Page 11 of Savage Warrior

Aaron is driving. He hops into the front seat, and Jack is in the passenger seat alongside him. Ethan follows me into the back, and the vehicle purrs away.

“You did all you could,” Ethan assures me. He’s been saying much the same thing to me for the last fortnight. “Moses would have known that.”

“I should have been able to save him,” I repeat, for what must be the thousandth time. The familiar refrain has been going around my head on a loop for two weeks solid and shows no sign of slowing.

“Why? Why should you?” Ethan demands. “You tried, we all know that.”

I shake my head. Trying wasn’t good enough. Trying doesn’t count. I was at the wheel. I was the one who skidded on the fucking ice and dumped our car in the loch. I was the one who got out and Moses didn’t.

I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest, reliving those horrendous scenes. The dizzying slide when the tyres hit the ice, the spin, the screech of brakes as I fought to hang on to control and failed utterly. The crash of boughs shattering when we sliced though the undergrowth, then the sense of flight as we soared briefly over the dark, menacing ripples of Loch Inverarder. And finally, the splash followed by the bitter, breath-taking cold when the vehicle plunged headfirst into the murky depths. Within moments, we were under twelve feet of frigid water, pitch-black, fighting for our lives.

Only one of us won that fight.

Maybe it was because I was driving. I braced, saw it coming. I was ready.

I was out of my seat belt in an instant, battling against the weight of the water to force my door open. It swung wide, caught by the current. I reached for Moses in the seat next to me, but he wasn’t there. It was too dark, I couldn’t see anything, but I know he was gone, no longer in that seat. I got out, and I swam.

Up, towards the light, or where I knew it must be. I broke the surface, expecting to find Moses already there, but I was alone. I dived back down, this time to the passenger side. It was definitely empty. I checked the back, though I have no idea why. I was desperate, acting on instinct, frantic to find my friend.

Again and again I dived, searching the murky water around the sunken car. I swam though reeds at the bottom of the loch, circling the vehicle again and again, wider and wider. Nothing. Moses was gone.

I surfaced, screaming his name. He must have got out, somehow saved himself.

Silence.

Even when I remembered that Moses couldn’t swim, I kept on hoping. Searching. Praying in a way I’d found impossible a few minutes ago at the graveside.

People came. A young couple who’d been passing and spotted the debris where we crashed through the undergrowth and stopped to look. They heard me shouting and came to help. He waded in to search with me, then eventually dragged me, exhausted, to the bank. She phoned the police.

They turned up with their divers and searchlights, their little dinghies. And they eventually found Moses’ body the following morning, half a mile away, tangled in the reeds.

There was an investigation, of course, but there really was nothing to see here. It was the weather, the ice. An accident, just as Ethan is saying. Has been saying for the last two weeks. No further action, case closed.

“You need some time off,” Ethan declares. “Some time to yourself, to come to terms…”

“I’m okay,” I insist. “I have shit to do.”

“No, you don’t.” Ethan is adamant. “You’re in shock. Grieving—”

“We’re all grieving,” I snap. “Why is everyone treating me like I’m made of porcelain? I need to get back out there and—”

“Enough, bro. I’m pulling rank.” Ethan’s voice has hardened.

I recognise that tone and I would never normally argue. But there’s nothing normal anymore. Not since I killed my friend.

“Fuck you, and fuck your rank. Just drop me off here.” I reach for the door handle, but it’s locked. “For fuck’s sake, let me out!” My fists are up, I’m finally ready to slug my boss on the chin. What the fuck…? I take a swing at it, but he’s faster.

“Enough.” His right hook puts a stop to my foolhardy attempt at insubordination. His punch is followed by his arms around me. “Rome, mate, give it up. Listen to me, you need help.”

“No, I—”

“Yes, and it starts now. You can come back to Caraksay with me and put your feet up. Take it easy for as long as it takes and let Mrs McRae fuss over you.”

I do briefly consider the offer. The prospect of a week or two of Ethan’s housekeeper’s cooking is not unwelcome, or wouldn’t be if I could manage to eat anything. My appetite has been non-existent since the crash, and not even Mrs McRae’s legendary Aberdeen Angus beef stew is going to change anything there.

“No. I need to be on my own,” I reply.

“Fair enough. Solitude might do the trick. At least you won’t have anyone to pick fights with.”

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