The river raged and roared like a never-ending express train. It smelled fresh, and Raymond Holmes longed for it to wash away his guilt and end his hopeless life. Overflowing with self-loathing, he stared into the blackness beneath the bridge and sneered at his own pathetic cowardice, for although half-a-dozen double whiskies had soured his stomach and muddied his brain they had so far failed to boost his courage. Pain, however brief, had always terrified him.
Suspecting that if he didn’t stop dithering soon, he might never even get close to building up the nerve again, Ray forced himself to swing up a leg and straddle the parapet of the bridge. Wobbling horribly, he muttered his final farewell to the world, closed his eyes and tried to convince his hands to release their grip. All the while, his internal critic mocked the clichéd theatricality of his performance.
He might have gone through with it had a rhythmic click, click, click not broken into his thoughts. Across the river in Bindover village, the street lights lit up the kind barmaid who’d served his drinks and smiled at him in the White Hart earlier. He presumed she was on her way home. Too embarrassed to explain himself, too afraid of the void to let go, Ray slid down, ran to the far end of the bridge and crouched in the bushes there. As she drew closer, she merged into the darkness.
Not so long ago, Ray would have dashed off an angry email to the local papers, complaining about the council’s failure to maintain adequate street lighting, but that version of him had died alongside Flit. Now everything seemed pointless.
The clicking stopped, a scream was stifled. Ray heard the sounds of a struggle. Not willing to engage, he stayed put and kept quiet.
And yet he couldn’t forget her kindness.
‘Are you alright, miss?’ he asked, standing up, peering into the darkness, aware how foolish the question sounded.
Although she didn’t reply, a sharp intake of breath made him certain a man was with her.
Ray emerged from the bushes and back onto the bridge. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his voice tremulous and weak.
‘Go away. This is private.’ The man’s voice was rough, his accent local.
Ray swallowed, feeling his heart might burst from his chest, but approached until he was close enough to see what was happening. The barmaid, tiny and terrified, was struggling against a thick arm around her waist and a huge hand clamped over her mouth. The man had cropped blond hair and a prominent nose, and looked worryingly large.
Ray, though neither small nor weak, fought an impulse to walk away. ‘Let her go,’ he said, trying to sound tough and confident.
‘This is none of your business, mate.’
‘It is now.’
‘Fuck off, if you know what’s good for you.’
Ray drew himself up and squared his shoulders. ‘Let her go. Now.’
‘Get lost or you’re in big trouble.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ll kill you.’
‘I reckon you’re all piss and wind, Blondie, and I’m not going anywhere,’ said Ray, wondering if his bluff would be called. ‘Let her go and let’s see what you’re made of.’
Blondie shoved the woman to the ground. Ray, surprising himself, darted forward and attempted a wild clout.
‘You asked for it,’ said Blondie, blocking with his forearm and lunging at Ray, club fists swinging.
Although Ray ducked under the first, he never even saw the follow-up punch, which exploded against the side of his head, knocking him down but not out.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ he said, struggling back to his feet, rubbing his jaw and spitting blood, dazed but detached from the pain and fear. After all, he had nothing to lose but his life. ‘I reckon my old Gran could do better… and she’s been dead for ten years.’
‘Then you’ll soon be joining her.’ The big man swaggered forward like someone who’d done such things many times before, and had done them well.
Ray ducked and dodged, amazed himself by landing a straight jab to the nose, and avoided a swinging right and left combination before a scything kick swept his legs from under him. His head hit the road and he lay stunned, though not enough that he couldn’t feel the foot stamping on his face. Even so, he knew the barmaid had got away and, despite the increasing pain, felt happier than he had in months.
Blondie, blood dribbling from his nose, picked Ray up as if he weighed no more than a child and hurled him over the parapet.
‘Thank you,’ Ray murmured.
Fragments of memories, as vague and insubstantial as fading dreams, returned: a plunge into darkness, the breathtaking shock of cold water, surfacing, gasping, swirling, going under, gentle hands pulling him ashore. There’d been a sweet, flowery scent. More clear was the ambulance ride, a smell of bleach and then his arrival at Glevchester Hospital, where numerous small injuries made themselves obvious as he returned to full consciousness.
Nothing was broken they said, just minor contusions and grazes. Mild hypothermia and alcohol explained his confusion. They claimed Ray was lucky, though he did not feel it, even after drugs had dulled the pain. All that remained was disappointment. His plan had failed, though it was not unpleasant to have people caring about him, even if they were only doing their jobs and would put him from their minds as soon as the next patient required attention.
He could, however, have done without the questioning. ‘What’s your name? Where do you live? How are you? How did you end up in the river? Were you in a fight?’ Unwilling to admit to attempted suicide, he exaggerated his befuddlement, twisted facts and even resorted to a few downright lies, including giving a false name: John Smith. He wasn’t certain they believed him. A wall clock showed two o’clock. Someone mentioned the police were on their way. Reluctant to stand up to any more interrogation, Ray looked for an opportunity to get away.
An emergency came in.
Left alone, Ray checked no one was watching and hauled his battered frame from the trolley. Despite shaky legs, he felt better than he might have done, though he was wearing only a flimsy hospital robe, useless for a great escape. He was fortunate to find his own clothes screwed up in a polythene bag beneath the trolley. Discarding the robe, he hurried to dress, shivering as the clammy cloth engulfed his warm skin, but relieved to find his wallet still in a pocket. He tiptoed away, reached the main entrance unnoticed and slipped into the cool night air, hoping a taxi would be waiting and would take him home. There wasn’t one, so he hurried along empty streets until he reached the centre of town where he flagged down the first one he saw.
Had he wished for a cabby who wouldn’t stop talking during the entire journey, he’d have been in luck. He hadn’t, of course, so endured a tortuous and inane monologue about cats for most of the forty-minute journey to the smart Cotswold village of Willoton.
Making the directions easy, Ray asked the cabby to stop outside the gates of Willoton Hall, a once grand Victorian mansion long-since turned into luxury apartments, and paid the fare with soggy money, including a tip which he hoped was adequate, but not extravagant. Once alone, he turned and hobbled back towards Riverside Cottage, his home—if he could still call it that. The dank October air, the blustery wind and the heavy clouds suggested rain was imminent. His clothing was already damp and clinging to his body, but it was only a ten-minute walk, and walking was just about the only activity that could divert him from the shapeless half-life he’d been enduring.
He was mooching along the dark and narrow winding lane towards the cottage, when a car, driven at reckless speed, forced him against the drystone wall. For a moment he was tempted to step into its path and the only thing that held him back was unwillingness to risk injuring anyone else.
On reaching the cottage, he let himself in. The familiarity of the decorations and furnishings, nearly all Flit’s handiwork, struck him hard, shocking reminders of when they’d been happy. At least that was what he’d always told himself, though recently he’d started wondering if the only reason she’d done everything around the house was because he’d never bothered. He’d tried convincing himself it really hadn’t been his fault. His promotion at Burke and Coe had led to work gobbling up so much of his time that he’d been too tired to do much more than slump in front of the television and eat whatever she put in front of him whenever he returned home in the evenings. The money he earned, however, had enabled them to live in a sought after area and take expensive holidays, which Ray had considered so important at the time.
His mouth was as dry as the dust covering every surface—all they’d given him at the hospital was a lukewarm plastic cup of coffee from a machine, and the whiskies he’d knocked back earlier were splitting his head. He entered the contemporary fitted kitchen with its smart granite worktops and English oak storage cupboards, once Flit’s pride and joy. Something stank in there, but he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.
He put the kettle on. When it boiled, he made tea and sat at the kitchen table, yawning and trying to remember if he had any painkillers.
It was bright daylight when he surfaced from a recurring nightmare in which an angry face he couldn’t quite identify screamed accusations and abuse. His head was thumping and his mouth felt as if someone had coated it in dry flour. He poured out some tea. It was cold and stewed, but he drank it anyway.
The pong had become unbearable. He traced it to the remains of a microwaved chicken madras that had been rotting in the bin for a week. Holding his breath, his stomach heaving, he tied up the bin liner and lugged it outside to a pile beside the back gate. Marauding wasps buzzed around his head, making him flap and curse—he hated creepy-crawlies in general and wasps in particular. Perhaps he ought to take the stuff round to the front so it could be collected before it attracted rats. But did the bin men still come round on alternate Wednesdays? He hadn’t a clue—he’d left even that small job to Flit. Whatever, it would have to wait until he felt better.
He returned to the table, sat down, squeezed out another cup of tea and dozed off again.
Ray woke with a start, feeling sick and muzzy-headed. His clothes were still moist in patches and he was shivering. The doorbell was ringing and, though he couldn’t be bothered to answer, the sound of a key turning in the lock made him get to his feet and stagger into the hallway.
‘Oh… Raymondo, so you are home,’ said the tall, slim, black-haired man in his early thirties who’d let himself in.
Ray winced, but forced a smile at his wife’s former colleague from Heartfields. ‘Alex.’
‘Alright if I come in?’
Ray bit back on a retort that Alex was already in, nodded and stepped aside. ‘Go through to the kitchen.’
It was the tidiest room downstairs though that wasn’t saying much. Alex’s nose wrinkled at the lingering reminders of the great stink as he sat down on the best chair, dropping his newspaper onto the table.
‘I didn’t know you had a key,’ said Ray, sitting opposite and, despite his best efforts, admiring the cut of Alex’s suit.
‘You gave it me. Don’t you remember?’
‘Er… yeah… I suppose I must have done.’
Alex sat back. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Alright… in the circumstances.’
Although Alex nodded, he looked around the kitchen, taking in the pile of dirty clothing in the corner, the unwashed dishes festering in the sink, Ray’s soiled clothes and his battered face. ‘Are you quite sure, Raymondo? Are you really coping? With the inquest coming up and all that?’
Ray slumped.
‘And what on earth have you been doing to yourself? You look terrible. Your face…’
‘I… er… fell over.’
‘And your hand?’
Ray glanced at his skinned, swollen knuckles. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’
Alex scrutinised him. ‘Felicity… Flit… wouldn’t have wanted to see you living like this. I’m sorry to have to say it, but you need to shower. And when did you last have a haircut or shave? You must start taking care of yourself. I know it’ll be difficult, but you’ve got to get a grip. You still have a life to lead and things will get easier, I promise. It’ll just take time.’
Alex’s kind words and smile breached the dam of self-control that had been holding back a reservoir of unhappiness. Ray shamed himself by crying at what he’d lost. He also felt awful that he’d once been consumed by doubts about Alex who, despite being as distraught as Ray at Flit’s death, had been the only one to look out for him afterwards.
‘Let it all out, mate,’ said Alex, getting up and placing a hand on Ray’s shoulder.
Ray did, sobbing as he hadn’t been able to at the funeral, when he’d been too numb to take it all in. Alex left him alone for a few minutes until he was more himself.
‘It’s a damned sad business,’ Alex murmured. ‘A bloody horrible thing that happened… what a waste… what a mess.’
‘It was all my fault,’ said Ray. ‘If I hadn’t run, she’d still be alive.’ A fresh bout of sobs choked him.
‘Drink this,’ said Alex, placing a mug of tea in front of him. ‘You’ll feel better.’
‘Not in this world.’
‘Don’t talk like that. It was just circumstances. I’m sure the coroner will find you weren’t entirely to blame.’
Ray shook his head. Alex couldn’t possibly understand just how deep his guilt was, but, having calmed down after a sip or two of tea, he thought it high time to man up. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, and blew his nose—his handkerchief smelled of river. He forced a crooked smile. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Alex. ‘Work has been busy because… well, you know?’
‘How are things at Heartfields?’
Alex scowled. ‘Not great, to be honest. There appears to be some sort of black hole in the accounts. They should have promoted me instead of bringing in one of the boss’s mates—I deserved it and I’d never have allowed such things to happen.’
Ray nodded, trying to show interest, though he’d heard similar moans more times than he could remember. ‘Have they found anyone to replace Flit yet?’
‘No one could replace her, but they have brought someone in to do her job. I’m training him and it’s hard work.’ Alex sighed and poured more tea. ‘And what do you do with your days?’
‘Not much.’
‘Do you feel ready to go back to work?’
Ray shook his head. He daren’t face his colleagues yet, whether they were sympathetic or judgemental.
Alex shrugged. ‘So, are you still moping around the house all the time?’
‘No, I’ve started going out for long walks.’
‘I’m glad to hear it—that’s got to be better. Anywhere special?’
‘Nowhere in particular, just wherever my feet take me, and then I find my way back. Walking is the only thing that helps, and I only sleep when I’m physically exhausted. Sometimes I walk all night.’ He didn’t mention that he preferred being out in the dark or in bad weather when he was less likely to bump into someone who might know him and want to talk.
‘Do you ever head over to Glevchester or anywhere near there?’
Ray shook his head. ‘No… well yes. I had a visit to A&E at Glevchester hospital… after my fall.’
‘So you haven’t visited the White Hart recently?’
‘No. Where’s that?’ Ray tried to appear nonchalant. He had no wish to explain why he’d been there.
‘Across the river in Bindover. You must remember.’
Ray shook his head.
‘That’s strange. Felicity said the two of you used to go there quite often once upon a time. She said you liked to sit out with a beer and have a meal and watch the river roll by.’
Ray paused. ‘Oh… yeah… now you mention it I think I do, though it seems a long while ago.’
‘Right. But you haven’t been back there recently?’
‘Not for ages.’ Ray flushed and sweated.
‘Oh, well, not to worry. Have you seen today’s paper?’
‘I’m afraid not. I don’t get one delivered and I’ve rather cut myself off from news. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason, Raymondo. Well, I’d better be going. Finish your tea, mate. I’ll find my own way out. See you soon.’
‘See you,’ said Ray, forcing another smile. Alex departed, leaving his paper on the table.
Ray glanced at the headline: ‘Woman attacked on Bindover Bridge.’ The artist’s impression of the unkempt suspect did look worryingly like him.