The twisted trunks of the trees pushed over the rickety fencing on either side. In some places, the crooked boughs met overhead, branches entwining with each other like lovers’ fingers, crooked as a fighter’s knuckles.
He fought down a shudder. A curse, sometimes, being a writer. Or ex-writer, he supposed. But then, did you ever stop being a writer? Like an alcoholic, the urge was always there.
When he was a kid he had dreamed of writing books, like his heroes Stephen King and James Herbert. But growing up in a small, run-down seaside resort with no dad and a mum who spent most of her dole money at the pub, that idea had been quickly knocked out of him.
The people where he lived were suspicious of aspiration. Other people’s hard work and success simply reminded them of their own failures and poor choices. Those who tried to claw their way out weren’t encouraged, they were mocked: “Getting a bit lah-di-dah.” “Get you with your posh degree.”
He pretended not to care about school in front of his friends while he spent night after night studying for his exams in his room. He got decent enough grades and, despite almost trashing his dreams before they started in his teens, he was given a second chance. He secured a place at the local polytechnic and then a poorly paid job at a small advertising agency. Just before he started, his mum died. Everyone from their community came to the funeral but no one chipped in a penny to help. Gabe had to pawn what was left of her possessions to help pay for the coffin.
Another three years spent churning out product leaflets for pessaries, and he was offered a job at a big agency in the Midlands. During a pitch, he met a freelance graphic designer called Jenny. They fell in love, got married…and Jenny fell pregnant. Happy ever after.
Except there’s no such thing.
He often used to joke that he got to lie for a living. Haha.
No one knew how close it was to the truth.
I lie for a living. I live a lie.
* * *
—
AHEAD OF HIM, the path was widening and the last of the trees straggled away. Gabe found himself upon a narrow bank. A starved sliver of moon floated on a still expanse of water. A lake.
Not a large lake. Maybe ten meters across, fifteen wide. On the other side, it was hedged in by more trees. Slightly to the right, a high ridge of hill. Secluded. Hidden. Like the wooded walk, it was not pretty. It smelled dank and fetid. The bank dropped away steeply, littered with cans and ancient plastic bags. The surface of the water was covered in brown algae.
And in the middle, half submerged in the filthy water, was a car.
It must have been fully submerged, once. But the weather had been abnormally dry for the last couple of years. The water levels were at a record low. Bit by bit, the lake must have retreated until the car was revealed. That explained the cans and carrier bags stranded on the bank.
Gabe walked down to the edge of the bank. Water crept over the toes of his trainers. The car was rusted and draped in slimy weeds. In the darkness, it looked almost the same color as the lake. But he could still see, just visible in the rear window, illuminated by his flashlight:
Ho k if you e orny.
Horn bro en. W tch or ing r.
He took another step, not caring about the dampness seeping through his socks, and then a voice said:
“Am I right?”
“Fuck!”
He spun around. The Samaritan stood behind him. He must have stepped out of the trees, or simply emerged in a cloud of smoke. Either, Gabe thought, was feasible.
The Samaritan was tall. And thin. As always, he was dressed in black. Black jeans, long black jacket. His skin was almost as dark. His shaved skull glinted in the moonlight. His teeth were a startling white. One was inlaid with a small iridescent stone, like a pearl. When Gabe asked him once what it was, he had frowned.
“I brought it back, from a place I visited. I keep it with me.”
“Like a souvenir?”
“Yeah. To remind me never to go back.”
The subject was closed. Gabe knew better than to reopen it.
He stared at the Samaritan. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry.”
The Samaritan grinned. He didn’t look sorry. Gabe did not pull him up on it. Just like he didn’t ask the Samaritan what he was doing here, by a lake, in the dead of night.
“Is it the car?” the Samaritan asked.
Most of the stickers had faded or peeled off. Half of the vehicle was submerged in water and the number plate was completely gone. But Gabe knew.
He nodded. “It’s the car.”
A wave of weakness swept over him. He felt himself sway. For a moment, he thought he was going to throw up. It’s the car. Saying the words. After all this time. He hadn’t imagined it. The car was real. It existed. It was right here in front of him. And if the car was real…
“She’s not inside,” the Samaritan said.
The nausea subsided. Izzy hadn’t died in a stinking swamp, her last breath stolen from her by the stagnant water as she clawed at the windows, unable…
Stop it, he told himself. Fucking stop it. He dragged his hands through his hair, rubbed viciously at his eyes. Like he could somehow scrub the bad thoughts away with his hands. The Samaritan simply watched and waited for him to gather himself.
“There’s something else you need to see.”
He walked past Gabe and waded straight into the water. In a way, Gabe wouldn’t have been surprised if he had just glided on top of it. Or maybe that was the wrong brother.
He reached the car and looked back at Gabe.
“I said you need to see this.”
Gabe didn’t wait to be asked again. He waded into the water after the Samaritan. The water wasn’t as cold as he expected but his skin still shuddered with goosebumps and his breath caught in his throat. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the rotting algae, the murky water lapping at his crotch, the smell slithering up his nostrils and making his stomach roll.
He reached the car. The smell was even worse here.
“What the—?”
The Samaritan replied by stretching out one long arm and popping the trunk. It gave with a rusty squeal. He hauled it all the way open.
Gabe looked in the trunk.
He looked back at the Samaritan.
He threw up.
Fran gripped the steering wheel tightly. Beside her, Alice slumped in her seat, staring out of the window. Her iPad rested in her lap, but she didn’t seem inclined to turn it on. She only had limited internet access anyway. Just like she only had a basic pay-as-you-go mobile for emergencies. Fortunately, Alice was still too young to complain about these restrictions. In truth, she was often happier reading than using her tablet or phone. But Fran still felt the familiar ache of guilt.