I’ve often wondered where the clarity came from on the evening that I got rid of David’s body. Whether, somewhere deep down, I had been thinking about it for a while.
His lies were big and small – some that mattered, many that didn’t – and I think there was a part of me that always knew he had a loose relationship with the truth. If he ever had a storage unit full of collectibles, then I never found any information about it within his possessions. The police have never mentioned it, either. There was almost no money in his bank accounts and it was far eclipsed by the amount he owed on credit cards. He came into the world with nothing and he left it in more or less the same fashion.
I wait in the car park of Little Bush Woods, wondering if I should have come here direct from the police station. I have no reason to think they’re following me, though if they are, I’ve led them directly to where I dumped David. I could be out for a walk, of course.
There is still an hour or so until the park closes, although I suspect the barrier will remain raised. I wait in the car for five minutes, wondering if someone will follow me in. A marked police car would probably be excessive – but there are no other cars anyway.
Unlike the last time I was here two years ago with David’s body, there is a smattering of vehicles across the car park. The surface of weeds poking through the tarmac is almost identical to how I remember it.
As I wait, a man emerges from the path to the lake. He has his hands in his pockets, his hood up, and barely looks in my direction before hurrying across to a battered Ford. A few seconds later and he’s gone.
I’m as convinced as can be that I wasn’t followed, so get out of the car and set off towards the lake. Almost instantly, I pass a woman with a dog. I’m not sure of the breed, but it’s one of the big, fluffy ones who would probably try to make friends with Godzilla if it came stomping down the High Street. The dog sniffs at my ankles and I stop to ruffle its collar as the owner and I share a quick ‘hello’. They head back to the car park, so I continue onto the bridge.
When I get to the deep water sign, I stop and lean on the bridge rail, turning and waiting in case a police officer does appear. Mr Patrick said they had no reason to hold me as there’s nothing to indicate I was driving the car. That is, of course, because I wasn’t. My DNA will be all over it – but that’s because I drove it not long before it was stolen. It proves nothing. He seemed to think the police were on a fishing expedition because they have no clue who was driving. There isn’t a lot of crime around Gradingham and, perhaps because of that, very few resources to look into anything that does happen.
Minutes pass and nobody emerges. A breeze is fizzing across the water, sending a gentle flurry of waves across the surface. The bridge is coated with a delicate layer of frost that’s dented by intersecting, scuffed footprints.
I used to visit the woods most weekends, either for a walk with David, or some sort of training run around the trails. I found the soft soil easier on my joints than the harsh concrete of the pavements around Gradingham. Anything’s better than the monotony of a treadmill. It’s only now that it occurs to me that not coming here for two years is far more suspicious than continuing what used to be predictable. If anyone was watching my day-to-day routine, they would surely conclude that something happened here. I was consumed by those news reports or TV shows, in which experts say that criminals always return to the scene of the crime. I live in the scene of mine – but this place means something, too. I always thought David’s body would be found sooner or later. That didn’t mean it would be linked to me, but I’ve expected a knock on the door ever since I kicked him into the water. It’s not happened.
As I stand in the centre of the lake, I picture David’s body below me, still weighed down by the bricks. In the aftermath of that night, I thought the string might erode and David’s body would float to the surface, to be found by an unfortunate dog-walker. That hasn’t happened, either.
Sometimes the thought flitted through my mind that the reason I’ve heard nothing for two years is because David was somehow alive. That the bang from the rear of the car was him and not roadkill or a pothole. That, after I turned my back and headed back across the bridge, David hauled himself out of the water. The thought always evaporated as quickly as it arrived – until I saw him in the back of the photo at the hotel.
I’m not sure what I expected by returning here. All I have is an eerie sense of déjà vu. I keep thinking it might rain, even though it feels more like it might snow. I’ll always picture this bridge with splattering raindrops and the noise of water crashing into water. I eye the surface of the lake as the ripples continue to ebb towards the bridge, spurred on by the bristling wind. I can hardly jump in and dive down to see if there’s a body there.
‘You OK?’
I spin to see a woman standing behind me with a forlorn-looking dog. I’m not sure how she managed to get so close without me hearing anything. The animal doesn’t seem too keen to be out in the cold and is straining in the direction of the car park.
‘I, um…’
‘Are you looking for something?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I say.
She looks past me towards the water and then shrugs a suit yourself dismissal. ‘Have a good walk,’ she says.
‘You, too,’ I reply.
She turns and heads along the bridge. The dog continues to watch me, as if it somehow knows the reason I’m here.
‘David,’ I say – as with the last time I was here, there is no answer.