Black Ice

by Ian Giles

  Despite the girl lacking the power of speech he had perked up. He didn’t regret for a moment sacrificing his nap for a trip to Vejdhem. He accelerated, making the car tilt on corners, and saw with amusement how she clasped the handle on the inside of the door with both hands.

  17

  Sandra

  HE WAS CHIVALROUS and didn’t let her carry a single thing herself. Sandra didn’t object, even if she would have preferred not to have to offer him a cup of coffee, given how exhausted she was after the breakneck ride in the car. But it had gone fine in the end, and she really was grateful that he had—for no particular reason—been her knight in shining armour.

  “Thank you so much for your help,” she said when they reached the hall. “You’ve been far too generous—you could have dropped me off on the main road.”

  “With all this?” he laughed, glancing at all the bags and boxes.

  She smiled back and held her hands out apologetically.

  “At least let me cover your costs.”

  She said this as she got her wallet out of her handbag, even though she was convinced he would refuse. Adults rarely accepted payment for favours.

  “Out of the question,” he said, as she expected.

  “Then let me at least make you a cup of coffee. Do you have time?”

  “I’m sure I have time for a cup of coffee.”

  Sandra hung her coat on a hanger in the wardrobe and put his on a hook on the wall. She took off her shoes on the hall floor, but didn’t want to ask him to do the same. It would somehow be too pedantic, whilst also acting as an invitation to the man to make himself more at home.

  She switched on the coffee maker and got two mugs out of the cupboard. That was all she had time to do before he changed his mind.

  “I don’t suppose I could have a whisky instead?” he asked nonchalantly.

  She looked at him for a moment.

  “Aren’t you driving?” she said hesitantly.

  “A wee dram won’t do any harm,” he said with broad smile.

  As if she ought to have known that big, strong men could handle a whisky before getting behind the wheel. He made her feel unsure—was she even allowed to offer him alcohol before he got into the car? But she didn’t want to make a fuss, and he probably knew his limits. So she got what she had out of the larder—an almost-full bottle that had been in there for at least a year.

  He grabbed hold of it and turned it in his hand. He studied the label and nodded in approval.

  “That’s more like it,” he said, pouring himself a shot in one of the mugs.

  Sandra turned her back to him and continued to make the coffee. She heard him drinking, and the cork being removed and replaced once again. She remembered how it had occurred to her in the car that he might be inebriated, that his breath smelled of booze, and that his careless driving might be because he was under the influence of alcohol.

  This didn’t feel good. She couldn’t very well let him loose on the roads while under the influence. It wasn’t just about him. She plucked up courage and turned around to face the man.

  “Happy?” she said in a forcedly pleasant tone of voice, taking the bottle from the counter where he had put it without waiting for a reply.

  Then she took the few paces to the larder and noted that he must have filled his mug generously on both occasions, because almost a third of the bottle’s contents was missing.

  “Not quite,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound as friendly anymore. “I don’t think you’ve thanked me properly.”

  And then she felt him place his hands on her hips and press himself against her. That the situation might develop like this hadn’t crossed her mind, and suddenly sweat broke out on her brow. She had to try and get out of this without causing an unnecessary scene. She still had the bottle in her hand—she shouldn’t have provoked him by questioning his driving.

  “Perhaps you’d like more whisky?” she said in an overly cheerful voice.

  She tried to turn away from him while at the same time attempting to escape his unwelcome embrace. She thought that she would wordlessly, without insulting him, let him know that she wasn’t interested, and that he should go home or to work or wherever it was he was going. Right now she didn’t care that he was too drunk to drive. He needed to leave straight away. She would call the police and ask them to stop him somewhere on the roads, which wasn’t much of a thank you for the lift—but he was an adult who made his own decisions, after all.

  But his grip tightened. She didn’t manage to get free and didn’t succeed in turning around. If she were to tell him off, he would feel wronged and probably turn angry, and angry drunk men who took what they wanted like this weren’t the kind of people you should toy with. Everything was going wrong and she had to make him understand that he should stop without offending him.

  She put the bottle on the counter, took hold of his hands and tried to force them away while slipping out of his grip. But it didn’t work—and wouldn’t if she didn’t take really drastic measures, and she wanted to avoid that.

  “Surely you’re not playing hard to get?” he said in a darker, more drawling voice than before, speaking into her neck just below her ear.

  His breath was warm and moist, his lips wet, and the fumes of alcohol reached her nose when he spoke.

  “A little gratitude would surely be appropriate?”

  A big, sweaty paw fumbled under her top while the other maintained a firm grip on her waist. Sandra was really getting scared now, and realised there was a risk she wouldn’t get out of this. She made a serious effort to free herself, a very definite one, but without words, so that he wouldn’t feel trampled on. Anything that wasn’t said would never happen—she gave him every opportunity to back out of the situation.

  But he merely chuckled quietly and leaned his head back a little, actually seeming to enjoy encountering resistance.

  “Hey girl,” he grinned, unperturbed. “Take it easy.”

  Then he manoeuvred his left arm rapidly: got it above hers, bent it, and established a rock-solid grip around her throat. And then he threw her down on the floor. She could hardly breathe, and it struck her that he really was going to strangle her.

  That was when she realised it was over. He wasn’t going to let her get away.

  18

  Jan

  HE FELT REALLY PLEASED with himself, almost elated to have been able to help. The girl’s gratitude was his reward, but it was no big deal—she had been freezing her arse off in the car park with her heap of shopping.

  When they arrived, he carried all the bits and pieces inside even though he was already late and needed to go back to work.

  “Thank you so much for your help. You’ve been far too generous—you could have dropped me off on the main road.”

  “With all this?” he laughed, making a gesture at the mountain of stuff.

  She held out her hands and apologised with a smile.

  “At least let me cover your costs,” she said, pulling her wallet out.

  The fact that she was attempting to pay for his petrol was endearing in some childish way, as if he needed financial compensation for taking a small diversion into the country to help a fellow human being. Naturally, he declined.

  “Then let me at least make you a cup of coffee,” she insisted. “Do you have time?’”

  Jan resigned himself to it—if she wanted to do the right thing then he would have to let her.

  “I’m sure I have time for a cup of coffee,” he said amenably.

  A cup of coffee would hit the spot, given he had to drive all the way back into town. But as soon as he got into the kitchen, he had other ideas. The subdued light cast by the spots on the ceiling revealed a smart new interior following traditional designs. It smelled of soap and winter apples, while there were pots of coriander and basil standing on the windowsill. New and old, light and dark. The cosy kitchen was an invitation for company, and the devil got into him. That was how it went sometimes—for better or
worse—but there was something about the day that felt different and a little festive. He didn’t really need to go back to work either—it was mostly Luther who was on his back.

  “I don’t suppose I could have a whisky instead?” he asked.

  That would definitely perk him up, but she seemed hesitant.

  “Aren’t you driving?” she replied, but he waved away her concerns.

  He could handle his drink, and moderate quantities of alcohol made him sharper rather than tired and unfocused. She conceded and got out the bottle.

  While she fiddled with her coffee, he drained the first glass—or mug, as it was. And since she had her back turned and probably wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing, he poured another snifter. Two drams before going home was just right: it would revive his spirits and eliminate the risk that he would fall asleep behind the wheel.

  But he had been mistaken. She wasn’t as dozy as he had thought, and suddenly she turned around and took the bottle from him. It didn’t really matter since he hadn’t been intending to drink more. But that overbearing manner—her opinions about what he should and shouldn’t do—got to him. Who the fuck was she—a mere slip of a girl—to put him in his place, to mother a middle-aged man? Not least after what he had done for her?

  He flipped. He really didn’t like that arrogant style, and she looked a little tempting there with her ample rear pointing straight at him. He crept up behind her and put his hands on her hips, kissing her on the neck. She was a little reluctant there and then, but she needed to know who was boss. He was still angry, and she smelled so good. She was warm and feminine and wonderful—he couldn’t help himself.

  In his excitement, he pulled her down onto the floor. And not long after, when they had romped around for a bit, she capitulated and gave way to pleasure. Mutual pleasure. Because when they did it the second time she was completely relaxed and there wasn’t a shred of resistance. The friction there had been to begin with was nothing more than exciting foreplay.

  Afterwards they spooned, and he nuzzled her neck and hair and caressed her gently. She quite simply liked it—he was pretty sure about that. Even if she wasn’t exactly standing in the door waving him off as he left.

  19

  Sandra

  FINALLY, IT WAS OVER. She lay on her side while he stood up, so she could see him zip up his fly, button his trousers, and tighten his belt. The last thing he did before leaving was to lean over and kiss her on the mouth and both cheeks. Softly and gently, as if he was thanking her for a lovely time. As if she were his woman and he had to go to work.

  As if he would soon be back.

  She heard him turn on music in the car and rev the engine. Playful. Happy. She heard him finally drive off, leaving her alone in a silence broken only by the hum of the fridge going on and off close to her ear.

  She lay there. She couldn’t bring herself to get up, even though there was a cold draught on the kitchen floor and she was half-naked. She would catch cold. She managed to think that but couldn’t bring herself to think about anything other than snotty noses, coughs, and sore throats.

  Then she cried. Quietly, without moving, for a long time—without forming any particular reason in her mind. She curled up with her arms around herself.

  She must have slept too. She came to because her mobile was ringing, but she was incapable of getting up—let alone speaking to anyone. She cried more—empty, meaningless tears that eventually petered out.

  That was enough. She hauled herself up and fumbled in the dark for the clothes scattered across the floor. With small, cautious movements she pulled them on—pain making itself known in different places in time with the beating of her heart.

  Then she turned on the light in the window, sat down in the half-darkness at the kitchen table, and pushed all her thoughts to one side.

  20

  Jan

  HE BRAKED WITH RESTRAINT. He couldn’t slam on the brakes; if he did, he would lose control of the car. He also couldn’t swerve. He didn’t want to be close to that ravine on the icy road, so it was a conscious choice to keep left on the corner. How was he supposed to predict an encounter on this quiet road in the middle of the forest? The oncoming car was going far too fast—he based his assessment on how fast it was approaching—and it was something he was unhappily unable to do anything about.

  He gently braked to mitigate the blow without spinning the car. Better to have a head-on crash than to be hit in the side by the oncoming car, he reasoned. Or to fly into the abyss.

  But the idiot in the other car moved to the side and slammed on the brakes. He seemed to have the synapses of a reptile. So instead of the expected head-to-head collision, Jan watched with consternation as the oncoming car avoided him by a hair’s breadth and, travelling sideways at high speed, slid across the road and practically flew off the edge. He also managed to see the way it plummeted down the slope rear first before it vanished behind the crest and he had to concentrate on his own driving.

  He brought the Audi to a halt about thirty metres beyond the scene of the accident and caught his breath for a few seconds. Then he reversed back to where the other car had disappeared, turned off the music, and hopped over to the passenger seat for a better view. He wasn’t sure whether to get out of the car or not—he was in shock and couldn’t think straight.

  It looked bad. The other car had done a whole somersault before ending up at the bottom of the ravine with its nose facing the road. There was smoke coming from the car, but the engine was quiet. There was no movement inside: no signs of life from the driver or any passengers. And given how the wreckage looked, it would have surprised him if anyone had managed to survive the crash.

  So what was he meant to do?

  Should he climb down into the ravine and see whether there was anything he or anyone else could do? In these slippery, cold conditions and with ordinary shoes in this rugged terrain? Hardly.

  Should he contact emergency services? Then the police would come—that wasn’t a great idea. Even though Jan was sober, he would definitely test positive on a breathalyser. Suspicion would be directed at him that would generate an unpleasant ripple effect, and that would be most unfortunate.

  When all was said and done, that stupid driver had caused this and had only himself to blame. Someone else would have to find him and call an ambulance. If it was needed, which seemed rather unlikely given how things looked down there—how quiet and still things were.

  So Jan climbed into the driver’s seat again and drove away. He used side roads to avoid meeting too much traffic. He drove calmly and carefully to avoid drawing attention to himself or risking anything else happening. And without music—the party atmosphere was well and truly gone.

  21

  Sandra

  AFTER DOWNING a large amount of the remaining contents from the offending whisky bottle and lining up the pros and cons of reporting what had happened to the police, she deferred her decision. Instead, she did what so many others had done before her. She showered and scrubbed herself, cleaned and dusted, vacuumed and mopped. Everything that had to be done to eradicate every trace of that abominable man from her body and her home. All that lingered on was the loathing.

  She never wanted to think about him again—she didn’t want to see anything that reminded her of him. She threw out the clothes she had been wearing that day, as well as the mugs even though only one of them had been used by him to knock back whisky.

  She even got a new haircut, getting blonde highlights in her hair, and changed her glasses’ frame so that he wouldn’t recognise her if they bumped into each other anywhere. Gotland wasn’t a big place. The only thing she didn’t get rid of was the house itself—she couldn’t. She loved her little cottage in the country and wanted never to live anywhere else, so she wasn’t going to let him take that from her. The risk was that he could appear again—a fear that was ever present. On the other hand, he could turn up anywhere. If her identity was of any interest to him, he probably already kn
ew who she was.

  It was with some effort that Sandra adjusted to her new reality, but after a few weeks in isolation she was ready to meet the world again. Work colleagues, customers, friends, and family—she didn’t let on to any of them that the protracted bout of flu had been anything else.

  In the end, so many days had passed since the rape that it would have felt stupid to report it. Intentionally eradicating all traces of the perpetrator before then demanding that the police conduct a serious investigation would be pathetic, she told herself.

  It wasn’t long before she became accustomed to the idea that he would get away with it. That he might do something like that again, as well as having the memory of Sandra to build his perverse fantasies around. And that there was nothing she could do about it.

  22

  Jan

  JUST A FEW MINUTES after leaving the scene of the accident, his hands began to shake violently, then his arms. For the majority of the drive home he was quaking. He was in some sort of shock, perhaps not medically, but it had hit him hard and he didn’t feel well.

  It could just as well have been him who had ended up over the edge bleeding or stiffening or whatever the hell that road hog was doing right now. Before too long it would be pitch dark and the snow was coming down heavily. The car would soon be covered, and then there would be no chance of it being found until the snow melted, which would take at least a week according to the latest forecast.

  So long as he didn’t call emergency services, anyway. But however he looked at it, he couldn’t see how it would work for him personally. He couldn’t call from his own phone; the call would be traced. There were no phone boxes these days, so that was out. And even if he borrowed a phone from someone, they would remember him and be able to give a description later. All calls to the emergency services were recorded, and if the recording ended up on TV then about four hundred people would call in because they recognised Jan’s voice.