t wait to see the look on their collective faces.

  It was well after six o’ clock, and most families would be at home enjoying their evening meal and catching up on the day’s events. Some dad’s might even be following their children to the park already for a kick about or to push them on the roundabout or swings. Or escorting them on their bikes along the canal towpath or designated cycle tracks.

  Village life had made all such things a possibly for Michael and was why he had settled to it so well. Places like where he now sat were close to hand, and you never had far to travel to “get away from it” and relax. Some might even say he had an idyllic life and shouldn’t crave anything else, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to argue with that in principle. The compromise he had made a while back had been worth it. He had no regrets.

  He sat there for what seemed a long time and craned his neck only when an inquisitive Bassett hound came a little too close for comfort. Its white haired owner called it back, and Michael rested his head on his knees, the tears having now relented. Though he knew he ought to move, he somehow felt safe in this place and shut his eyes again. There was almost silence now, not even the song of a bird to disturb him. He felt in total isolation. Calm at last.

  Then a man’s voice that was clearly aimed at him shattered his peace, and he could make out a blue peaked hat and bright yellow jacket heading his way. Then another approaching from his left and this time a female voice asking if he was okay. Why, he wondered, hadn’t he heard police sirens and why hadn’t he kept alert?

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, keeping composed. ‘I just needed a while. Felt sick a while back, but now I’m fine.’

&nbs
p; He rose unsteadily and before he knew there was a hand on his arm. This he did not like one bit, and he pulled away. The Policeman reeled back and lost his grip. His colleague was now standing behind Michael, not too close but close enough.

  Michael thought this was his place, and they had no right to come here, and certainly there was no need for either to manhandle him.

  ‘Calm down, mate. We’re only here to help,’ the policeman said. ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars.’

  He had noticed the bloodstains, and that immediately sent Michael into panic mode. The man was quite tall and thick set, but the woman behind him seemed small by comparison though he imagined her to be nimble. There was only one easy route for him to take which the woman had blocked off, so he took his chances, and turning to face her, he tried to bulldoze his way past her.

  With arms flailing, his tactic appeared to be working as the woman stepped aside as though her training had taught her not to favour a high-risk strategy.

  She did shout and begin to run alongside him without even trying to reach out or restrain him.

  His legs felt heavy, and he was certainly no athlete. He was having to lift his feet high to stop himself from tripping on the undergrowth as he attempted to zig zag his way to freedom. The policeman was also shouting and was now almost level with Michael’s other shoulder, biding his time to assess the seriousness of the situation he and his colleague were in. Michael noted he had produced a pair of handcuffs from somewhere, and being a much younger and fitter man, he had easily gained ground on him.

  An impulse that he supposed had something to do with upholding the law kicked in, and with enough momentum, the policeman launched himself to rugby tackle Michael to the ground with both suffering a painful landing on the hard and uneven ground.

  Michael cried out. ‘You bastard, you’ve broken my leg.’

  The policeman applied his considerable weight to keep Michael in check, and the woman was using her radio to summon assistance, her voice sounding both calm and frantic at the same time.

  ‘Get off me. You can’t do this,’ Michael remonstrated with the man. Though his leg hurt, he was determined to get up.

  ‘Just stay exactly where you are, Sir. You’re under arrest.’

  ‘I won’t. There are things I need to be doing. Let me go.’

  The policeman was persistent, trying to get a hold of Michael’s wrists to employ the handcuffs.

  ‘I must insist that you stay where you are. Whatever it is you have to do can wait,’ he said with some authority.

  But Michael Swan wasn’t being told what to do. The man was hurting him by just simply being there and partially suffocating him. And the rough undergrowth below him was jabbing into his skin through his clothes and making him intensely angry.

  The policeman too was agitated. ‘Sir, don’t struggle.’

  Michael wasn’t listening. From somewhere, he had found strength he hadn’t known he possessed, and it was working. It was like the rough and tumble games James and Noah played where the one at the bottom soon became the one on top; only this was not a game. This was for real.

  The unusual commotion had attracted a small audience of dog walkers intrigued by what they were witnessing as Michael proceeded in turning the tables on the policeman who not knowing for sure who or what he was dealing with began to sense that it was probably now best to wait for the imminent back up to outnumber a man clearly hell bent on escaping his clutches.

  As Michael broke free, the policewoman made a last ditch attempt to make him give himself up.

  ‘Don’t do this, Sir. Just stand still, calm down, and that way you won’t come to any harm,’ she insisted.

  ‘It’s you that will get hurt if you don’t back off,’ Michael told her, clenching his fists.

  Her colleague gesticulated to her, and both officers simultaneously settled for a cat and mouse approach backing off sufficiently to let Michael think he could run free but then closing in on him again to make him change direction and lose any ground he had gained.

  It was a strategy that worked. In effect, Michael was now running around in circles, getting no closer to where he had parked his car, and this for sure would tire him out. To make matters worse, he had developed a limp, a painful legacy from the policeman’s flying tackle. From feeling cold, he was now hot, and as he ran, he wrestled with his suit jacket before taking it off and discarding it. But then he realised he was minus his car keys, and he had to double back and dig deep into a pocket to retrieve them.

  The police officers were looking pretty breathless as this was not what they had expected to be doing on a warm spring evening in an area not renown for too much excitement on the crime front. Tactically, they were winning the battle because Michael wasn’t really getting away from them, and the car park still seemed a long way away.

  However, the thought of them catching him, and then him having to wear those awful hand cuffs focussed his mind on escaping, and he made a sudden dash which put a bit more distance between him and them, and all of a sudden, they were some way behind him, and his determination not to get caught saw both officers visible panicking as they feared for the safety of others.

  ‘Leave him be; stay away,’ the woman officer shouted to a couple who might have blocked his path had they not stepped aside upon hearing her frantic orders.

  Their rather large but not fearsome looking dog gave out two loud barks, and this seemed to unnerve Michael, making him stumble, swear and wave his hands about. But he soon regained his momentum, now realising he had every chance of reaching his car as his chasers made no real ground up on him and asking his lower limbs for one last concerted effort before hearing the crunch of gravel under his feet as he reached the car park.

  As he heard the clicking sound of the car’s doors after pressing the remote, he also heard a noise in the distance and sensed he had little time left. The sirens were only faint, but he still had to get his car out of the car park, up a short gravel track and back out on to the road. Then he had to make the decision of which way to travel, only guessing which way the police vehicle might be approaching from.

  He turned his wheels, aiming the car at the exit, but there was a people carrier in his way, and the breathless policeman was suddenly jogging alongside reaching for the passenger door. It opened, but Michael swerved from side to side, and the man thought better of being a hero and let go although he still ended up face down in the gravel as he lost his balance.

  Somehow missing the other car by fractions of an inch Michael was now pulling off into the road, but there were blue lights flashing to his left, so he went right. He was relieved to see the police car having to slow down for an elderly driver who was slow to move out of the way but not so pleased when, seeing the policewoman waving her arms about at its driver, it gave chase. He knew this road well, but he also knew it was not built for speed and would take him through Bagworth village. The villages of Ellistown and Hugglescote lay beyond, and he knew that via them he could get into Coalville where he had several options and could surely lose his pursuers.

  Risking all, he did apply pressure on the accelerator, twice sounding his horn to warn would be pedestrians of his outrageously cavalier approach. He was putting distance between himself and the blue light, and there was a temptation to pull off the road on any occasion he lost sight of it, but he just kept going and reached the edge of Coalville at which point the police car was nowhere in sight.

  Then came the sound of another siren from another direction, and there was a blue light straight ahead coming the other way. He didn’t even look at it as he past it, and now he was going quicker and sounding his horn continuously. There were more people, more cars, a bus to contend with, but he avoided them all, making a calculated turn into a narrow street lined with houses and rows of parked cars which eventually lead him to an industrial area where he felt confident he could hide. The sirens had stopped, and he suddenly slowed right down and relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, pulling off the
road and on to what appeared the entrance to a modern business park with numbered factory units.

  Parking behind the very last unit, he switched off the engine and waited. For a little while, it was peaceful, but then there was a siren and another. There was sweat on his shirt to match that on his face, and he closed his eyes. He felt well enough hidden and tried to relax, but that was impossible. He knew what he had done, knew he couldn’t stay here for very long. It wouldn’t be dark for quite some time, and there would be plenty of light for the police to mount a full-scale search. There was a manhunt in progress, and he was the hunted.

  There was more silence, more sounds of sirens. He looked down at the passenger footwell. The knife was still there, where he had left it. It was the reason why he was here, a fact he would never escape.

  It would be so easy, he thought again. All he had to do was pick it up and be brave. But he couldn’t. He closed his eyes. And shut out the world.

  Unlike before sleep evaded him. The epicentre of his brain wouldn’t allow it. There was just too much going on, and things were playing on his mind. The sirens had long since stopped, and he felt quite safe where he was; certainly he could not have stumbled on such a good hiding place as he hadn’t trespassed onto private property, and there was a solid brick wall concealing him from the view of passing vehicles.

  Only once had his heart raced when he had heard a car engine revving and clocked the front of an old Rover 25 through his passenger door mirror. The engine of the car cut out several times, and each time it was restarted which gave Michael the clue he needed. The car had also kangarooed forward which confirmed what he had suspected, and it was only then that it was far enough forward for him to notice its L-plate. Everybody had to start somewhere, he thought. The quiet backwater of a modern business park in early evening was as good a time and place as any to learn the basics.