by Tim ORourke
Chapter Twenty-Six
The sky was the colour of gunmetal when I left my apartment and headed off along the beach to the Grayson farm. With the realisation that I might not have actually been the person to drive the Smith family off the road to their deaths, I wanted to go back and have a look at where it had taken place. The wind whipped up a torrent of sand as I made my way along the shore towards the sand dunes. The waves crashed onto the beach, bringing with them lengths of black seaweed, which covered the sand like giant black cobwebs.
Reaching the sand dunes, I crossed them, found the coastal path, and headed for the crop of trees in the distance. It was just past 3 p. m. as I reached the old well. Hidden by the trees at the top of the hill, I spied on the Grayson farm. The 4X4 was no longer parked outside - did that mean that both Michael and his father were out? Or perhaps off somewhere working on their land? Then I saw Michael. He left the barn, rubbing tractor grease from his hands. I watched him approach the farmhouse, then go inside and shut the door. As I watched from my hiding place, I hoped that Michael wasn't involved in what had happened to that family. He couldn't have been. He had been with me. We had been on the kitchen table. . . I pushed the image from my mind. Not that I regretted what had happened between us, I wanted to try and keep my feelings neutral at this time. He might not have been involved in the accident, but he might be covering for his father. I hoped not, as Michael - although full on - did seem like a kind and honest man. I didn't want him to be a bad guy. I didn't want to find out that I had been deceived by him and he had joked with his father at how easy I had been. I turned my back on the farm.
The Buckmore Road couldn't be seen from the house, only from this vantage point as it snaked its way back towards town. Stepping out from the trees, I made my way down the hill and towards the road.
Storm clouds lumbered across the sky, covering the pale sun, making the world look like an old black and white photograph. The wind was icy cold and it howled at me like an invisible beast as I cut across the bleak field towards the road. With my hands thrust into my coat pockets and chin resting on my chest, I stomped over the uneven and muddy ground. At the edge of the field, I looked back just to make sure I couldn't be seen by Michael, should he have reason to look out of one of the farmhouse windows. From where I stood against the wall, the farmhouse was hidden from view on the other side of the grey craggy hill. With long, blond hair blowing about my face and shoulders, I felt secure in the fact that I couldn't be seen from the farmhouse. All I had to worry about was if Michael's father returned by road.
With my gloved hands, I pushed aside the thorn bushes and bracken which greedily covered the grey stone wall along this side of the field. Looking left, then right, I hoisted myself up onto the wall. The thorns snagged at my coat and the hems of my jeans. I yanked myself free, and dropped into the road on the other side.
I looked to my right, and with my back to the hill, I headed off along the road. I didn't have to go very far before I came across the scene of the accident. It was hard at first to get my bearings, as the last time I'd been here, I'd been shaken and in shock. I saw the spot in the ditch where my patrol car had ended up on its side. The bushes and bracken there were bent over and disrupted. Slowly, I moved further along the road to where the cart and the horse and been lying. I looked down and could see rusty brown bloodstains, which hadn't yet been washed away by the rain. I closed my eyes, and at once I could see the small boy with his bright red hair matted together in scruffy clumps. I snapped open my eyes and could see the tyre marks. They skewered across the road from the right and towards the area where the cart and the Smith family had come to rest.
I bent down and inspected them. The tyre marks where thick and black, indicating that whoever had been out on this road had braked hard in their vehicle. That certainly hadn't been me. I was sure of that. Only if I'd seen Jonathan Smith and his family would I have hit the brakes. I closed my eyes again. I could see myself taking my eyes off the road as I reached for the glove compartment. Then my vehicle was lifting off the road and flipping through the air. My patrol car stopped, not because I had hit the brakes, but because I hit the ditch and the wall beyond it. In my mind I could see myself staring through the cracked window screen of my patrol car. It gave the world a distorted and broken look. I could see my father arriving in his police car, lights and sirens blazing, the ECILOP sign looking distorted and out of shape. My father was beside me, pulling me from the car and dragging me angrily towards the accident.
Look what you've done! I could hear him barking at me over the roar of the wind.
I'm so sorry, I cried out.
I could see the blood again, black and congealed in the road, that little boy's hair thick with it. . .
"The blood," I whispered. "The blood!"
However painful it was, I closed my eyes and pictured that horrendous scene in my mind again. I could see the blood beneath the wheels of the upturned cart. I could see the blood down the front of the man trapped by the wheel, the woman with it on her face, the boy with it in his hair, and that flap of flesh hanging loosely from Jonathan Smith's face. All of the blood was black, sticky and congealed.
"None of the blood was fresh," I breathed, snapping open my eyes.
Now, I knew blood congealed fairly quickly and it had been cold that day - but there was no way the blood would have thickened within a few minutes. Those people had been lying out on this desolate stretch of road for at least. . . what? Ten minutes, maybe or more. With my heart racing in my chest, I knew it couldn't have been me who had killed those people. Someone else had killed them, then fled the scene.
With my heart racing in my chest, I felt angry and hurt that I'd been punishing myself for something I hadn't done. I wanted to scream and tell the world that I hadn't killed Smith and the rest of his family. It felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from my chest and I could at last breathe again. I felt a sudden flash of seething anger towards my father. If he hadn't of been so quick to blame me, yet again, then cover for me, he could have done a proper investigation for once in his life and found the true culprit. Was it too late for that now? I wanted to march straight into town and tell him and the others I was innocent. I wanted to scream at those townsfolk who had stared at me, rolled their eyes, thinking that I had fucked up again. Could the clock ever be turned back? Would my father's lies be revealed? Would he be ruined? Could I do that to him?
As I stood in the middle of the road fearing that I might never be able to prove my innocence, I suddenly felt a hand fall onto my shoulder.
"What are you doing all the way out here?" a voice said.
With a high-pitched gasp, I spun around.