Go Not Gently

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

We talked a lot that night. Agnes told me most of her life story; we made ourselves hungrier fantasising about food. We talked about families, holidays, Manchester, politics, and tentatively about relationships.

‘I do get lonely,’ I said, ‘now and then. I wonder whether I’ll ever meet anyone. Wonder if this is it. If it’ll feel different the longer I’m on my own.’

‘I’ve been very happy,’ she said, ‘but then I had Lily.’

I turned to look at her. Her dark eyes were soft, faraway.

I heard the car first. My stomach lurched and I staggered to my feet. ‘He’s coming.’ I wriggled out of the paper that rustled around me and took my position by the door, the fire extinguisher between my feet ready to be lifted. Agnes divested herself of paper and settled the dummy body across her knees. I saw her take a steadying breath. She smiled at me. I swallowed. I could hear the shutter door being unrolled. What if it wasn’t Goulden? Perhaps it was the caretaker opening up. Maybe it was morning. My heart leapt with hope. We’d be safe. We could go home.

Footsteps across the concrete floor. My ears were buzzing with the strain of concentration. The scrape of a key in the lock. I could feel my pulse in the roof of my mouth. I prayed, a wordless, soundless plea for help.

The door swung open. Stopped a couple of inches from hitting me. My knees bent, my hands grasped the black handle at the top of the cylinder.

‘Get up,’ he said quietly.

Come into the room, step forward.

‘I can’t,’ said Agnes, her voice thin and reedy. ‘It’s Sal, I can’t wake her. She’s collapsed. I don’t know what’s wrong.’ Her words were laced with panic. I was convinced. But Goulden?

‘Christ!’ he swore.

‘I’m sorry,’ Agnes went on, ‘I can’t lift her. She’s too heavy for me. I don’t have the strength.’

I heard the tap of his shoe as he stepped nearer. I swung the extinguisher up and myself out from behind the door.

He must have caught the movement out of the side of his eye. He wheeled round, instinctively lifting his arm to protect himself.

I clung tight to the handle as the cylinder plunged down, the weight was so great I lost control, no opportunity to aim with any accuracy. It skewed to the left, wrenching my wrist. It slammed his arm back and cracked his head. He folded under the impact, tipping forward. Blood spurted, from his head, bright, metal-scented. It hit my leg, hot and wet.

I fought the impulse to flee, cut off the growing sense of horror at what I’d done.

He lay face down, arms and legs splayed awkwardly. Blood bubbled out of his head. I pulled my sweatshirt off, bundled it over the crimson fountain. The copious flow made it impossible to see what damage I’d done. Head wounds always bleed a lot, I tried to reassure myself.

Agnes was at my side. I was kneeling in his blood, which was pooling around him, congealing quickly in the cold air.

‘I’m going to try turning him over,’ I said, ‘check his breathing. Keep this pressed down.’

She put her hands on the sweatshirt, I arranged his limbs and hauled him on to his back. I bent low, my ear by his mouth and nose listening, my eyes watching his chest for motion. It was hard to tell. I turned my head to look at him. His eyes flew open and his hand grabbed my throat. I screamed and scrabbled to get away, clawing at his hand with my own. His grip weakened and I pulled free. I scrambled to my feet, slipped in his blood and nearly fell on him. I regained my balance and fought to slow my breathing. His eyes were shut again.

I struggled to remember first aid. There was something about raising the wound above the heart – or was that only legs and arms? ‘I’ll go for help,’ I said. ‘Here,’ I pulled my jacket from the dummy and fashioned a cushion, ‘lift his head, put this underneath. Will you be all right?’

Agnes nodded, her face was blank with shock. ‘Go on,’ she said.

It didn’t take me long to establish that there were no offices in the warehouse, no phones. Outside dawn was breaking, the light hurt my eyes. I could see Goulden’s car and across the yard the main building. Steel shutters covered all the doors and windows. No one was at work yet. There was a heavy dew, the world was soaked and there was a powerful smell of fertiliser.

It was hard to think straight. Where could I get help? Looking about I could see fields, trees and pylons but no other buildings. The land was flat, the sky dominating most of the view, grey to the east where the day was beginning but still dark behind me. I listened for traffic. I thought I could make out a distant drone but I couldn’t tell if it was in my head or out there.

If I’d had my wits about me I might have taken his car or used his car-phone to summon help but I’d lost all sense somewhere in the fear and the bleeding, and the only thing that occurred to me was to walk until I found someone.

I set off jogging slowly down the narrow road that led to Malden’s. It was laid with white gravel, like the stones that Hansel dropped. I wanted to lie down and sleep. I wanted to hide somewhere far away where they’d never find me.

Guilt. Fear. Had Tina Achebe’s killer felt it? Had he been drenched in blood. Beaten to death she’d been, how many blows? She was a tiny woman, nothing like Goulden with his broad shoulders, his big bones. Had Tina’s murderer used a weapon or just his fists? There’d never been anything in the papers about a weapon. Had her head burst like Goulden’s?

To the rhythm of my steps I chanted a mantra: Don’t let him die, please, don’t let him die. He may have been a grade A dickhead but I didn’t want to be his murderer.

The road led to a T-junction. A quaint black and white signpost told me that I was five miles from Northwich and one and a half from Little Leigh. One and a half. Waves of pity nudged me. It wasn’t fair. How could I walk another mile and a half? I was tired and thirsty. So thirsty. I had a sudden vivid memory from childhood, morning walk to school, trailing my fingers through the privet hedges sucking dew from my fingertips.

I stepped up to the hedge. Full of hawthorn and brambles. I felt like throwing a tantrum. There was a little grass growing beneath the hedge. I ran my hands through a clump, washing away the worst of the rusty bloodstains. Then I found a fresh patch and ran my hands through it, licking the droplets of dew from my palms and fingers. There was a large spider’s web in the hedge, strung with silver beads of dew, diamonds. Perfect. I got to my feet shivering. Aware again of how weak I felt, how much I ached. A mile and a half then.

I pushed myself again, tried to establish a rhythm, the air in my windpipe burning with each gasp. Please don’t let him die, please, don’t let him die. I could taste my lungs. Past, the tall tree on the left. Cows to the right, huge Friesians, like cartoons, black and white against the lush grass. Another gate. Please don’t let him die.

Then I saw the man and his dog.

There’s always a man and a dog, isn’t there? While the rest of us luxuriate in the final hour in bed the dog walkers are up and out, rain or shine, discovering the dark deeds the night has spawned. Stumbling over shallow graves, corpses.

He was a small man, middle-aged, glasses and a neat moustache. He wore a waterproof jacket and a woolly hat. He looked shocked when he first saw me, then concerned as we drew closer. You couldn’t blame him. Clad in a T-shirt, smashed-up face, spattered red. The dog was small, brown, nondescript, friendly enough. It tried to lick the blood off my leg.

‘Get an ambulance,’ I said to the man, ‘and the police.’

‘Has there been an accident? Are you all right?’ He pushed the dog away from me gently with his foot. ‘Get down, Shep.’

Shep! I felt a giggle inflate in my belly. ‘Yes, please hurry. Tell them there’s a man with head injuries, up at Malden’s, you know where…’

He nodded. ‘Come on, Shep.’ He began to run, really run, the dog at his heels. I turned back for Malden’s.

Above me I heard the roar of a plane ascending from the airport. The sky was too cloudy to see it but I could hear it climbing. Full of passengers bound for sunny holidays. Up for hours already, they’d have been. Stomachs sour with lack of sleep and food at funny times, wondering whether to risk the curdled eggs and the strange sausages on the in-flight meal.

I leant over the road and retched. Thin, foamy bile.

Don’t let him die.