In his bright blue windbreaker the boy was clearly visible to his father, who dawdled behind, allowing the little girl the opportunity to try to walk on her own. She would manage about five steps before tumbling, her round thighs cushioned by soft grass. The boy was lead scout up the steeply rising fairway that signalled the last stretch before turning home. Summer was losing its grasp, the air significantly cooler than even a week ago but still pleasant. After a day staring at a computer screen the father enjoyed this little pre-dinner ramble with his children across broad swards of park, over the little wooden bridge where the boy would run fast to avoid the troll hiding below, through the mini forest of slender trunks ideal for hide-and-seek. Refreshed by this exercise the trio would return home where, beneath a sub-strata of television news and the delightful smell of roast pork, his wife’s demands for dirty shoes to be removed would ring in their ears. There would be baths, books read, some tears from the boy wanting to stay up late, a compromise offer to read a story which involved robots and the destruction of the planet, at first rejected, later begrudgingly accepted. After around twenty minutes the boy would grow sleepy, his eyes would shut, his blond hair fanning over the pillow. Mother and father would kiss him goodnight, retreat quietly to a glass of wine and perhaps a favoured television show or some music.
The father glanced up. The boy had disappeared from sight. The father was not concerned. It was a steep rise and anybody over the crest of the hill was momentarily absent from the view of those following. Even so, he called out the boy’s name, yelling for him to wait. The girl, perhaps feeling she’d lost her father’s attention tripped over a little too deliberately. She was giggling, golden curls framing her angelic face. After righting her once again her father called for the boy to come back but when he did not appear at the top of the hill, the father scooped up the little girl, threw her over his shoulder and, much to her amusement, began jogging up the incline. He was still not worried, the only reason he was jogging was to entertain her. By the time he began to crest the rise however a scintilla of anxiety had worked its way into his pragmatic soul, for the boy was still invisible. Surely he had heard him?
He hit the top of the rise and immediately looked to the right, which was their route back. His heart cramped. There was nothing but a narrow strip of grass and widely spaced trees. Reflexively he threw to the left and relief swept through him. The boy stood twenty metres ahead looking at something on the ground. His father took three quick strides towards him and any mystery evaporated. It was obvious why he had not responded. His whole attention had been snared by a cute black cocker spaniel. The boy adored dogs and his father would have loved to give him one but the apartment block where they lived had rules about pets.
Now as he drew closer, however, the father saw something about the scene was not right. Tail down, fretting, torn between sitting and pacing, the whimpering spaniel was wearing a collar and lead. His son was not even looking at the dog. A man was prostrate, a quite large man with a shock of white hair. The father put down the girl without breaking stride. His first thought was that the man had collapsed. Even as he pulled his phone from his pocket he was regretting he had not signed up for one of those CPR courses. So often he had told himself it might be critical, the kids could somehow touch a live wire, it could be the difference between life and death, but the impetus always drifted away like smoke in the opposite direction.
Then he froze as if somebody had punched a pause button.
He was looking down at the man’s face. It was clear he had not suffered a heart attack. An arrow bisected his throat, the fin somewhere under his chin, the arrowhead protruding through the back of his neck. There was no question about it, the man was dead.