had started shaking, took two deep breaths, and jumped down into the ditch. Closed his eyes, then opened them again after a few seconds. Bent down and tried to feel a pulse, on the boy’s wrist and on his bloodstained neck.
No sign of a heartbeat. Oh hell, he thought, feeling panic creeping up on him. Bloody fucking hell — I must… I must… I must…
He couldn’t work out what he must do. Cautiously, he slid his arms under the boy’s body, bent his knees and lifted him up. He felt a stabbing pain at the bottom of his back: the boy was rather heavier than he’d expected. Perhaps the saturated clothes were adding to the problem. In so far as he’d expected anything at all. Why should he have done? The rucksack caused a bit of a problem. The rucksack and the boy’s head. Both of them insisted on leaning backwards in a way that was quite unacceptable. He noted that the blood from the side of the boy’s mouth was dripping straight down into his hood, and that he couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. A boy aged fifteen or sixteen… About the same as Greubner’s son. You could tell by the sort of half-finished features of his face, despite the injuries. Quite a handsome boy, it seemed: no doubt he would develop into an attractive man.
Would have done.
He stood down there in the ditch with the boy’s body in his arms for quite some time, while thoughts whirled around in his head. It was only a metre or so up to the road, but it was steep and the rain had made it slippery and treacherous: he doubted whether he would be able to get a sufficient foothold. No cars passed by while he stood there, but he heard a moped approaching. Or possibly a low-powered motorbike, he thought. When it passed by he could hear that it was in fact a scooter, and he was momentarily blinded by its headlight. Presumably — or so he thought later on with hindsight — presumably it was that very second of blinding light that started him functioning again.
Functioning, and thinking rational thoughts.
He lay the body down again next to the culvert. Wondered if he should wipe the blood from his hands onto the wet grass, but decided not to. Scrambled up onto the road, and hurried back to his car.
He noted that he must have automatically switched off the engine, but left the headlights on. Noted that the rain was pouring down like some sort of elemental force. Noted that he felt cold.
He slid down behind the wheel and closed the door. Fastened his safety belt and drove off. He could see rather better now through the windows, as if the rain had cleaned the inside of the glass as well.
Nothing has happened, he thought. Nothing at all.
He felt the first signs of a headache coming on, but then he remembered his mother’s cool hands again — and suddenly he was convinced that there was a drop left of that eucalyptus foam bath gel after all.
2
He woke up, and his first feeling was immense relief.
It lasted for three seconds, then he realized it had not been a nasty dream.
That it was reality.
The pouring rain, the sudden slight jerk of the steering wheel, the slippery ditch: it was all reality. The weight of the boy he was carrying in his arms, and the blood dripping into the hood.
He stayed in bed for another twenty minutes, as if paralysed. The only sign of life was the shudders that took possession of his body from time to time. They started in the ball of his foot, made their way up through his body and culminated in the form of white-hot flashes of lightning in his head: every time it felt as if some vital part of his brain and his consciousness had crumbled away. Frozen to death or burnt to a cinder, incapable of ever being revived to start working again.
Lobotomy, he thought. I’m being lobotomized.
When the insistent red figures on his clock radio had reached 07.45, he picked up the telephone and rang his place of work. Explained in a voice as fragile as newly formed ice on a mountain tarn that he was suffering from flu, and would have to stay at home for a few days.
Influenza, yes.
Yes, it was unfortunate — but that’s life.
Yes of course, by all means ring if anything special cropped up.
No, he would stay in bed. Take a few tablets and drink lots of fluids.
Yes. Yes of course. No.
He got up half an hour later. Stood by the kitchen window and looked out at the gloomy suburban street, noting that the rain had faded away to be replaced by a heavy, grey, early-morning mist. As he stood there he entertained once more, slowly and gradually, a thought that he remembered from last night — and later, during the many hours he had lain awake, plagued by despair, before finally falling asleep.
Nothing has happened. Nothing at all.
He went out into the kitchen. There was an unopened bottle of whisky in the larder. Glenalmond, bought on holiday last summer. He unscrewed the top and took two large swigs. Couldn’t remember having ever done that in his life before — drinking whisky straight from the bottle. No, never ever.
He sat down at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, and waited for the alcohol to spread throughout his body.
Nothing has happened, he thought.
Then started to make coffee and analyse the situation.
There was no mention in the morning papers. Neither in the Telegraaf, which he subscribed to, nor in the Neuwe Blatt, which he went out to buy from the kiosk. For a few seconds he almost managed to convince himself that it had all been a dream after all, but as soon as he remembered the rain and the ditch and the blood, he knew that it was wishful thinking. It was real. Just as real as the whisky standing on the table. As the crumbs around the toaster. As his hands, impotently and mechanically searching through the newspapers — he dropped them onto the floor, and returned to the bottle of whisky.
He had killed a young boy.
He had driven his car while under the influence of drink and killed an adolescent boy aged about fifteen or sixteen. He had stood there in the ditch and the rain with the boy’s dead body in his arms — and then he’d abandoned him and driven home.
That’s the way it was. Nothing to be done about it. No use crying over spilt milk.
It wasn’t until a few minutes to ten that he switched on the radio, and heard confirmation in the ten o’clock news.
Young boy. Probably on his way home to Boorkhejm. Unidentified as yet.
But accurate details about the location.
Some time during the night. Probably between eleven and one. The body wasn’t discovered until early this morning.
Death had most probably been instantaneous.
No witnesses.
Hit by a car — also most probably. The driver couldn’t possibly have failed to notice what had happened. An appeal to all who had driven past the scene of the accident to come forward, and to anybody who thought they might have relevant information to tell. The police were very keen to contact everybody who…
The scene of the accident cordoned off, the rain had made police work more difficult, certain lines of investigation established… The police want to interview the driver who failed to stop… Renewed appeal to all who…
He switched off. Took two more swigs of whisky and went back to bed. Lay there for quite some time, his head swimming. But when he eventually got up again that misty Thursday morning, three thoughts had crystallized.
Three significant thoughts. Conclusions chiselled out in minute detail that he had no intention of compromising. Of abandoning, come what may. He had made up his mind, full stop.
First: the boy in the ditch was dead, and he was guilty of killing him.
Second: no matter what he did, he could not bring the boy back to life.
