Corpse Road

by David J Gatward

  ‘You have no grounds for divorce. None! I won’t allow it. I’ll delay it. I’ll do everything within my power to destroy you before—’

  ‘Destroy me?’

  It was those two words which had made up her mind in the end and Daryl, unused to being interrupted, had stared back at her in shock. So Kirsty had continued, her voice measured and calm, and yet burning with an anger so hot she was sure her skin had tingled from it.

  ‘It’s all you have ever done, Daryl, you know that don’t you? You made it your life’s work to break me down, to scoop out every last bit of who and what I am, to turn me into a shell, just an empty thing chained to you like a slave!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, Daryl! No! There is no but, there is no excuse! None! What did you think? That I’d take it forever, happy to be the creation of a sick artist? Because that’s really what you are, isn’t it? An artist with a twisted mind, desperate to make me into something I’m not. Well, it’s over! I’m done! It’s finished!’

  ‘An artist? You’re not making any sense!’

  Daryl had had a point, Kirsty knew that, but she had been on one, and the years of torment had been her fuel and right there and then she simply hadn’t cared.

  ‘This is the most sense I’ve made in years! So just get out! Get out of this house and get the hell out of my life!’

  Daryl had thrown the whisky bottle then, hurling it at her with the roar of a god cast into hell by the people it thought were its believers. Kirsty had ducked, just in time, and she could still remember the faint gust of wind that caressed her as it flew past only millimetres away from her face. That she hadn’t responded in kind had been her shining moment because she knew that was what Daryl had wanted. Her retaliation was what he had needed, an excuse to really go for it then, to come down on her with everything he had, and in his own twisted mind, all for her own good.

  Instead, she had stood up, walked from the dining room into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and decided that right there and then, he could have the bloody house, the bastard. For now, anyway. She’d get half of it as part of the divorce, so why worry now? And with that, she left the dining room, grabbed her keys, and walked out of the house. If she needed anything, well, she’d just buy it. At that moment, with her soon-to-be ex-husband’s face growing redder and redder, with the vile torrent of abuse pouring out of his spit-lashed mouth, all that had mattered was that she’d broken the one thing keeping them together. Now it was time to set a course for a new horizon, even if that particular horizon was a Travelodge hotel on the edge of town. It didn’t matter. It was over. She was free. And that was the last time that she’d seen her husband.

  Plastic cup empty, Kirsty poured another, then pulled from a pocket some photographs she’d brought with her for just this moment. She lit her stove once more then touched the corners of the photographs with the vivid blue gas flame in front of her. The photographs quickly set alight, their edges curling inwards as though welcoming the flame, and Kirsty dropped them into the empty metal pan she’d used to boil up the water for her dinner. For the next few moments, she stared at the frozen memories in front of her, watching them turn to ash.

  Darkness was drawing itself across the world now, though the evening was still yet to turn gloomy. But the horizon was now the edge of a thick duvet promising cosy slumber, and with a toast to the brightest moon she had ever seen, Kirsty edged back into her tent, zipped the approaching night away, and slid into her sleeping bag. By torchlight, she managed to read a few pages of her new novel, but the wine did its work quicker than she expected and so, with eyes barely able to stay open, she fell asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Harry Grimm stared at Mike the mechanic, his IED-damaged face looking uglier by the second as he tried to take in what the man had just told him.

  ‘But it was fine yesterday,’ he said, nodding to his car, an old Fiesta the colour of a football field after a school sports day in the rain. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing you can do?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘Nowt at all,’ he said. ‘You see, it’s got an unfortunate flaw.’

  Harry leaned in, ready for Mike to lay out the technical reasons as to why his car was a goner. ‘And what’s that, then?’

  ‘It’s a bit buggered, like, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ah,’ Harry said. ‘I see.’ Even though he didn’t. Not really. Because mechanical stuff just didn’t interest him.

  The Fiesta had died on him earlier that afternoon. He’d been out to meet with a farmer after the theft of a couple of dozen sheep and, chat over, had headed off back towards the office at the Hawes Community Centre. But a few miles into the journey something under the bonnet had made a horrible clank, then something else had joined in with a worrying crunch, and the car had rolled itself to a stop immediately after. Thankfully, Jim Metcalf, one of the local PCSOs, had been able to come out and tow him back to town. But that had taken the rest of the day and now it was early evening, he was tired, the weekend was only a few hours away, and Harry was looking forward to not doing much with it other than falling asleep on the sofa.

  ‘Like I said, nowt I can do,’ Mike continued. ‘It’s not worth the money it would cost to fix it. It’s scrap value now, really, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  Mike looked thoughtful, rubbed his chin. ‘About fifty quid, give or take a quid.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘I’m serious!’ Mike said, and Harry heard the note of hurt in the man’s voice, as though Harry was questioning his proudly held professional opinion and expertise on all things car-related.

  ‘No,’ said Harry. ‘I mean bollocks as in what the hell am I supposed to do now without a car?’

  ‘Ah, right, yes, I see your point,’ Mike said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his overalls. He looked out of the large entrance of his garage and Harry followed his line of sight to a small collection of vehicles huddled together outside like teenagers around a shared cigarette.

  ‘And you’re sure it can’t be fixed?’ Harry asked, sending another glance at his Fiesta.

  ‘The timing belt snapped,’ Mike explained as though everyone in the world should know what that actually meant.

  ‘But that’s just a belt,’ Harry said, with absolutely no idea what he was talking about. ‘Surely that’s not exactly expensive, is it? How much?’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Mike replied. ‘The belt, that is. But it’s the damage the belt caused by snapping that’s the problem. Bent valves, knackered cylinder head, twisted camshaft, not to mention possible piston and cylinder wall damage. It’ll be a right mess in there, I promise you.’

  ‘I was with you up to that’s the problem.’ Harry sighed.

  Mike walked out of the garage towards the vehicles. Harry followed and was pretty sure he could already hear his credit card sobbing in anticipation of what was coming next.

  ‘I’ve not got much in at the moment,’ Mike said, ‘but have a look and see if anything takes your fancy. I can offer credit as well if you need it.’

  Harry stood next to Mike and stared at what was on offer. Not wanting to come across as completely disinterested, he moved away from the man and walked over to the vehicles to get a closer look. It didn’t help, and neither did leaning in to glance through windows or crouching down to see what was what underneath.

  ‘Anything you like the look of?’ Mike asked.

  Harry stood back up and walked round to the back of a small red hatchback. For some reason he decided kicking one of the rear tyres was a good idea, the kind of thing someone who knew all about cars would do.

  ‘If you don’t like it, there’s no need to kick it,’ Mike said.

  Harry looked over at the man, rather embarrassed, only to see the faintest hint of a smile creasing the mechanic’s face. ‘Look,’ he said, moving away from the red hatchback, ‘it’s just that, well, I’m not really a car person, you see.’

  ‘Thought as much,’ Mike said. ‘So why don�
�t you try that one on the left there. Good runner. Solid. Will go for years. Engine is bombproof.’

  Harry walked over to the vehicle Mike was referring to. It was a four-by-four, but smaller than most of the ones he’d seen on the dales’ roads over the past three months. As to its colour, Harry wasn’t so sure. It had the look of brown to it, but he wouldn’t have liked to put money on that having been the colour it had come off the factory floor with.

  ‘Toyota RAV4,’ Mike said. ‘It’s old, but it’s in good nick, like. Low mileage, one owner, even has its complete service history, all of it done by me. Permanent four-wheel drive as well, and you’ll be thankful for that, I can tell you, once summer’s over and winter is on its way. Not exactly economical, but it’s the best here, that’s for sure.’

  ‘How much?’ Harry asked.

  ‘You don’t want to take it for a test drive?’

  ‘Why, is there something wrong with it?’

  The shock at the mere suggestion was almost too much for Mike to bear. ‘No, of course, there isn’t!’ he spluttered. ‘I’ve got my reputation to think about, you know! I can’t go flogging stuff that’s knackered now, can I?’

  ‘So how much is it?’ Harry asked again.

  ‘Seven hundred,’ Mike said. ‘Full service and M.O.T. as well.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Harry said.

  ‘What, just like that?’

  ‘Yes, just like that,’ Harry said, then turned from the vehicle and strolled back inside the garage to settle up.

  Although Harry’s new home was not even a mile away, back up in the centre of Hawes, he decided that having just bought the vehicle, it would probably make sense to go for a little run in it, if only to make sure that he wouldn’t go leaving the lights on and running the battery down or something equally stupid.

  The evening was bright and clear and the sun was rolling towards the horizon, dragging ribbons of shadow with it which would eventually knit together to become night. Not wanting to go too far, or to get lost, Harry set off out of Hawes towards Hardraw, then took a right to head up over the fells and on towards Thwaite, over the famous Buttertubs Pass. He had done the road a number of times before and had quickly understood why it was a favourite of drivers and bikers alike, promising not just an exciting drive but views to feed your soul.

  The road was clear and wide, occasionally pinching in at points, and lined by drystone walls on each side. Then, after a couple of miles, the walls stopped and open moorland welcomed him and Harry sped on, windows down, enjoying the rich, cool air now blasting in at him, his right arm leaning out of the window.

  The three months that he’d been in the dales had flown by and Harry was beginning to come to the startling conclusion that he was as happy now as he had ever been. Back when he’d been sent up north by his boss, Detective Superintendent Alice Firbank, he had hoped that the placement would only be for a couple of weeks, a month at best. He’d been sure that he would miss Bristol, a city that danced to its own beat, where vintage shops rubbed shoulders with high-end designer outlets, where an evening out could involve a Michelin-starred restaurant, a microbrewery pub, and a funky new nightclub, and a place he had called home for more years than he cared to remember. Now though, and although it was absolutely something he wouldn’t mention to anyone, not even in the strictest confidence, he was beginning to think that if it never came to an end, well, he wouldn’t exactly be complaining.

  Wensleydale, Harry had come to realise, had somehow got under his skin. Yes, the dale itself was a beautiful and rugged thing, which looked very good on postcards and biscuit tins, but there was so much more to it than what the eye could see and what the tourist board could squeeze into a little brochure. It was a living, breathing place, where the lives of the people who lived there were a part of the soil, with families farming the same land for generations. He had made friends, good ones, too, and much to his surprise, had even bought a pair of Wellington boots. The only thing he had yet to make peace with was the whole Wensleydale cheese-with-cake thing so loved it seemed by everyone he’d met, but that wasn’t exactly a deal-breaker. If people wanted to ruin good cake with some stinking pats of off milk, then that was their business; he would just continue to forgo the white, crumbly horror, and stick to eating cake on its own, not counting the copious mugs of required tea, obviously.

  Harry spied a layby ahead and pulled in, swinging his newly purchased vehicle around to face back down the way he’d come. So far so good, he thought, as the RAV4 purred quietly and he accelerated homeward. The vehicle was certainly a lot comfier than his old Fiesta, Harry thought, and in considerably better condition, too, but then he hadn’t exactly looked after it, and the passenger footwell had served as much as a rubbish bin as anything else. It was pretty basic, but that was something he liked. Harry wasn’t one for fancy built-in cameras, in-car entertainment systems which could turn your heating at home on and off, leather interiors, or cruise controls. The car had air conditioning and a CD player and that was about as far as it went in terms of luxury. It also had, quite to Harry’s bemusement, a little instrument perched on the dashboard just in front of the steering wheel, which not only showed the level of incline and lean of whatever slope the vehicle happened to be on, but also a compass to show direction. Useful, Harry thought, though for what exactly, he hadn’t the faintest idea.

  Back in Hawes, Harry parked up then walked on towards the flat which had been his home for the past couple of months. He had some food in for the evening ahead and as he opened the door he was very much looking forward to eating just enough to send himself to sleep on the sofa. He’d managed to lose a bit of weight over the past few weeks, thanks to regular runs, which were no faster but a little less painful, so booze was off the menu.

  Wandering through to the kitchen, Harry dropped his keys on the table and was about to make his way over to the fridge when his phone rang.

  ‘Grimm,’ Harry said, his gruff voice sounding tired even to him.

  No answer came, but Harry heard breathing.

  ‘Hello?’ Harry said. ‘Who is this?’

  Still nothing, just breathing.

  ‘Look,’ Harry said, not in the mood for either a prank call or some poor bastard working cold calls to pay the rent, ‘it’s a Friday night, I’m tired and I’m hungry, so if this is important, speak. If it isn’t, then—’

  ‘Hello, Harry.’

  Harry’s world slammed into an invisible wall and he reached out to steady himself against the kitchen door. He recognised the voice, but it couldn’t be . . . No, it was impossible, surely! There was just no way . . .

  ‘Harry, it’s your dad.’

  And there it was, the voice of the devil introducing himself.

  ‘I know who it is, you murderous bastard,’ Harry growled, his voice the deep, guttural snarl of a wolf ready to kill.

  Two decades crumbled to nothing and Harry was reliving moment after godawful moment, every single second he’d spent with the man clattering into him like rounds spat from a machine gun. Dad, the man may have been, but he was certainly no father.

  ‘Don’t hang up.’

  ‘What do you want? How’d you get this number?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter right now.’

  ‘Oh, I think it does,’ Harry said, his voice a whisper, his blood boiling now, the heat of it setting fire to his veins. ‘It matters a great deal. And unless you’re calling me to finally give up and hand yourself in for what you did, then we have nothing to say to each other.’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  ‘Oh, it bloody well is,’ Harry said. ‘It’s always been about you.’

  ‘You need to listen, Harry.’

  Harry fell quiet, not because he was listening, but because the rage inside him was unbearable and he knew of no words in existence that he could conjure up to adequately express what he needed to say right then in that moment.

  ‘You’re in danger.’

  Harry choked on a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, w
hat? Danger? Me? You’re the one who threatened Ben! You’re the one who killed Mum!’ Harry was shouting now, his words spitting out like bolts of fire. ‘You want to know who’s in danger? Because I don’t care how long it takes, I’m going to find you, and when I do, I’ll be making absolutely bloody sure you—’

  ‘What do you mean, threatened Ben?’

  Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘I’m not having this conversation,’ he said. ‘So why don’t you do us both a favour and stop talking shite?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Harry’s dad replied. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  It was all Harry could do to not throw his phone at the wall and watch it splinter into a thousand pieces of shattered glass and twisted metal. ‘You sent a message to him in prison,’ Harry said. ‘Scared him half to death. Your own son, you bastard!’

  ‘It wasn’t me. It was them.’

  ‘I’m sorry what?’

  ‘It wasn’t me, Harry! It wasn’t! I don’t even know where the hell Ben is!’

  ‘And yet you were able to somehow find my number?’

  For a moment neither man spoke.

  ‘I’m not calling you to ask for forgiveness,’ Harry’s dad said. ‘Neither am I about to give myself up for what I did. But I have changed, Harry.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said, ‘but I don’t understand a word you’re saying, because you seem to be talking bollocks.’

  Harry heard a slow, deep breath down the line.

  ‘They’re going to try to get to me by coming for you,’ Harry’s dad said.

  ‘They? Who’s they?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter! You just need to be careful, okay? I’ve done more than enough in this lifetime to accept what’s coming for me, but I can’t have it touch you or Ben.’

  ‘What are we, your get out of jail free card when you get to the gates of Hell?’ Harry roared. ‘Because we both know it’s not going to be enough! Not enough by half, you hear?’

  ‘I have to go,’ Harry’s dad said, and Harry heard panic in the man’s voice. ‘I’ll contact you again when I can.’