Come, Time

by Richard Jenkins

CHAPTER FOUR

  It has been said numerous times that a criminal will often return to the scene of their crime. This is something I have always thought stupid; however, the next day I do not resist the urge of walking past the cottage. Admittedly, I am on my way to do other business, but still, I stop and stare. The Nissan Micra is once again parked outside, but I see no other sign of the woman at home. The hall light remains on; no curtains are drawn, and all other house lights are switched off.

  I quickly move on. The best time to shoot rabbits is early morning and today, this is my only goal.

  Early evening, and again I pass the cottage. All remains the same: the car, the lights, the curtains. It would be easy to assume the woman is out.

  The following day, I fight the urge to go to the cottage. By nightfall, I am standing in woodland looking down on a scene that refuses to change. The car, the hall light, the curtains are all as before, and all other house lights remain off.

  All is probably fair and rational. I have suspicions but only ones that concern a pensioner living alone - a trip or a fall in a house that smothers your scream. I could find her in need, but if I did, how would I justify my presence? Through lies or confession? I cannot find her by accident. She could simply be out, she probably is. I’m speculating, procrastinating. I cut myself off and decide to move.

  I hurry to the cottage, straight to the front door which I knock loudly. No one answers. I knock again. No one answers. I rush away to the first back door. I apply the correct force to the correct location and push the door open.

  I step inside, stand perfectly still and strain to hear any sound. Silence. No sound of human occupation. The smell of baking has gone, replaced by the smell of rotting household waste, both vegetable and flesh. I stand in darkness. The only artificial light is that from the hall, which spills through the gaps of an ill fitting door. I move to this door and open it. My eyes take the first wave of light with a beat of pain and a heavy blink. Quickly, however, I see and what is it I see? I see her, the woman, in the hall, slumped on the floor, her head and face bludgeoned. I freeze, speechless of course, but also thoughtless. For a time, I do not know how long, I stick to this moment, this snap of time, and then, I wake. I do not panic. I do not fear. I feel no revulsion, disgust or even anger. All I feel is sadness, sadness for this woman. I kneel beside her and hold her hand and of course it is cold and stiff but still it feels human. My gaze turns in on itself, and I see her face from memory - her smiling, pleasant face. But then, suddenly, I wake once more. I drop her hand as my thoughts start shouting, what are the consequences, the consequences for me?

  Now sickness turns in my gut. Now my stare is drawn to her face. Now I see the horror of what truly is before me. I see the present and flashes of the past, this woman hit once then battered beyond death. Murdered for business and pleasure. I see the horror in her stare as she takes the blows. I see her staring at me, directly at me, but I wasn’t there! She and others are staring at me, but I wasn’t there! I am not the witness to her last, final scream.

  Instinct propels me to leave, but I resist and force myself to stay. I cannot run away. Something cold and ruthless has caused this, and now, if I am to face it, I too must find a chill in my soul. I stand trying to think clearly, trying to resist the call of flight. I am in her house; I’ve broken in, and my fingerprints wait to snare me. Using the sleeve of my coat, I vigorously wipe the interior door handle, then the fridge door, then all other areas corrupted by my touch. My coat, my new coat, bought with their money. Good. For tomorrow, I will burn it, along with everything else I am wearing.

  Will my fingerprints be on her hand? I refuse the risk and wipe it anyway. Her fingers are long and slender, her nails without varnish. I look for rings; there are none, no watch or bracelets. I look at her crushed and broken face then down at her neck, where I see no necklace. Her blood-matted hair covers her ears. I hesitate for a second, then brush the hair away. I notice her pierced left ear holds no earring.

  I stand and see my muddy footprints covering the tiled hall floor. I need a mop. I find the kitchen light switch and with my sleeve covered hand turn it on. Instantly my reflection in the kitchen window pounces. I feel watched, observed in the distance. I rush to the window and kill my reflection with the pull of a blind.

  Muddied footprints cover the kitchen floor. I kick off my boots and then cover my hand with a tea towel. I look for a mob and quickly find one, bucket and all. Frantically, I begin to clean the floor. Evidence washes away, but do I save more than myself?

  Job done. I return the mop and stuff the tea towel in my coat pocket. I pause and catch my breath.

  Why murder? I quickly move through the house lightly looking for clues. Nothing is disturbed. No draws pulled out, no looting. If robbery was the motive, then the thief came with knowledge.

  The urge to flight floods through my veins. I have to leave. Never have I felt so wrong. I pause and think. Do I leave here for good? Do I take with me all traces of my visits? I think about burning the house down, a thought I barely resist, but instead I pick up my boots and move to make my exit.

  Outside in the darkness, I struggle to put my boots on. Standing on one leg is impossible. All balance is void, my equilibrium is smashed.

  Back at the caravan, in an oil barrel blaze all that I was wearing is destroyed.

  Freshly washed, scrubbed hard, I sit naked and alone. Rarely do I feel alone, but tonight, I recognize that this is what I am, completely alone. I console myself by reminding myself that at least I am alive. I live. All that I want, which isn’t much, is still within my grasp. I am more than willing to fight for it, and now, whatever comes my way.

  I could call the police and submit my truth. I was watching the woman, yes, a request from two men claiming to be from Special Branch. They said it concerned animal liberation, but this I know was a lie. Do I sound convincing? No. Do I sound like a nut? Yes. And maybe that’s the point, to sound like the local nut, the weirdo amongst you. He who never speaks, who lives alone, removed from normality. The hunter, the poacher. Paranoid. Dressed in camouflage, waiting for the world to end. Put me under the microscope and they’ve got their disease.

  I was lied to. They came to my caravan and lied to me. They involved me in this, but what exactly is this? Murder, obviously, but who am I?