Aaron sighed. He had to do it. He began pedalling again and made his way along the pathway. Panting slightly, although not sure whether it was through fear or exertion, he cycled across the first narrow bridge over the river, conscious of the traffic noise from the city fading into the distance behind him.
Halfway over the bridge, he stopped and looked down the narrow stream of water which led through the fields to the main river. It turned left before disappearing round a bend, while in front of him the track narrowed to little more than a horse trail. Aaron took one more look at the river and then pedalled as fast as he dared along the loose surface of the track, careful not to skid.
As he drew closer to the next bridge, the track narrowed and he could smell the early evening scent of damp undergrowth, pine sap and horse droppings while snowdrops tentatively poked through the grass verges on each side.
Aaron jumped as a pheasant flew out in front of him, squawking and flapping its wings. He laughed to himself nervously then jumped again as something else screeched nearby.
The narrow path ran between two tributaries of the river before it swept across them and out through the fields to Old Marston. Aaron slowed as he recalled the horror stories of people falling in the water and not being able to survive the icy temperatures at this time of year. He steered the bike to the middle of the pathway, away from the edges of the water, determined not to slip and fall in.
As he neared the bend in the track to take him home, he saw a shape at the water’s edge, draped between the shallow grass verge near the water and the gravel track. He slowed, heart racing. It looked like an old bundle of clothes dumped on the side of the path.
Aaron looked around him and suddenly wished he hadn’t come this way. He couldn’t bring himself to turn back though – it was too far now – so instead, he got off the bike and began to wheel it towards the bundle of clothing. As he drew closer, he could make out the shape of a person. ‘Hello?’
He stopped. He’d heard enough stories about ‘stranger danger’ when he was younger and despite what his parents thought, he’d listened to their warnings about wandering off with people he didn’t know. But this was different. It felt wrong.
‘Are you alright?’ he called.
Perhaps it was a drunk. It was no good, he thought, he’d have to get closer. He breathed out, and pushed the bike nearer and made sure he kept it between him and the figure as if to add some extra protection. As he drew closer, he could see it was a man, dressed in a suit, his face turned away from Aaron.
He stepped around the figure and screamed. The bike dropped to the ground as the boy turned and ran to the other side of the gravel track and vomited into the long grass.
It seemed like an age before he could muster the courage to run back, grab his bike and cycle as fast as he could down the remainder of the track and home, where his mother tried to calm her hysterical son before calling the police.
It would be even longer before the memory of the dead man’s face would begin to fade from his nightmares.
The alarm screeched loudly, twice, before a hand shot out from under a blanket and punched it into submission.
Dan sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Christ, it was freezing. He stood up, pulled on a thick dressing gown and padded over to the bedroom door. Running his hand through his hair, he wandered downstairs and stared blearily at the timer on the central heating system. He hit it hard with the palm of his hand and instantly heard the soft roar of the heating system starting up.
Yawning, he switched on the kettle and began to make coffee. He turned, and picked up the mobile phone from the kitchen bench. No messages. He frowned – he’d tried to phone Peter back after returning from the pub three nights ago but the voicemail service kept kicking in. He was wondering who he could contact at the university to track down Peter when a footfall at the front of the house caught his attention.
He glanced up as he heard the letterbox squeak on its hinges. He padded out through the hallway, picked up the copy of the Oxford Times lying on the mat, then wandered back to the relative warmth of the kitchen. While he waited for the water to boil, he sat at the breakfast bar and flicked through the newspaper until his eyes rested on a report on page five.
He felt his jaw go slack with shock. The headline read: ‘Prominent Lecturer Killed in Vicious Attack’.
‘Police have confirmed the body found near the River Cherwell in Old Marston twenty-four hours ago was that of Doctor Peter Edgewater, lecturer in geology at the Department of Earth Sciences, Oxford University. Police are describing the attack as vicious in nature. Doctor Edgewater’s colleagues raised the alarm when he failed to turn up for the first faculty meeting of the new academic term yesterday morning.
Doctor Edgewater, best known for his activism for more research into alternative energy, was apparently walking behind the College grounds when he was assaulted. Doctor Edgewater had just completed a successful lecture tour in Europe championing his paper on the theory of a white powder gold extract being used as an alternative to coal for the electricity industry. Doctor Edgewater used his lectures to regularly criticise gas and coal companies for allegedly delaying vital research into alternative energies. At the present time, the murder weapon has not been found and police are appealing for witnesses.’
What a way to start the New Year, thought Dan. He read through the report again, his heart beating hard as he searched for answers which wouldn’t come. He pushed the article to one side and slid his mobile phone towards him. Dialling up his voicemail, he listened to Peter’s message once more.