One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  Despite the weight of his rucksack, Seb’s over the stile like a gazelle. He hesitates, wondering if this could be another mistake. The pathway isn’t clear, just a vague track through the grass. It could have been made by a couple of wandering sheep. It looks like it heads into thick gorse and a few wind-wasted trees. Maybe not such a smart idea with a big pack on your back, on your way to a new job. But then, someone has gone to the trouble of making and erecting a signpost. He looks back up the road. It’s clearly leading to the summit. He can see masts at the top, another landmark mentioned by his drinking companions.

  Seb looks out towards the bay, drawing the sea air deep into his lungs, smelling it, almost tasting the salt on his tongue. This is a different seascape from any he’s ever seen. The Mediterranean is azure blue and filled with boats. Everything from luxury yachts lying in the bay off Monte Carlo, to huge container ships heading out from Barcelona. Here only one boat crosses the water, its solitary wake a churning white against the graphite sea. Seb watches its red funnel and decides to make a trip across that sea a priority this summer.

  To his right, in the distance, white windmills march over a hillside, just like in France. The sight makes him feel a little homesick, not for Paris so much as for the village in Aude where Mamie lives. It reminds him that she deserves a phone call, so he can thank her for the book she sent for his birthday and the spending money she tucked inside the cover as a surprise.

  Seb ups his pace. The sooner he gets there, the sooner he can get settled in, borrow a phone and make his calls home. Mamie will say, as she always does, ‘How is my favourite grandson?’ What Mother will say is anyone’s guess. If she says anything at all.

  10

  Don’t know what will happen when I lower the gun, but it won’t be nice. The way the guy jumped when I pulled the trigger. The look on his face. Don’t know what came over me. I knew the gun wasn’t loaded, but he didn’t. I’m a bit ashamed, to be honest. I’d like to say sorry.

  I expect him to come at me like a bull that I’ve poked with a pitchfork. But he starts laughing. You’d think I’d just told the funniest joke ever. As if he’s crying, he wipes his eyes, one after the other. Then he looks straight at me. Oh dear. Now I’m for it.

  ‘Well done, kid. You almost had me there. Of course, I never thought for a moment that gun was loaded, but hey, great joke.’

  With a sudden lunge he reaches for the gun and grabs hold of it. I refuse to let it go and we do a little tug of war. Then he starts to prise my fingers off the barrel. They look like matchsticks, easy to break. I let go and he takes the gun out of my hands.

  ‘Where the hell did you get a gun like this?’ He examines it, stroking the wooden butt. ‘Do your folks know?’

  My guilty face tells him the answer.

  ‘Oh dear. They don’t, do they?’

  I shake my head, my eyes on his.

  ‘Your dad’s not going to like this one little bit, is he? Here you are, out in the woods, all by yourself, with his gun, and he doesn’t know a thing about it.’ He sucks in a long breath of air through his teeth.

  I start crying. Can’t help it.

  ‘Come on now, kid. Don’t be a cry baby.’ He pokes at me with the gun barrel but he’s smiling, as if he wants to make me laugh. ‘Quit the sniffling. Big boys don’t cry.’ He starts to walk around in front of me, waving the gun about as if it weighs no more than a water pistol. ‘I tell you what, it’s your lucky day. I ought to give you a good hiding for pulling that stunt, but I’m in a really good mood this morning, thanks to that little blonde chick I met in the pub.’ He scratches at his groin.

  I step back. Two or three steps.

  He puts the gun down and unzips his jeans. I start to run, stumbling and falling into the gorse. Its branches grab at me, scratching and trapping me in that same sickly-sweet smell.

  I hear a hissing sound and the smell changes. I turn round and see him peeing into the bushes.

  I crawl towards the gun but he’s too fast for me. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ he says, in a sing-song voice, as if he’s teasing. He holds the gun out of my reach with one hand, while he closes his zip with the other. ‘Why don’t we have some fun, you and me? Just us two men, out in the woods together, eh?’

  I shake my head. No, no, no. It can’t be going to happen again. I reverse, pushing against the gorse. Its thorns feel like a thousand tiny daggers in my back.

  ‘Come on. Give me some ammunition, partner,’ he says, pointing at my pocket. He sounds ridiculous, putting on a cowboy voice, as if he’s trying to make me smile. ‘We’re gonna do ourselves some shootin’, boy. Hand me the goddamned ammo.’

  I’ve already made one big mistake this morning. Got a terrible feeling I’m about to make another one, but I don’t think I’ve got much choice.

  He fiddles around until he manages to load the gun. He closes it, tucks it under his arm, cowboy-style, and swaggers off into the woods. Half of me hopes he’s forgotten I’m there. Might be able to escape, fetch Dad.

  ‘Come on, partner,’ he calls to me over his shoulder. ‘I’ve done me some gun-shootin’ back home. I’m an ace shot.’

  That’s a lie. People who are used to handling guns treat them with total respect. Dad has told me often enough.

  ‘Come on, kid. Don’t chicken out now.’ He disappears into the woods.

  I look around, hopeless. I’ve got such a bad feeling about all this. Just want to run for home but I can’t let a total stranger wander off with Dad’s best gun. I’ve got to follow him. I trudge along through the gorse, trying to keep him in my sight.

  This is so bad. Dad’s told me thousands of times. ‘What’s the Golden Rule of hunting, Charlie? Never, ever walk around with a loaded gun.’

  11

  Seb can’t take his mind off the thirst. He’s had hangovers before. Not a lot, to be honest. Just after one or two parties. But never anything like this.

  Usually, it’s a case of staying in bed till it wears off. With Mother bringing him painkillers for his headache and chilled drinks of Evian. Last time she even put a cool washcloth on his brow. Now, that was nice. When he’d told his mates, they’d been incredulous and insulting, and Seb suspected a little bit jealous. What he’d give right now to be back in his own bed with his mother fussing over him. He wouldn’t snap at her to keep the shutters closed. Or demand that she keep the noise down. He’d say, ‘Thanks,’ and give her a hug, if he could get his head off the pillow.

  Pillow. What a thought. Crawling into bed, pulling the duvet up to his ears and sleeping. Till he doesn’t want to sleep any longer. Seb tries to remember when he last had a lie-in. Not since he landed in the UK, that’s for sure. Even before that, he’d been so wired about coming away, he was waking at dawn, making lists in his head and, at times, fretting about the fight with his mother – wondering if he could put it right before he left.

  Maybe he can have an early night tonight. Explain that he wants to recharge his batteries for work tomorrow. Work is worrying him. All the bravado he showed to his parents wore off long ago and now he’s panicking. What if he can’t handle the kids? What if they don’t like him? Or worse, what if his boss or his colleagues don’t like him?

  The thirst is back. Forgotten for a few moments but no less demanding. He’s never been this thirsty in his life. His throat feels like it’s closing down from lack of moisture and his tongue feels twice its normal size. It’s like he’s used up all his saliva. The taste in his mouth is rancid, as if someone has over-garlicked the food and yet he’s not eaten garlic for weeks. His breath must smell like a dead dog. Imagine breathing that at his new boss. At least the Scots don’t go in for kissing. One small mercy.

  He was asked about that in the pub last night. ‘Haw, French Boy. Is it true the men aw kiss wan anither in Paris?’

  Seb had shrugged. Someone pointed. ‘See that? It’s cried a garlic shrug.’

  ‘It’s a Gallic shrug, ya eejit,’ said Josie.

  ‘Gallic, garlic, whit’s the differ
ence? Dae it again, pal.’

  Seb had shrugged again, raising his shoulders in a way he’d been doing his whole life, without a thought.

  The men had laughed.

  ‘Ah’m no keen on garlic,’ said Josie.

  ‘Garlic? Ah love it. See that garlic bread? Ah could eat ma body weight.’

  ‘Whit? Two ton?’

  More laughter. It seemed this was how Scottish men had a conversation. One guy made an observation, someone else made a joke about it and everybody laughed. Banter, they called it, a new word to Seb. Only when the conversation turned to football did the tone become serious.

  Seb heard little discussion of politics. Not a fraction of what he might expect in a bar in Paris. The name of the Prime Minister had been mentioned at one point, followed by a chorus of expletives. ‘As bad for Scotland as Margaret-fucking-Thatcher,’ was Hyphen Man’s opinion.

  Seb plans to wander in to the pub another night and see if he can engage one or two of the same guys in a more philosophical discussion. Without so much ‘banter’. He enjoys a good debate, has been missing the ones he has with Father. It will be good to hear what those men really think about big issues like Scottish independence. He was too timid to ask last night. It will be fun finding out how they think. Once he gets used to the accent.

  ‘Who wants kris?’ Josie asked at one point. ‘Ye like kris, son?’

  Seb shook his head. ‘Sorry, I don’t know him.’

  Josie pointed at the stacks of coloured boxes under the gantry. ‘Tattie kris! What kind dae ye like? Tamata? Salt n vinegar? Plain?’

  Seb shrugged, causing another bellow.

  ‘Take tamata, Seb! That’s wan a yer five a day.’

  He ended up sampling all the flavours. He can’t even remember what half of them were. Prawn something or other that had no taste of prawns, just sugar, chemicals and salt. They all tasted salty. Hence the thirst that’s driving him mad this morning. It’s not hard to imagine going insane in the desert.

  But he’s not in the desert. He’s in Scotland. The wettest wee country in the world, according to his new pals. There must be something he can drink, even a puddle from the recent rain. The path begins to fall away under his feet and at the bottom of the incline, a stream burbles over stones.

  Seb starts to run, lop-sided, downhill and upstream at the same time. The ground is uneven and tufted and the bank is steeper than it looks. As he veers down the slope, his backpack swings sideward and he overbalances, grabbing for handholds that don’t exist. Building up speed, he runs stumbling into the shallow water. His feet splash and slide as he tries to slow down and right himself. His toe catches on a stone and he lurches out of control towards the opposite bank. He lands hard, on his knees, the full weight of his pack forcing him face first, into the gorse.

  He lies there, giving himself time to recover his senses. The backpack shifts and he moves with it, a stab of pain flashing. At first he can’t work out where it’s coming from. His ankle, he thinks, twisted in the fall. Or his left arm, jammed at an unnatural angle beneath his body. His face, savaged by thorns? When the world turns red he has his answer. Blood runs into his eyes, blinding him. He shoves at the ground with his free hand till he rolls over onto his back. His spine bends to the shape of his rucksack and he feels like a tortoise marooned on its back.

  He touches his forehead then peers though bloody eyelids at his hand. Everything is red, the brightest, most vivid red he’s ever seen. It streams past his nose and he smells the old iron tools in Mamie’s garden shed. It runs into his mouth and he tastes again the coin that almost choked him when he was little. Mother cried when he spat the centime into her hand and hugged him as if he’d done something clever.

  He wipes his mouth, his nose, his eyelids, but his hand only slides in blood, smearing not cleaning. He raises his arm and wipes the side of his face on the sleeve of his T-shirt then pulls at the neck, stretching the material to clean his lips.

  He must get onto his feet and look for help. He clenches his stomach muscles and raises himself into a sitting position. The blood immediately runs into his eyes. He gathers the front of his T-shirt in his fist and lowers his face till the material touches his brow. He holds it there, ignoring the pain as he presses hard, hoping to stem the flow. When he takes the cloth away it is soaked and bloodied. What the hell has he done? He increases the pressure, wincing. Still the blood flows through the thin cotton till his fingers are wet with it.

  Seb closes his eyes and sits, dizzy, waiting for a wave of nausea to pass. With his middle finger he tentatively explores his forehead, trying to work out where all the blood is coming from. His fingertip finds a hollow, almost a hole and he wishes for a mirror or his phone so he could see the damage. Now his finger has found the wound, it seems unwilling to stop probing, drawn like a tongue to a tooth cavity.

  He needs medical attention, maybe stitches. If only he’d paid more attention in biology lessons, he’d know how much blood the body can afford to lose. His shirt is sodden, maybe he’s already lost too much. He can feel panic rising inside his stomach and going all the way to his fingertips, making them tremble. His whole body begins to shake. Is it cold or shock or loss of blood? He tells himself to stay calm. Getting hysterical won’t help. That’s one of Father’s lines. It drives Mother mad, like ‘You’re overreacting, Catherine.’ That one winds her up too. The thought of his parents brings tears to his eyes and seems to bring him to his senses.

  ‘Come on, Seb. Get a grip, man,’ he says, hoping the sound of his voice will help him focus on what he needs to do. Sitting here crying like a little kid is not the answer. He has to get on his feet and find someone who can call an ambulance. He hauls himself semi-upright and searches the steep bank till he spots the culprit. Not what he expected to find, but a bright tag of blood proves its guilt. The gorse bush. One branch, broken by who knows what, its white pointed end sharp as a scimitar. He pulls at a piece of loose bark, exposing more of the creamy white stalk and touches the jagged point, like a chef testing the edge of a blade.

  He drops onto his bottom and leans back on his rucksack, eyes closed in despair. It would be easy to go to sleep. It’s quiet and peaceful and he’s so terribly tired. Don’t go to sleep. He doesn’t know why that’s vital, but he knows it to be true. He’s got to remain conscious. He rolls onto his side and crawls towards the stream. He needs water. To wash his face, to rinse his eyes, to get rid of the blood. As he kneels there, making a cup with his hands and splashing water on his face, he tastes it and registers its temperature, its earthy taste, and he drinks and drinks. His thirst quenched, he watches his blood drip red into the water, disperse like a smoke ring and flow away.

  12

  Wish I’d gone home when I had the chance. Now it’s too late.

  The gorse is getting thicker and the path is narrow, hardly a path at all. Like a sheep made it, or rabbits, not a person.

  Don’t have a clue where we are. Been concentrating on following the stranger and I’ve lost my way. No idea how far I am from home but I’m pretty sure Dad will be up by the time I get back. If he sees me he’ll want to know where I’ve been. Can’t tell him but he’ll know something’s wrong. Maybe if I run home now, all the way, I can sneak back up to bed and no one will ever know anything about my plan.

  But which way to go? Miss Lawson always says, ‘Think, Charlie, think.’

  If I keep going, I should come to Brown Carrick. Then I can turn around and follow the path back to Brackenbrae. But what about Dad’s gun? If I go home without it, Dad might get into trouble the next time Johnny Hastings comes to do his inspection.

  I start to run, hoping I’m going in the right direction for home. Just want to get out of here. When I get back I’ll take Dad to the gun cabinet and try my very hardest to tell him I’m sorry. Nothing is working out the way I wanted, but at least I’ll get Dad’s attention.

  It’s hard running on the hillside and I think I might have gone the wrong way. When the guy suddenly appears, I kn
ow I have. He swings the gun over his shoulder, far too casual. Making me nervous.

  I know the rules about guns. Dad taught me when I was about ten. First the Golden Rule, of course and then, ‘A gun should always be broken when not in use.’ That used to confuse me. No matter how often Dad explained that broken means open in the middle and bent over your arm, I still think it’s a silly word. There’s nothing funny about it this morning. I catch the stranger’s arm and point to the gun.

  ‘What is it? You want the gun?’

  I nod my head.

  ‘Sorry. It’s my turn to play with it.’

  He still thinks it’s a toy? Surely he can tell it’s real? Why can’t he understand that he needs to be careful?

  I don’t think he’s very intelligent and he knows nothing about guns. But he seems determined to shoot something, stalking through the gorse like a guerrilla soldier. He keeps swinging the gun from side to side, as if he’s sweeping the area for enemy activity.

  I bet the only shooting he’s ever done is on video games. We step out of the gorse and a flock of birds rises from a tree. He swings the gun to follow them but he’s not quick enough.

  ‘Damn! Too slow on the trigger.’

  I stand and wait while he plays Action Man. I kick at the grass with the toe of my trainer and concentrate on making a hole in the earth. He’ll get bored soon.

  ‘Pssssst!’

  I look up. He’s aiming in my direction. Getting his own back. Playing the same trick on me. Except this time, the gun’s loaded.

  I shut my eyes so tightly I see sparkles of colour.

  I’m going to die.

  A shot.

  Then, nothing.

  No birds, no wind, nothing but a deep noisy silence and a pain in my ears. Would it hurt this much if I’m dead?

  I open my eyes. He’s saying something, maybe screaming it, but I don’t hear.