Poppet

Hit and Run

FLEA’S FACE IS drained and white – as if all the moonlight is bouncing off it. Her eyes are locked on Caffery’s.

‘You what?’ she murmurs. ‘What did you say? Say it again.’

He stands in the hollow night and repeats it – almost guiltily. ‘I know what happened to Misty. I know what happened and where. It was here. On this stretch of road.’

Flea stares at him, incredulous. He imagines he can see a little buzz of light zipping round behind her eyes – the evidence of her brain working, formulating an answer. But she ducks the question – lowers her face, shrugs and says offhandedly, ‘Yeah, well, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Seriously – I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I mean, you’re more insane than I ever suspected – and that’s saying something.’

She begins to gather up her rucksack. She hikes it on to her shoulder and turns away, in the direction of the car.

‘Frankly, Jack, I can hear the sounds of someone losing the plot, and I don’t have to hang around to … Hey!’ She stops. He’s grabbed the dangling strap of the rucksack. ‘Let go!’ She struggles with him, leaning back and pulling on the bag. He holds on tight. ‘What’re you doing – let it go.’

He answers her pull – using two hands. She’s strong – surprisingly strong – it takes all his effort to keep the bag level. ‘Stop this,’ he says. ‘Stop this and sit down. I know what’s going on – now keep still and listen to me. I know what he did.’

‘What who did? WHO WHO WHO? And WHAT WHAT WHAT? WHO did WHAT? See?’ She yanks the bag. ‘You can’t even answer. You can’t even answer me when I—’

‘Thom,’ he yells. ‘Thom, your fucking brother.’

The breath goes out of her. She stops shouting, stops pulling, and stands there – glaring at him, head jutting forward, sinews on her neck standing up.

‘I know what happened. The whole thing. Get used to it.’

A long moment passes. Somewhere, on a distant, invisible jet stream in the west, a plane changes course. Whines high and thin and lonely. Flea’s eyes glisten. And then, just when he thinks she’s going to spit at him, she releases the bag and sinks to the ground. Bone-weary – she drops her head between her knees, clasps her hands around the back of her neck.

He stands a pace away, breathing hard. More than three years ago Flea Marley lost her parents in a horrific diving accident. Since then other things have gone wrong in her life – badly wrong, she hasn’t had it easy. Because of that he’s protected her role in Misty’s disappearance. But enough time has elapsed. Now it’s time for Flea to return the favour and help him. When he imagined this encounter he’d half imagined she’d be so grateful to him that she’d cry, throw her arms around his neck or something. He certainly didn’t anticipate this. But then, when someone’s kept something like this inside for so long it’s crazy to expect it to be a painless operation.

He calms himself, pushes the hair off his forehead. He takes five paces, stops in the centre of the road and twists round.

‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’m going to give you a demonstration. A lesson. About hit and runs.’

She lifts her face, bewildered. Her eyes focus hazily on him.

‘A car comes from this direction.’ He points off to the east, away into the distance. ‘It’s a silver Ford Focus and it’s going fast. Too fast. The driver – Thom – is drunk. He thinks it’s an open road, a straight road. At the same time a woman is coming down from that field over there. She’s drunk too – and high on heroin she’s smuggled into the clinic. She’s disorientated. She gets to the road, and either she doesn’t realize it’s a road and walks into it without looking, or she knows it’s a road and she steps out deliberately, trying to flag down the car. Wanting a lift maybe. Either way, Thom doesn’t notice her until he gets here.’

Caffery digs a finger down to indicate the place he stands.

‘He slams on the brakes, but he’s going so fast that he doesn’t stop until he reaches …’ Caffery takes fifteen strides along the road, then stops and opens his hands ‘… here. Too late. Misty goes up over the roof and ends up – well, right about where you’re sitting.’ He pauses. There’s a long silence, interrupted by an owl screeching somewhere above the hamlet. He clears his throat, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, Thom doesn’t report it. Somehow he gets the body away from here. And you, Flea, you, in your infinite wisdom, you protect your brother. You cover the whole thing up for him.’

He stops. She is getting to her feet. She’s a little unsteady, still disorientated and shaky. But she keeps her balance. She drags her bag up, hoists it on to her shoulder. She turns on one heel and walks stiffly away. After a few seconds he follows, only he’s left it too long. By the time he rounds the corner she has broken into a jog and is almost at the car. Before he can catch up she has jumped inside, started the engine and is screeching off into the road.

He puts out a hand to stop her, but she executes a tight U-turn, guns the engine and within a few short seconds is gone. Then it’s just him and the night – the whiff of exhaust and burnt rubber like a handprint in the air.