him?
She knew what he would look like now. He would look like her. In her head, in her dreams, she had seen him a thousand times and knew what she was looking for and was sure she’d recognise him when she eventually found him.
The game that had been started all those years ago would never end until she found him. He was still hiding. She would keep seeking.
Thursday
Fourteen
It hadn’t looked like a body at first. From a distance – and with his eyes not being what they used to – it looked more like a heap of discarded clothing, or a pile of rubbish bags that had been abandoned in the shadows beneath the line of trees. Bloody fly-tippers. If the dog hadn’t been with him he may even have walked on, not bothering to cross the grass and take a closer look.
The dog had become agitated and was whining uneasily by the time the old man had crossed the grass and the path that bordered it. The dog stopped a few metres from the heap on the path, digging her claws uneasily into the gravel; resisting her owner’s pull on the leash.
‘Easy, girl,’ the man reassured her, running his hand over the thick fur at the back of her head. ‘Easy.’
The dog growled, straining against its owner’s pull on the leash. The man squinted at the heap, saw what he thought were feet, and slowly realised he was looking at a body. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat and stopped in his tracks, suddenly uncertain and off balance, not wanting to go any nearer, but steeling himself he loosened his grip on the leash and stepped tentatively forward. He had lived through a World War, but despite this had somehow successfully managed to avoid any close encounters with a corpse. Given the choice, he didn’t want to change the habit today.
He could see the body was that of a man. He could tell this from the shoes he was wearing: shiny brown like conkers, lace-up, office-style shoes that belonged to the type of man who looked after himself; someone who had a bit of money and appreciated good quality.
The man pushed his scarf up closer to his throat. It was a bitter morning and the park was otherwise deserted, not even any early morning joggers braving the eerie chill of the park at that hour. He wondered if the man had been there all night. A miserable way to go, poor sod, he thought sadly, left out in the cold, alone, on a night like last night. Or maybe every way was as sad as the next, no matter what the time of year or the temperature outside. Maybe meeting death in a deserted park was no worse than dying in a warm bed with a husband or wife beside you in the darkness. How could there ever be a good way to go? The light gone forever, the day always night.
The man’s body had fallen – or been lain – at an awkward angle. His left leg was trapped beneath his right and his torso was twisted; his head lay face down, covered by a black woollen scarf. At first, the man could see no evidence of how the person on the ground in front of him had died. If he hadn’t been lying in such a distorted manner – and if the location had been other than a quiet suburban park at half past five in the early hours of a November morning – he could easily have believed he was just sleeping.
He nudged him with his foot. ‘Hey, mate. Are you ok?’ Stupid, he thought as soon as he’d done it. He cursed himself for kicking a corpse; what kind of disrespect to the dead was that?
It was only when he cautiously pushed aside the black scarf that covered the head , and only when he saw the congealing mess of blood that the man’s was lying in, that he realised he was staring at murder.
*
The day was dark
She knew what he would look like now. He would look like her. In her head, in her dreams, she had seen him a thousand times and knew what she was looking for and was sure she’d recognise him when she eventually found him.
The game that had been started all those years ago would never end until she found him. He was still hiding. She would keep seeking.
Thursday
Fourteen
It hadn’t looked like a body at first. From a distance – and with his eyes not being what they used to – it looked more like a heap of discarded clothing, or a pile of rubbish bags that had been abandoned in the shadows beneath the line of trees. Bloody fly-tippers. If the dog hadn’t been with him he may even have walked on, not bothering to cross the grass and take a closer look.
The dog had become agitated and was whining uneasily by the time the old man had crossed the grass and the path that bordered it. The dog stopped a few metres from the heap on the path, digging her claws uneasily into the gravel; resisting her owner’s pull on the leash.
‘Easy, girl,’ the man reassured her, running his hand over the thick fur at the back of her head. ‘Easy.’
The dog growled, straining against its owner’s pull on the leash. The man squinted at the heap, saw what he thought were feet, and slowly realised he was looking at a body. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat and stopped in his tracks, suddenly uncertain and off balance, not wanting to go any nearer, but steeling himself he loosened his grip on the leash and stepped tentatively forward. He had lived through a World War, but despite this had somehow successfully managed to avoid any close encounters with a corpse. Given the choice, he didn’t want to change the habit today.
He could see the body was that of a man. He could tell this from the shoes he was wearing: shiny brown like conkers, lace-up, office-style shoes that belonged to the type of man who looked after himself; someone who had a bit of money and appreciated good quality.
The man pushed his scarf up closer to his throat. It was a bitter morning and the park was otherwise deserted, not even any early morning joggers braving the eerie chill of the park at that hour. He wondered if the man had been there all night. A miserable way to go, poor sod, he thought sadly, left out in the cold, alone, on a night like last night. Or maybe every way was as sad as the next, no matter what the time of year or the temperature outside. Maybe meeting death in a deserted park was no worse than dying in a warm bed with a husband or wife beside you in the darkness. How could there ever be a good way to go? The light gone forever, the day always night.
The man’s body had fallen – or been lain – at an awkward angle. His left leg was trapped beneath his right and his torso was twisted; his head lay face down, covered by a black woollen scarf. At first, the man could see no evidence of how the person on the ground in front of him had died. If he hadn’t been lying in such a distorted manner – and if the location had been other than a quiet suburban park at half past five in the early hours of a November morning – he could easily have believed he was just sleeping.
He nudged him with his foot. ‘Hey, mate. Are you ok?’ Stupid, he thought as soon as he’d done it. He cursed himself for kicking a corpse; what kind of disrespect to the dead was that?
It was only when he cautiously pushed aside the black scarf that covered the head , and only when he saw the congealing mess of blood that the man’s was lying in, that he realised he was staring at murder.
*
The day was dark
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