Jason hurried away, walking quickly past the carnage of the purple car, avoiding looking in. His view was blocked, in any case, by police and fire and rescue officers. He picked his way through all the emergency vehicles, had a quick word with the police officer on guard at the cordon of blue and white tape, then ran up to Emily’s van, which was parked outside the shell of a partly built house. She was standing beside the vehicle, looking ashen.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘The police wouldn’t say anything. They just told me there’d been an incident. I was so worried something had happened to you.’
‘Our neighbours,’ he said, shakily. ‘Claudette and Maurice. Horrible. Their car malfunctioned – something went horribly wrong. They’re both dead.’
‘What?’
‘They’re dead.’
‘No.’
Another wailing siren was approaching.
He held her in his arms. She felt limp, like a rag doll. ‘It was horrible.’
‘Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you are joking?’
‘I saw it, from my studio window.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Let’s get your prawns. They said they’d allow us through. Just don’t look at the car when we walk past it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Honestly Em, don’t.’
Five minutes later they lugged the plastic bags filled with prawns into their house, and Jason slammed shut the front door, against the horror and the horn that was still blaring. Inside there was a stink of chemicals from the fumigation. To his surprise, the Go Pest man had gone, but had left instructions.
‘I looked,’ Emily said. ‘I couldn’t help it.’ She fell, sobbing, against him. ‘Dead? They can’t be dead.’
‘I’m afraid so. He was OK, not a bad old stick. I can’t believe we were having drinks with them only yesterday.’
‘I can’t believe it either,’ she said. ‘Tell me it’s not true.’
‘It is true. But it’s OK.’
‘No, it is not OK. Nothing is OK. We are living in a fucking nightmare.’
The horn suddenly stopped.
‘Just tell me we are imagining all of this, Jason. Tell me it’s not happening.’
For some moments he had no answer. He didn’t know any more what was real and what wasn’t. ‘It’s just a terrible accident. Something went wrong with their car – I don’t know what. I – this may sound odd – but I thought . . .’ He fell silent.
‘Thought what?’
‘I thought I saw you coming. That Maurice was driving straight at you. I thought . . .’ He fell silent again.
He didn’t know what else to say.
Mechanically, on autopilot, he helped her put all the bags of prawns into the twin sinks, and began to run cold water over them, before laying them out on defrosting trays.
‘I’ll help you peel them when they’re done,’ he said.
Tears were running down her face. ‘Where’s it going to stop?’
‘It has stopped.’
‘Has it? Or has it just started?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It’s not going to stop until we’re all dead, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Until everyone here is dead.’
‘Come on, Em, we’ve always dealt with any problems in the past by being strong. Let’s be strong now. Get on with your preparations for tomorrow and shout if you need me to help. Meanwhile, I’ll go back up to my studio. Try to ignore – forget – what’s going on outside, OK?’
She nodded. ‘Wait a sec.’ She tore off a sheet of kitchen towel from a roll, wetted it under the tap, then stepped forward and wiped away remnants of vomit from around his mouth. ‘I love you,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.
‘I love you too.’
He climbed the stairs back up to his studio, trying to put out of his mind the horror of what had happened, and for the next five hours he worked hard, blanking out the police activity down below. Finally, he stood back from his easel and studied the painting of The Skiver. He was pleased with it. He felt he had captured the essence of the furtive, lazy man, against the backdrop of the hub of activity going on.
Just one final tweak, he felt, stepping forward and picking up his thinnest brush, and dipping the tip into white paint.