Impact

by Robert Clark

  I didn’t manage to be as straight as an arrow. Any judges watching from the embankment might have given me a six or seven out of ten. Not that I would have cared. I was too busy trying not to drown.

  The current snatched me the moment I crashed through the surface, dragging me deeper with the fury of an enraged sea monster. The shock of the impact had already taken so much from me that I barely had any air left in my lungs to hold on to. Frantically, I beat at the thunderous current, arms flailing this way and that with nary a thought as to which way was up.

  Gallons upon gallons of freezing water beat down on my head and shoulders and stomach and back and legs and feet, each feeling like it was coming from a different direction. I didn’t dare open my eyes lest a rock or snapped branch scratch at them, but doing it blind was going to kill me.

  I flailed harder, using every last drop of energy I had. My legs slapped against something solid and, before the current carried me away, I launched off it and jettisoned up.

  My head broke the surface, and I gasped for air. I opened my eyes to a dark and treacherous world. Only the meekest of evening light was left in the sky, and none of it reached down into the river’s canyon. Dark, ominous shadows cast up high on either side of me, putting the river bank well out of my reach. Rogue waves slapped against my head, desperate to pull me back under. I resisted, leapfrogging wildly to keep from slipping below.

  Up ahead, I spotted it. A large, overhanging tree hung mere inches over the surface, branches teasing the river as they hung just out of reach. I forced my way across. I didn’t know when I’d have a better chance, or even if I’d get another. I kicked with my legs and heaved with my arms until I was on a line with the branch, then I prepared. I’d only get one shot at this.

  I leapt, hands high above my head like a cricket player reaching for the ball. I felt the smaller, sharper branches scratch at my wrists, each too weak to carry my weight. Then I felt it. Something stronger.

  I clamped down on it and heaved myself up. The branch held my weight, and I forced my legs up, out of the water, away from the chaos. I wrapped my thighs around the branch, and hoisted myself up again, hands searching for something with more hold. Beneath me, the current raged harder, louder. It wanted me back. It wanted to claim its prey.

  I didn’t allow it. I heaved myself up again, gaining more traction with every go. My arms and legs ached. My body was numb with the cold. I reached out and found dirt. The bank was in my reach. I swung my leg up and out, and felt the satisfying slap as it landed on terra firma.

  I rolled onto my back, savouring the wet ground beneath me, and gasped for air. My heart felt like it was auditioning for riverdance. Slowly, I brought both it and my breathing back under control, and got up. I looked back up the river. There, high above me was the bridge I had jumped off. I didn’t want to think how high up it was, or just how miraculous it was that I had survived. The world wasn’t done with me yet.

  Following the river, I hiked along the banks back towards the train tracks. Any witnesses on the train had seen me jump out. Some might even have realised I launched myself into a river. Either way, they would have to believe I would head that way, deeper into the darkness, away from the authorities. The police would enact their search with a specific direction in mind, and it wouldn’t be the way the train had come.

  When I was a little higher up the bank, I broke off and started walking adjacent to where the tracks should lead. I didn’t want to get too close, but it stood to reason that my best chance to get to civilisation would be to follow the winding steel tracks. I had to hope I wouldn’t run into any police coming the other way. At least the river would mask my scent when the police dogs came barking.

  As I climbed up through the trees and over a small rise, I heard something. Voices. I stopped dead in my tracks and listened hard. At least two people, out there in the darkness. Immediately, I realised they weren’t police, unless France had decided to school its constables in the art of chattering loudly while hunting fugitives. Both speakers were male and chatted jovially as they made their way through the woods. If I had to guess, they were young, judging by the tone of their voices. Neither had the gruffness instilled from years of regrets. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They spoke too quickly in French for me to be able to understand, using a dialect only truly grasped by those who were native to the land. But whatever it was, it didn’t sound urgent.

  I drifted closer, curious as to what I might see. The two men were walking by the light of the moon which had come out to cast a silvery spectral light over the still forest. I caught sight of them, moving between the tree trunks.

  There weren’t two of them.

  A third man walked ahead. He lacked their causal swagger, instead opting for a sombre, rigid stride like a coffin carrier. At first, he seemed uninterested in the conversation of the other two men. But as one of the two barked in laughter, he spun around.

  ‘Will you two keep your goddamn voices down,’ he snapped. His words were English, his accent American. Out here in the depths of Northern France, it was as out of place as a parade of clowns. ‘The cops will be out here soon enough, you want to get caught and explain what you’re doing here?’

  ‘Relax, man, they won’t find us out here,’ sniffed the guy who had laughed. He spoke English, but his dialect was stilted. ‘You need to chill out, man. Smoke some weed.’

  The American scoffed and turned on his heel. He didn’t wait for his companions to catch up. The guy who had spoken slapped his friend on the arm, and they followed at a distance. Something in my head itched. The darkness stirred a little more. What were they talking about?

  I drifted across to the next tree, following the trio from afar. I didn’t like their presence here. It felt wrong.

  And as I moved, he appeared.

  The manifestation of my mind. The shadow of my soul. The Wolf. He lurked alongside me, wearing my clothes, my face, my thoughts like they were his own. He came to me in these moments of vulnerability and curiosity. He preyed on my desires and my fears.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he snarled. ‘Haven’t you learned your lesson not to sneak around like this?’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I whispered.

  ‘Is this really the best use of your time?’ he asked. ‘You heard what that man said, the police are coming. You need to get out of here.’

  ‘But they aren’t coming for me. They didn’t know I’m out here. What have they done?’

  ‘This is not your concern, James. Leave, now.’

  But I couldn’t. Something kept me there. My curiosity was snagged on the line, and I couldn’t untangle it yet. So I followed the group through the trees. They paid me no attention. They had no idea I was out there, watching, waiting. I moved with care, cautious that even the sound of a snapped branch or rustled bush could spook the American. He was nervous, and whatever had caused it enticed me. I couldn’t help it.

  A momentary flash of lights startled me. The blink of a car as the locks disengaged felt like a spaceship out here. The American moved around to the driver’s door and swung it open, engaging the interior lights just enough to illuminate the surrounding area a little. I ducked low and stayed still. And just in time. The American started the engine and turned on the headlights. Their glare cast a blinding beam right over the space I would have been in had I kept moving. The two younger men moved around and climbed inside. No sooner were they in did the American put the car in reverse and swung around.

  I watched as the car pulled away down a narrow path through the trees and disappeared from sight. The glare of the headlights danced between the trees, then it was gone. Lost to the night.

  Three

  I waited until the Wolf slid back into his cave, watching the spot where the car had been parked. Something wasn’t right, and I couldn’t put my thumb on what exactly it was. I moved through the trees and looked around. For what, I didn’t know. All I could see was a pile of discarded wrappers and paper cups. The fast food kind,
which would probably lay there until the end of time came, and the world was turned to ash because people like that couldn’t be bothered to put their rubbish in a goddamn bin.

  I sighed and bent down to pick it up. I recognised the chain it had originated from. The big chiefs in charge probably didn’t care much what happened to their packaging after it left their stores, but I did. I didn’t want the world to turn to shit because Mr. McDollar wanted to add a couple of bucks to his bank account.

  The paper cup had a few dregs of leftover milkshake inside. I emptied it out onto the ground and stuffed the wrapper inside. Then I turned and walked into the night.

  I walked for at least an hour through the trees. Twice I came across a road, but retreated far enough to stay out of sight lest anyone drive by and spot me. Finally, when my legs were too tired to continue, I settled down for the night.

  My clothes were soaked through and I was exhausted. The morning would come eventually, and hopefully I would find passage to a nearby town or city where I could blend in and find a change of clothes.

  But between now and then was a whole night of blistering winter torment. Oh joy.

  With fingers as cold as the dead, I collected kindling and dry sticks from the woods. Thankfully, most of what I could find was nice and dry, so starting a fire wouldn’t be too hard. The fast food rubbish would make for a hearty flame, so I placed them at the bottom of my pile and stacked the other bits of kindling on top.

  Next up, I took off my shoe. The lace was crusted with mud and took a while to pull out. Shivering profusely, I slid the boot back on my foot and wrapped the lace once around a small, stubby stick I’d found. Then I took two larger bits of wood that I could sandwich the stick between and worked at a small indentation in the back. I just needed it big enough to fill with something fine and dry, that would become my ember. I used the stubby stick to widen the gap, and after a couple of minutes graft, I got it right. I jammed a bit of kindling into the gap, then positioned my findings between my legs so that the bottom slab of wood was trapped between my boots, and the top bit was jammed into my calfs with the stubby stick between them.

  Easy part done. Now comes the tedium.

  With one hand on either side of the shoelace, I tugged the lace from side to side, working it like a miniature game of tug of war between myself and myself. The action caused the stubby stick to twirl back and forth generating friction at the points where it was pressed up against the wood blocks. It was slow work, but it kept me from slipping into a hypothermic coma. I could have given up, wandered around in the dark till I found civilisation and stolen a lighter, and been back before I got the stick to generate enough heat, but in the end it worked. The kindling caught a flame, and like a man cradling a newborn baby, I carried the ember across to my fire.

  The ember made easy work of the litter, and within seconds the flame had caught on to the rest of my kindling. I spent the better part of twenty minutes adding choice selections to the fire, building it from a five second wonder into a mainstay of my evening.

  I wished I had something to eat. The chocolate bar on the train felt like a lifetime ago, and those precious calories had been worked off trying to stop myself from drowning. My clothes were soaked, so I stripped down and, with a series of sticks to prop them up by the fire, I laid them out to dry. My body shivered, so I pumped my arms around like a windmill to force the blood into my fingers. What a time it would be to get caught, naked and flailing in the woods. When I could feel my extremities, I sat as close to the fire as I could and watched the flames dance.

  I could feel my eyes closing, but I fought it off long enough to allow my clothes to warm up a bit. They were still a bit damp when I put them back on, but nothing like as bad as they would have been if I’d tried to sleep with them still wet.

  Sleep came quickly. I was too tired to let my mind put up much of a fuss, and when I woke, the first embers of dawn had sparked the horizon. I got up and kicked away the campsite and stretched out.

  I headed away from the sun, letting the first rays of dawn creep down my neck and into my back. It dried out some residual damp that had clung on through the night. As I broke free from the forest, I could see houses in the distance.

  The closer I got, the better idea I had of the place. The houses I had seen at first sat at the top of a steady slope that led down into a much larger town than I had anticipated. While I was still cautious that any number of those going about their lives might have opened a newspaper that morning and seen my pretty little face slapped across the front page, I also knew that being hidden in the crowd was a smart move. Who realistically expects to pass by a known fugitive on the way to the supermarket? No one. My face in the newspapers was the equivalent of throwing tacks at a wall. Most are going to bounce off. Only one needs to stick.

  All I had to do was make that wall harder to stick to.

  I tried to judge what time it was. Maybe eight or nine o’clock in the morning. Somewhere in that ballpark. That lovely time where sleepy heads start the day off with morning chores and commutes to work. No one really pays attention at that time. Everyone is just waiting for the sleep exhaustion to dissipate like a hangover. 'Tis a time of mistakes, those futile morning hours. And I like mistakes.

  The houses I passed weren’t a million miles away from those found back in England. In fact, if not for the signs written in French, or the slightly grander influence of Christianity dotted about, I could have been back home. Low brick walls curled around neatly trimmed gardens. Patches of movement unsettled net curtains as families started a brand new day. The first of the morning commuters trundled steadily by in their reasonably-priced cars.

  I scanned the gardens until I found what I needed. Dancing a steady waltz in the breeze were a line of clothes. A mixture of sizes and colours, I wasn’t sure if any would fit me, but I had to try. The police would have a description of me from the witnesses on the train. It was my priority to mess with that as much as I could. The clothes I had worn back in Bruges were now little more than a painted target on my back. I had to change.

  Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I hopped the fence and jogged over to the line. It was tucked in alongside the building, hanging from a hook high on the brick wall at one end, and the fence running between it and the neighbouring house at the other. I snatched a plain white shirt and a jumper and ducked down beside the house to change. Nobody passed as I discarded my old clothes and put on the new. The shirt was a perfect fit. The jumper less so. It hugged my body a little too tight, but it would do for now.

  Back out on the street, I felt a little better about my chances. Ideally, I’d get myself a full wardrobe change, and a hat to boot. Maybe even spring for a hair and beard trim, but they would happen soon enough. Right now, I needed food.

  I found a cafe serving breakfast and ducked inside. A young, petite woman sold me a pan au chocolat and orange juice with a look in her eye that told me she either hadn’t recognised me, or was one of the world’s greatest actresses. I didn’t feel nervous, so I sat down at a vacant table and ate my food in peace.

  Then the couple next to me started talking.

  Four

  The couple had been ahead of me in the queue. They were maybe somewhere in their forties, judging by the healthy dose of grey hairs that peppered their once colourful heads. They looked like a relaxed pair. The kind of comfort that comes from a lifetime of shared experiences. I caught sight of a pair of matching wedding bands on their fingers as they perused the menu. They ordered their food and took the seat by the window that I had hoped to bag for myself. By the time I had sat down, they were already tucking into their breakfast.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ sighed the wife. ‘A tragedy. Such a horrible way to go.’

  ‘I’d be surprised they felt anything,’ suggested the husband. ‘At that speed, the impact must have been instantaneous.’

  ‘But still, think of that poor driver, having to sit there and watch.’

  My French wasn’
t the best. I did better reading than listening, so the word for conductor was at first lost on me. And when the meaning of the word finally dawned on me, the pan au chocolat didn’t seem so appetising.

  I shuffled slightly in my chair, edging away from the couple. They didn’t notice.

  ‘It’s the cleaners I feel sorry for,’ mused the husband. ‘Think of what they’ll have to clean up, all because someone wanted to kill themselves.’

  Is that what they thought it was, suicide? I hadn’t planned on jumping into a river. But to be honest, I hadn’t planned on jumping from a train to begin with. If that damn woman and her sandwich hadn’t spotted me, I’d be in Paris by now.

  ‘And think of the costs fixing the train,’ the husband remarked. ‘I mean, the car would be totalled, but the train must have taken a beating too.’

  Car? What car?

  ‘Is that all you care about?’ sighed the wife. ‘The damage to the train?’

  ‘You married a technician, darling,’ laughed the husband. ‘It’s how my mind works.’

  ‘I just wish someone could have been there for her. That poor woman.’

  By which point, I’d turned back in my chair, head tilted a fraction towards the couple. What woman? What car? What had happened? I didn’t dare ask them. They looked like the type that read newspapers, and I’d taken front and centre in yesterday’s headlines, so I didn’t want to attract more attention.

  But I was curious.

  The wife gave her husband a mournful smile and reached out for his hand. They shared a moment, after which she changed the subject to the plans for their day ahead, leaving me alone with my wonderments.