No deer though. No badger or fox. Not even a rabbit.
Even if the car had hit an animal that had survived and run off, there would surely be blood – but the only place I can see it is on the windscreen and bonnet.
I stand at the side of the driver’s door turning in a circle, trying to figure it out. It’s cool but not cold, a gentle breeze licking across the seemingly endless field. All I can see in the distance is the dark.
Back in the car and I find my bag behind the driver’s seat. It’s where I always leave it. Everything is as it should be. Except that the car is covered in blood and in a field, obviously.
There was a time when I was scared of driving. I wasn’t as bad as Sophie or Sonia across the road, but, for a while, I’d avoid motorways, preferring quieter roads with slower speed limits. I always gave way, stopped at amber lights, never broke the speed limits. It was such a long time ago that I’d largely forgotten that feeling of fear when it came to cars.
The two things went together whenever I got into the driver’s seat.
A key in the ignition meant a fleeting tingle of anxiety. That was when I was a teenager – another time, another person – but it’s there again now, niggling at the back of my mind.
I blink the sensation away – and find my phone in my bag, where it should be. I’m ready to use the maps app to figure out where I am, but there are already notifications waiting for me. The bright white of the screen burns through the gloom and it takes me a few seconds to take in the words.
There’s a missed call from Dan, which is strange, as he never usually calls. My husband isn’t a big talker, not when it comes to me. Texts are another thing – and he’s sent one of those.
Olivia didn’t come home tonight. Did she text you? Call if you want. Don’t worry about the time. I won’t silence my phone.
It’s typical Dan. Complete sentences and full stops, even in texts. There’s the passive aggression as well – ‘if you want’ – as if our daughter not coming home is something that wouldn’t concern me.
He sent it a little before eleven, by which time Olivia should have definitely been home from work. She’s eighteen, so old enough to stay out for the night – but she does usually let us know if she’s not coming home.
I read the text again, focusing on the ‘if you want’. I can imagine him saying it in that casual, off-the-cuff way that he does, as if it means nothing – even though he’ll throw it back in my face if we argue. When we argue.
If you want.
Yeah, I bloody do want, actually.
Let’s see if you want to be called at three in the morning.
Dan answers his phone before it can ring a second time. I wasn’t expecting that. He sounds awake and alert, no hint of a yawn, despite the time. He doesn’t bother with a ‘hi’, going straight in with, ‘I wondered if you’d call.’
‘Only just got your message,’ I reply – which is more or less true.
‘Let me check her room. Hang on.’
There’s a muffled thump and then a stunted silence. I press back into the driver’s seat and hug an arm across myself. It’s starting to feel cold. I check myself in the mirror but there are no scrapes or scuffs on my face. A minute or so later and Dan is back.
‘Liv’s not home,’ he says. ‘Did she text you?’
‘Nothing. Did she go to work as normal?’
‘I guess so. I was at work and then the gym. I’ve not seen her since this morning. Rahul would’ve called if she hadn’t made it, though.’
That’s true enough. Olivia’s boss has called in the past when she didn’t show up. That was back in the old days – three months ago – when Liv wasn’t as reliable as she has been recently. A few months can feel like ice ages when it comes to living with teenagers.
‘She seemed fine this morning,’ I reply, knowing that ‘fine’ involved her hardly saying anything and then grunting her way back to her bedroom with a bottle of water.
Perhaps it’s because I’m in a field in the middle of the night but it doesn’t feel as if I should be too concerned about Olivia. She’s at that age where a drink with friends can turn into more than one, which then becomes sleeping on someone’s sofa. Slightly concerned parents can easily be forgotten. I was the same at her age – worse – and we didn’t have mobile phones back then.
Dan hums to himself, thinking it over. ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ he concludes.
‘I’m sure, too.’
‘I thought you’d want to know.’
‘That’s very considerate. Thank you for telling me.’
There’s a silence as we each think over the forced politeness. We can do this when we want. We’re actually pretty good at it.
Dan continues to say nothing, which, in itself, says plenty.
‘Is there something else?’ I ask.
‘No… well, perhaps. Did you move my gym fob? I couldn’t find it earlier. I had to get a temporary one.’
It’s typical really. I’m away for the night, our daughter is AWOL, and Dan’s worried about the gym.
‘I don’t remember seeing it around,’ I reply. ‘Did you try the kitchen drawer?’
I’m good sometimes. He’s not the only one that can do passive aggression. The kitchen drawer is where we keep all those types of things. Old and new keys, emergency money, receipts, coupons, lottery tickets. It’s an emporium of everything. It’s exactly where his gym fob would have been; the first place he would have looked.
I can sense the annoyance in his voice when he replies. ‘I tried there,’ he says. ‘Checked my pockets, my car…’
He tails off but I’ve had my moment of satisfaction.
‘Hopefully I’ll find it in the morning,’ he concludes. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Without waiting for a goodbye, let alone offering one of his own, he’s gone. I stab the phone screen twice to make sure it’s not that I’ve lost reception. It’s not – it’s that he’d had enough of talking to me. It occurs to me that the only reason he called and texted was because of his misplaced fob, nothing to do with Olivia at all.
I drop the phone into the well on the side of the door and, from nowhere, have a moment of clarity, grabbing the chamois from the driver’s door and heading back into the night air. I wipe as much of the blood as I can from the windscreen and bonnet but, even in the grim light, it’s a poor job. I’ve done more smearing than I have cleaning. It’ll have to do for now.
It’s only when I’m back inside the car, fingers touching the key, that I realise the one thing that should have been obvious.
If the blood doesn’t belong to an animal, then maybe it belongs to a person.
Chapter Two
The ripple of doubt makes me shiver. It can’t be a person. It just can’t. Besides, I walked around the car, I checked the verges and the road. It’s not simply that there’s no sign of a wounded or dead animal, there’s no sign of anything – or anyone.
The car starts first time, the headlights switching on automatically and flaring deep into the distance, only to be swallowed by the murky shadows. I clip in my seat belt once more and then press gently on the accelerator, listening to the engine rev as it fights against the handbrake. It sounds as if everything’s working. Not that I know anything about cars. ‘It sounds fine’, or ‘it looks fine’ generally does me.
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.’