Last Night

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I let the car idle for a moment, then softly release the handbrake while whispering a quiet, ‘Come on.’

  The ground is soft but not overly muddy, though I’m sure there’s a chance the car could get stuck. I have no idea if someone’s supposed to go quickly or slowly in order to avoid being marooned. I opt for slow, easing the car backwards.

  ‘That’s it,’ I say quietly, urging the vehicle on. ‘Just like that.’

  The engine purrs smoothly as the tyres grip. The car bumps up, then down, as it carefully manoeuvres over the uneven ground. I’m closing in on the flattened hedge in the rear-view mirror when there’s a gurgle from somewhere underneath. It feels as if I’m moving sideways and there’s a gloopy glug, then the car jolts upwards, shooting over a bump and creaking before I ease off the accelerator.

  ‘C’mon,’ I whisper. ‘Do it for me. I’ll give you a nice clean in the morning.’

  I try again, a little more forceful on the accelerator this time, and the car shunts up and down like an old wooden roller-coaster cart. I’m momentarily bounced around in my seat and then the car slaloms into an abrupt descent. The verge is shallow and there’s a fleeting, fearful second where I’m convinced I’m going to be trapped. It only lasts for a blink. The moment the rear wheels touch the tarmac of the road, the car zips back, temporarily out of control until I spin the steering wheel and find myself staring down the shadowed country road, out of breath. The headlights beam into the distance but all I can see is tarmac and the leafy, silhouettes of hedges on either side.

  And, breathe…

  The maps app really has got me in the middle of nowhere. There’s green on either side for miles, no sign of anything even close to civilisation until I zoom out. I was in the Grand Ol’ Royal hotel south of Birmingham, not far from Royal Leamington Spa. Now, somehow, I’m around twenty miles closer to my home in Lincolnshire. Depending on the speed limits and route, that’s at least thirty minutes lost. I suppose I was driving – who else could have been – but all I have is one gaping dark hole.

  I spend a few seconds zooming in and out of the map, looking around the local villages, wondering if I’ve ever been in the area. It’s easy to conclude that this spot is so far out of the way that, unless someone lives here, no one would voluntarily be in these parts. Not unless there are some rural pubs serving mountainous Sunday roasts, of course. That’s about the only reason anyone I know ever visits the countryside.

  The engine is quietly idling and I wonder if I should call the AA. The membership card is in my bag, the number stored on my phone. They’d get me home safely, but what about the questions? How could I explain away the smeared blood, or the gap in the hedge? They’d probably call the police. I’d be breathalysed at the very least, possibly charged with careless or dangerous driving. They’d ask question after question and I don’t know the answers myself.

  As I pull away carefully, I keep an eye on the verges, hoping there’s something that might explain at least part of what has happened. As before, there is no sign of an animal, or anything even close. The most interesting thing is an abandoned traffic cone, caked with muck, that’s been dumped further along the hedge.

  If I had hit something, it’s hidden by the night.

  If, I tell myself. If I hit something. Something, not someone.

  Ignoring the obvious is the only thing I can do for now. It’s not like there was a freak rain-storm of blood; the splashes must have come from somewhere.

  After a mile or so, I decide that the car’s fine and there’s no point in driving so slowly. Whenever I reach a junction – which isn’t often – I check the phone in my lap to make sure I’m going the right way. It’s after fifteen minutes or so when I realise that ‘right’ way is the route home, not the way back to the hotel. I’m on autopilot, searching for some sense of normality among this madness.

  Concentrating on anything feels like hard work. The road blurs and it’s only the frequent bumps of potholes that keep me even close to alert. My reactions remain sluggish and it’s almost as if I’m watching myself drive, rather than being the actual driver. Perhaps this was the problem in the first place? I left the hotel for some reason, started driving home, got lost, and fell asleep at the wheel.

  There are stories like that in the news all the time. A lorry driver swerves off the motorway after falling asleep. That would explain waking up in the field, even if it doesn’t clarify why I left the hotel or why there is blood on the windscreen.

  Perhaps I bumped my head at some point, which explains the amnesia.

  Or, I assume it does. When it comes to memory loss, my only knowledge – if it can be called that – comes from ludicrous soap plots and stupid movies. Amnesia is a staple.

  It hurts every time I try to force the memory – and there are only flashes. I remember the beech wood of the hotel bar, the row of wine glasses above my head. There’s the carpeted, wide staircase that felt so illustrious. The hard bed, the tightly tucked covers.

  After a while, the B-roads link onto the A-roads – and then it’s not long until I start to recognise landmarks. There’s a petrol station I’ve stopped at a couple of times. The interior lights are off, though the price board is lit up like a capitalistic Christmas tree. Another mile and there’s the pub where Dan and I once came for lunch many years ago. It’s boarded up now, left for the rats or the developers, whichever gets to it first. There are two skips in the car park and the only indication of its previous life is the faded name board facing the road. It was packed when we stopped. There used to be a carvery and even the walls smelled of meaty gravy. I wonder why we never returned, then it occurs to me that I’m still thirty miles or so from home and it was probably a decade ago anyway. Perhaps longer. It’s passed in a blink. Olivia would have been young but I don’t remember her being with us. She might have been at hockey practice, or at a dance show. That was back when she had hobbies. It’s hard to remember specifics and a long time since Dan and I used to drive aimlessly, looking for somewhere new to eat.

  Perhaps it was my naïvety but the world felt simpler then.

  The rows of street lights have taken hold now, eating away at my sluggishness. The A-roads are now the suburbs, with sprinkled red-brick housing estates. I slow for a zebra crossing, even though there’s nobody waiting. I’m stabbed by the thought that perhaps I shouldn’t be driving. There’s a play park off to the side, a multicoloured climbing frame plonked on that soft black matting they have nowadays. There are swings and a roundabout and imagining the children who might play here during the day is straightforward enough. What if I have that thing where people fall asleep for no reason? I could be a danger to those kids, a danger to myself.

  I wonder why I’m only thinking of this now.

  If other people found themselves in that field, would they have acted differently?

  I let the window down a centimetre or two for a token bit of fresh air. Something to keep me awake.

  The housing estates have become rows of shops, though nothing is open. The shutters are down across the front of the betting holes but lights are on inside the giant Lidl. I keep going, sticking to the speed limit, though edging through a nonsensical red light that’s giving priority to traffic that isn’t there at this time of the morning.

  My heart rate quickens when I see the first car since I hit the street lights. A battered dark blue Vauxhall cruises towards me on the other side of the road and I feel sure the driver knows I’m guilty of something. My fingers are trembling on the steering wheel as my gaze drifts towards the other driver. It’s a young woman, twenty or so. I’m guessing she’ll be on her way home after a late shift in a factory or something similar. I feel sure she’ll notice a patch of blood on my car but her eyes are fixed on the road ahead.

  Probably where mine should be.

  Ten minutes more and I’m pulling into our street. There’s not much I can say for it, other than it’s normal. Cars are parked intermittently and there are rows of semi-detacheds on either side. Th
ere are small patches of green outside each house, with tarmacked driveways leading to individual garages. It could be any street in any part of the country. When people think of Britain, they usually think of cobbles and red postboxes – but, for most, this is the United Kingdom. We’re cookie-cutter houses, with plastic wheelie bins and recycling boxes on the pavement outside.

  The clock reads 04:39 when I pull onto the driveway. Dan has set up a gadget in each of our cars that makes the garage door open automatically when we approach. The gears grind and boom as I wait, like a jet liner taking off. I’m convinced it’ll wake the neighbours but, when I’m parked safely inside, I instantly forget about anyone else. My fingers throb from where I’ve been gripping the steering wheel so firmly and my shoulders are tight and sore.

  Despite the madness of circumstance, I’m home.

  The car looks far worse in the bright overhead light of the garage.

  In the bluey-white glow from the moon, I knew I’d done a poor job of cleaning away the blood from the bonnet – and can now see how I’ve only succeeded in smearing the red into the silver paint. There are spots where it looks like a faded tie-dye job. It’s almost hypnotic. It could be some sort of Turner Prize nonsense, some abstract image of gore – except I did this.

  For the first time, I wonder why there’s no damage. In my confused, flustered state, I’d somehow missed it. If I did hit something, then why is the car unaffected? There are no dents in the front bumper, nothing other than blood swirls on the bonnet – and the windscreen is not cracked. Would it be possible to hit something and cause that much blood loss, and yet not damage the car?

  I have little time to dwell because, as I’m about to dig out a bucket and sponge, the door that leads into the house opens with a resounding click.

  Chapter Three

  The route from house to garage involves a double door, with a slim one-step porch in between. It’s instinct, perhaps self-preservation, but I lunge for the garage light switch and plunge the room into darkness. At the same moment, Dan’s silhouette appears in the doorway. He’s haloed by the light behind; his slim waist and wide, muscled shoulders striking in their athleticism. I’m not used to his new physique.

  ‘Rose?’ he says, unsure of himself.

  I step towards him, stopping him coming down the stairs into the garage. He takes the hint, shifting back into the light of the porch. He’s wearing lounge pants and a loose shirt but they’re uncrumpled and it doesn’t look like he’s been in bed anytime recently.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Bit tired, that’s all.’

  I can see him clearly but I doubt he can see me, not with the darkness of the garage behind. I’m on the top step, an arm’s length from him, close enough to see his pupils expanding and narrowing as they try to adjust to the light.

  ‘Why’d you drive home at this time?’ he asks, perfectly reasonably.

  ‘The hotel bed was too uncomfortable. I was awake anyway, then I saw your text. I figured I could get a few hours’ sleep at home before work later.’

  The lie comes so easily that it leaves me a tiny bit wary of myself. Everyone lies: ‘That shirt looks fine,’ ‘Your daughter’s a really good singer,’ ‘No, I don’t mind staying at work for an extra hour.’ They’re white lies to save someone’s feelings, or to maintain a social norm. This feels bigger and yet the words are out of my mouth before I’ve even processed them.

  I take another step forward and Dan moves with me, backing through the second door into our kitchen. There’s a dim light glowing through from the living room, not enough for either of us to properly see one another. We’re silhouettes in the murk.

  ‘Did you check out from the hotel?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. Some poor sod was on the night shift. He seemed a bit confused.’

  Another effortless lie.

  ‘How’d the meeting go?’

  I’m surprised he remembered why I was away. I was meeting a client, hoping to make a sale – and the offer of a free hotel at the end of it was too much to turn down. I could’ve driven back, of course, but that would have only meant a restless night in bed with Dan, each of us trying not to cross the invisible wall down the centre of our mattress.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply, even though it definitely wasn’t.

  One lie feeds into the next in the same way that one truth would lead into another. It’s not like he really wants to know the answer anyway. It’s been quite a while since we spent the evenings telling each other about our respective days. It’s all small talk now. Good day at work? What did you have for lunch? That sort of thing.

  ‘Is Liv back?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I’m sure she’s fine.’

  At least we're sticking to that line of answering.

  He doesn’t sound as reassuring as I’d want him to be. The safety of a child should be definitive. She’s definitely safe.

  ‘I’m sure she is, too,’ I reply.

  He nods shortly and there’s a moment in which I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing. On the same wavelength, for once. Whatever’s happened between us, she’s still our daughter.

  ‘I suppose she is eighteen,’ he adds.

  ‘Did you try calling her?’

  ‘No answer.’

  This is the first time in two years that Olivia has failed to let us know she’s staying out. Sometimes the text comes late – and oftentimes it’s short and to the point – but it’s always there. She was sixteen and I was the typical panicked parent back then. Dan was the cool head. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he cooed – and she was. To a point. She was drunk on cider, probably high on something too, though she always denied it. One of her friends called Dan in the end, asking if he could pick Olivia up because she wasn’t feeling well. It was five in the morning and I’d barely slept. We grounded her, because that’s something you can do – just – when your child is sixteen and underage. At eighteen, you can only ask for a bit of courtesy.

  Dan yawns but there’s something odd about it, as if he’s pretending. His hand covers his mouth before he starts and there’s no squinting tiredness to him afterwards.

  ‘I’m going to go back to bed,’ he says, ‘get another hour before I have to be up for school. Can’t have the kids looking more awake than me.’

  He chuckles at his own joke and heads for the stairs, not waiting for a reply. He’s a deputy headteacher, so he has a point – although he’s never been one of those parents whose heads can’t hit the pillow until our child is home.

  It’s only when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, directly underneath the light, when I notice the smudge of dirt on his wrist. Dan’s not quite a neat freak and certainly not a germaphobe – but he likes things to be in their place and is the sort to religiously wash hands before meals.

  ‘What’s on your wrist?’ I ask.

  He spins, looking at me and then down to himself. He rubs the mark, only succeeding in spreading whatever it is.

  ‘I was unblocking the kitchen sink earlier, probably that.’

  He shrugs and then he’s gone, not bothering to ask if I’m going to follow.

  I call after him to say that I’ll be up in a bit but it’s meaningless. Our bed sharing is more to do with habit than anything else.

  The kitchen counter is a good place to lean as I listen to him padding around upstairs. He heads to the bathroom first and the water runs, then he’s off to the bedroom. There are a couple of dull thumps and then quiet. I think about calling Olivia myself, perhaps firing off a text to check she’s all right, but she won’t appreciate it if she is asleep on someone’s sofa. She probably won’t hear or see it anyway, then she’ll get annoyed I was harassing her. I figure I’ll give it an hour.

  Back in the garage and I try to work as quickly as I can. There’s a tap that Dan installed, along with a plug in the centre of the garage floor. His thinking was that it would be easier to wash our cars in the winter if we didn’t have to stand out in the cold. His BMW is spotless next to mine, as ever. His c
ar is an extension of him.

  I fill a bucket with water and washing-up liquid, but there’s even more blood than I thought. It’s not just on the bonnet, lower windscreen and grill, it’s drizzled down towards the front wheels. There’s mud, too. Lots of it, dried and caked. It clings to the underside of the wheel arches like a leech latched onto flesh. I hate cleaning cars at the best of times. For Dan, it’s therapeutic. He’ll spend a few hours in here clearing his thoughts – or so he says – while shining his car. I don’t think that’s a euphemism. Either way, I prefer to pay a few quid to stick mine through the car wash next to the local Tesco. Can’t really show up with a tenner and a blood-covered car, though.

  The first two soapy buckets of water quickly turn a reddish sort of black and disappear down the drain, but I am beginning to get somewhere. The crusts of mud and filth recede, along with any trace of what I’ve done. Or might have done.

  When my back starts to ache and my fingers are wrinkled and white, I realise an hour has passed. It’s almost six in the morning and the world will be waking again soon. Dan will be back downstairs.

  Now the fog has started to clear, I feel surprisingly awake. It’ll be adrenaline, something like that, but it’s like I’ve had a full and comfortable night of sleep. Those nights where the head hits the pillow and the next thing anyone knows, the sun is up. I’m sure it shouldn’t be like this.

  The final bucket of water disappears into the drain; the soapy, filthy suds spinning until there are only a few dregs clinging to the concrete. If I didn’t know better, I could have imagined it all. My car is about as clean as it gets. It’s nowhere near as shiny as Dan’s, but the traces of last night have gone.

  It’s only when I step away to examine my handiwork that the phrase slips into my mind. ‘Tampering with evidence’ – that’s what it’s called. It’s what they write in the news reports, what the presenters say on Crimewatch. ‘Police have charged Mr So-and-so for tampering with evidence’.