Today's Reading
CHAPTER ONE
It was dark when Ewan made the return journey.
He felt a familiar relief driving past the sign for Dorset. Ewan and Devon had never got on. As his car grumbled along the empty moonlit road, he fought to keep his mind on what was in front, rather than where he'd just been.
Think about positive things, he told himself. With a bit of luck, the remnants of last night's not-too-dreadful lasagne should still be knocking about at home. Maybe he could find a cold bottle of cider to go with it. A 2 a.m. treat.
As much as he tried to focus his mind on the road ahead, it kept drifting back to the image of his funny, startling mum in her prime, whirling daftly about the kitchen, making him giggle in front of half-eaten fishfingers. The woman he had just visited was barely an echo of that. A shell, reliant on care provided by others. Ewan scratched at his beard, trying to rub away the stab of guilt.
Be more like the dog, he told himself. The dog lives in the present; only alert to now. That's how to cope. (Back home the following afternoon, Ewan shares this thought with his wife, who says, "The dog shits in the garden. Are you going to do that as well?" and turns her attention back to eBay.)
As the car lumbered over the brow of the hill, Ewan took in the glistening coastline beyond. This was the best section of the drive, any time of day or night. Now, on this September midnight stretch, the world was his alone.
He exhaled, in the manner he'd learned from a long-deleted mindfulness app, appreciating the view of the inky-black water dappled with diamonds of shimmering moonlight. The curve of the bay to his right.
His eyes drifted back to the road, a shocking stab of panic—
—something in the middle of the road—
—you're going to smash into it!—
He swerved—
The car pulling out of his control—
Sharp, hard brake—
Slam. Jolt. Stop.
Breathe.
The bodywork ticked and creaked in protest at the emergency halt. The engine had stalled at his carelessness.
Ewan checked himself. Spike of adrenaline subsiding.
First thought: maybe it's a deer.
Second thought, as he peered through the windscreen: that's not a deer.
Ewan's shaking finger fumbled at the car's hazard lights button.
He got out of his car and began to walk hesitantly toward the unmoving shape in the middle of the empty A35, oblivious to the fact he'd left the door open, not hearing the alert repeatedly pinging, nagging its now-absent driver. Ewan didn't notice the flashing hazards turning the dark of night intermittently orange. He was too distracted by the object ahead.
As he approached it, Ewan felt for a moment like he was looking down on himself from above in the night. A tiny lone figure in a vast vista. The smell of grass and sea salt tickled his nostrils. The silence of the night air deafened him.
Ewan approached the object placed across the two lanes of the road. He had not hit it. Momentary relief, immediately compromised by the realization of what the object was.
Not a deer.
A dead body.
A dead man. A dead adult man.
Sitting upright on a high-backed wooden chair. Trussed to it. Seemingly naked, his lower half placed inside an old sack, tied at the waist.
Left here. Like he—it, the body, the corpse; bloody hell, a corpse—had been put here, placed deliberately. The chair bisecting the white lines down the middle of the road.
Arranged.
But the arrangement of the corpse on the chair was not the most startling thing.
Attached to his head was a huge crown of deer antlers.
Ewan reached out instinctively to touch them but then realized he probably shouldn't. He pulled his arm back.
He took his phone from his pocket. Hesitated. Was this a 999? Bit late for an ambulance now.
He dialed anyway and told the operator he thought he probably needed the police.
...
