Page 71 of Close to You
There’s my blood, too. When I look at myself in the mirror, there’s a narrow slit that arcs across the top of my collarbone, near the base of my neck. David was aiming for my face and it was only my last-second flinch to the side that made him miss. It’s not deep – nothing for which I’d have to go to the hospital – although there’s plenty of blood.
As I look at my reflection, I tell myself I did the only thing I could. Not only that, the outcome was an accident.
If I tried another hundred times, I doubt I could muster the accuracy I had when the clay pot hit David’s head.
Then there’s the voice at the back of my mind that says he was simply moving around the counter. He was holding the knife because he was making a sandwich and, in all the drama, he forgot he was holding it.
‘David?’
I crouch, avoiding the blood, and gently pinch his fingers.
‘Come on, David. Time to get up.’
The shattered pieces of the clay pot are spread around the kitchen. There are four or five large shards and then a couple of dozen smaller pieces. I push some of the bigger ones towards the side, out of my way, as I move around David’s body and then gently slap his face.
‘David?’
I hold his wrist, trying to check his pulse, but my fingers and trembling and I can’t control my grip. I try his neck, but there’s nothing. I even press a hand to his chest, looking for even the merest of inflations.
Nothing.
I start pumping his chest – one-two-three-four-five – aah-aah-aah-aah-staying alive – but then I stop. What happens if he does come around? An assault charge? Attempted murder? How can I explain it all?
And then…
I remember the news from a few weeks ago. David and I argued about the stolen watch he’d given me, but, before that, I was watching the story of the one-punch man. One stupid action and two families lost everything. David is already dead and it isn’t like he’s close to his sister. He doesn’t have anyone else, except me. Should I lose everything because of one action that wasn’t even deliberate?
It suddenly feels as if I’m out of my body. Like someone, or something, else has taken over – and I’m now watching myself. It’s either rationality or the complete lack of it.
I clamp a square of kitchen towel to my neck and then head into the bathroom, where I grab a bandage from the cabinet. It looks ridiculous as I wind the material around my neck and secure it with a plaster – but it does the job in stopping the bleeding.
After that, I move into the bedroom and strip the bed. The sheets were one of the few things on which I spent decent amounts of money when I first moved in. I couldn’t afford much in the way of luxury but figured anything that contributed to a good night’s sleep would be worth it. The value is worthless now as I carry the sheets into the kitchen and cover David’s body. I start to wrap him, like he’s some sort of Egyptian Mummy, folding the corners until he is fully entombed. Blood is seeping through the top part, so I wrap a second sheet around his head, which, for the moment, seems to stop the worst of the flow.
With David entombed, it’s not that difficult to drag him across the laminate floor until he’s by the front door. I return to the kitchen, pushing the larger parts of the clay pot into the corner and wiping away the worst of David’s blood. I squirt some Mr Muscle onto the floor, leaving it to soak in.
The reddened cloths all go into a bin bag and I’m about to dump the pieces of Tigger’s head in with them when I stop. There are very few tiny shards and I wonder if it could be glued back together. It would be like keeping the gun or knife after a murder and yet, for the first time, I realise why someone might do that. There’s something close to a mystical quality about an object that’s done so much damage. A fascination that cannot be matched.
Instead of dumping the broken pieces of ceramic, I brush the rest of them into the corner and then get back to work.
It’s not a deep clean – there’s time for that in future – but I finish clearing away anything obvious, until I have a pair of black bags full of cloths and paper towels.
I’ve never been a fan of the end of a year, when it feels like the sun never comes up. Darkness has a grip on the day, which it seems so reluctant to relinquish. It’s a blessing now, though.
My car is backed onto the patch of land by my door. I’ve often thought about installing some sort of motion-detecting security light overhead because the nearest street lamp is diagonally across the road and offers little light in this direction. Now, I’m grateful for the gloom.
It takes me a short while to find my car keys. They were in the pot when I threw it and, for a moment, it’s like they’ve fallen through a wormhole. David is here, the broken pot is in the corner, my house keys are next to the knife, which I realise is stained with my blood – but there are no car keys. Five minutes pass before I finally discover them in the sink, next to the buttery knife David left. It’s as if they’ve broken the laws of physics by somehow travelling in the opposite direction to everything else.
I open my car boot and then drag David out of my door and heft him into the back. I add the two bin bags and then return into the flat to grab the ball of string from under the sink. I can’t ever remember using it, nor why I bought it – but it will be useful now. I get the scissors from the kitchen drawer and then take a pair of the bricks from the wall next to my car that always looks like it’s on the brink of collapsing.
I wipe away a few final smears of blood from the floor inside and then lock the flat, while leaving the lights on. My dad used to be obsessed with things like this back in the day. He was convinced anyone passing was secretly planning to break in and, every time we left the house, he’d leave the lights on. As crime prevention methods go, it’s relatively basic – although we were never burgled, so perhaps he was onto something. Either way, I figure any neighbour who casually glances across the road will see the lights and assume I’m in.
The car feels sluggish from the back, although I take it slowly as I head out of Gradingham and head for the road out towards Little Bush Woods.
I’m only a couple of minutes past the village sign, when I hear the clunk from the back. I ease off the accelerator, wondering if I’ve bumped over some roadkill, when it comes again. My mind races: David’s still alive – and he’s banging on the side of the car, wondering what’s going on.
I slow and ease the car onto a verge at the side of the road. High hedges surround both sides and it’s colder in the countryside. My breath ekes into the air as I open the driver’s door and edge around to the back of the car. I rest a hand on the clasp at the back, wondering what to do. It will be impossible to dress this up as some sort of misunderstanding. It’s not like I’m taking David to the hospital…
The boot creaks as I pull up on the handle. I half expect it fly open as David springs free… except, when I peer inside, he’s still there, mummified and covered. I have to use the light from my phone and it doesn’t look as if any more blood has leaked through the sheets. The two black bags are still wedged into the corners and I can’t see anything different. There’s no escaping the fact that David is dead – and that I killed him.
