An Incident On West Ridge Road

"I'll pick up something on the way home."

I stare at the red light of the traffic signal as I speak into the mobile. The traffic is terrible this morning. There's a meeting I'm meant to be in at nine-thirty, and the way things are going at the moment, I won't arrive in time.

My girlfriend is going on about the meal tonight. I'm not really taking it in. I'm more concerned about making it to the meeting.

"Do you want me to get bagels then? You like them. Okay, fine—French bread."

There are road works ahead. Temporary traffic lights in operation. I should get through with the next set of cars: I'm second from the front. The road's been reduced to one lane, so the traffic has to take it in turns. Typical. And to make things more complicated, another road joins on the left not far ahead, and the lights have to give them a turn too.

"Hurry up ... no, not you, it's these traffic lights."

The cars have stopped coming through from the opposite side. It won't be long now. I glance at the clock on the dash: 09:22.

Lucy is asking whether we need wine now. "I don't mind—you choose."

The sun is out today. First time in ages. Two workmen are behind the red and white barriers, one drilling into the road, the other assisting. There's an easy job. No stress, no hassle, plenty of sunshine. The road on the left is empty of traffic, but the lights are still giving it a turn. It'll be us next.

09:23. Come on.

"Whatever. That's fine. Lucy, listen—I have to move soon. Yeah, it'll be nice. No, I won't forget."

A man, stocky, with dark hair and dirty clothes, walks this way. He's probably in his forties. Pale skin. I notice him because there's no-one else walking, and he looks rough, like he's been sleeping on a bench or something. Because of the workmen, he's forced to walk in the road, but it doesn't seem to bother him. He moves with purpose, like he's in a hurry.

As he passes the side road, a car emerges, and it's going fast, like it's trying to beat the lights. I watch as the car takes the corner and heads straight towards him. I'm sure I see a look of surprise on his face, but he just sort of stands there. Then the car ploughs into him, lifting him off his feet.

"Oh shit ..."

His body rebounds off the car and he gets shunted across the road. The car skids to a stop and he's tumbling and then he smacks into the stone wall opposite.

"Jesus—someone's just been hit by a car, right in front of me. Look, I've got to go. I'll call you back."

I undo my seatbelt as I hang up. I'm a qualified first-aider. They offered to train some of us at work last year, so I applied.

"Shit," I mutter. "Shit!"

As I run past the car in front, I shout out to the driver inside. "Call an ambulance!"

My phone is still on my seat, the keys in the ignition. No time to go back.

The car that hit the man is stalled in the middle of the road. There's a woman sitting inside, holding on to the wheel and staring through the windscreen. Why didn't she see him? There's no time to ask. The man by the wall is the priority. I don't know if I'll be able to do much, but I crouch in front of him and try to remember the drill. His neck is twisted at a weird angle, and a pool of blood is spreading between his head and the wall.

"Hello, can you hear me?"

I check for a pulse. It doesn't look good.

* * *

My fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. My breathing is shallow and rapid. It feels like someone is tapping on the sides of my head with a hammer.

I stare through the spider-webbed windscreen at the broken body of the man across the road.

I'm overwhelmed with emotion: shock, fear, a vague sense of panic – but most of all, there is elation, or at least a grim satisfaction.

Now those feelings drain away like dirty water down a plughole. What I'm left with is weary, numb resignation.

It's over.

It must have been fate that placed him in my path. He had disappeared—I'd seen no sign of him for over a week. I spent every day searching the streets. This morning I returned to his house, just in case, and it was as I drove home, all hope fading, that I saw him. There he was, right in front of me, walking along the West Ridge Road.

I think he's dead. I got the car up to forty before I hit him, I know that. Surely he couldn't have survived. I desperately want to go over to make sure, but I'm wary of approaching. And so I sit in the car, and I wait. And I watch. I'm hoping I might see ... something. I need to be sure.

The police wouldn't stop him. Somebody had to do it. They think I'm mad, pushed over the edge—overdosed on grief. They'll ask me why I did it, and I'll tell them all over again.

They can lock me up, they can put me in an asylum; I don't care what they do. I'll accept the consequences.

"Go to hell, you rotten bastard," I whisper, and finally, the tears come.

* * *

I decided to walk, even with the sun out.

I hate the sun, but it might put some colour back on my skin. It has been days since I walked in the light.

I'm returning to Quinn's house. I've been away. I found what I needed last night. There was a drunk, under a bridge, up in the city. He's in the river now.

I'm tired. I need rest. There's a pressure building in my head, and it's hard to see, hard to focus.

It's two miles from the station to the house. On the road above the town I see cars, backed up, waiting. Men drilling. There's no path so I walk in the road. I don't look at anyone. There's a junction on my right. A car approaches. I carry on—the car will stop. But the car doesn't stop.

It happens too quickly. I can't decide whether to run ahead or step back. I stare blankly. The car doesn't slow down, it's gaining speed.

I see the driver's face. I've seen her before, a lifetime ago. For a moment, our eyes make contact. The car hits me on the right leg, lifting my body so that my head impacts with the windscreen. My body is pushed back, high into the air. I'm thrown into the road, rolling over and over. My skull cracks. I feel limbs breaking. Then my neck twists and snaps as I come to rest against a stone wall.

The car stops. Everything is silent. I look up at the sky. I can see the sun. I try to avoid the sun. I'm dying.

Time passes. I don't know how long. A young man approaches from one of the cars nearby. He tries to speak to me, but I can't respond. It's too late.

The man feels for my pulse, but it's not there. There's nothing he can do.

* * *

I've never seen a dead man before. I can see his eyes staring vacantly. I'd like to cover him up but decide it's better to wait for the ambulance to arrive. Let them make sure.

I look around. The driver I spoke to is standing by his car. He's speaking urgently into his phone, pointing over this way. The workmen have put down their tools and are running over. Further back I can hear the sound of car horns. That's unbelievable. Someone has just died and people are worried about the delay.

My hands shake. I need to do something. Get a grip. Check on the driver of the car, make sure she's okay. One of the workmen is approaching the old man.

"Don't move him," I say. "But stay with him." He nods. I think he's guessed he's dead. His mate comes across with me to the car. The woman is still holding the wheel, staring out.

"Are you alright?" I ask. She looks up slowly, staring at me like I'm not there. Her face is red, she's been crying.

"Leave me alone," she says. She's looking at the body.

"An ambulance is on its way," I tell her.

"Is he dead?"

"He's hurt pretty bad."

"I hope he's dead," she says. "He killed my daughter."

I don't know how to reply to that. Did she smash into the old man deliberately?

The workman takes a step back. "Don't worry, love, everything will be okay," he says. Then quieter, to me, "She's got a shotgun on the passenger seat."

He moves back a few more paces, and pulls me with him.

"You don't know what he did," she calls after us. "He deserved to die—that man is a monster." She chokes back a sob, and I think she's going to break down in a flood of tears, but she controls herself. She goes back to staring at his body.

* * *

I'm looking down at Quinn's body.

I am nothing. The sun burns me, its light makes me weak. It tries to pull me in. I need to find shelter before it consumes me.

I see things as they really are. So much light. Everything connected.

The woman in the car – I recall her name is Stella. I killed her daughter last year. I split her skull open, ate her brains. Somehow she knows. I think she can see me.

Back then I was Bishop. Since Bishop died in jail, she's been watching. Following.

I consider taking her, but I sense she is broken. As broken and useless as Quinn. As I move closer, she looks up. She looks directly at me. I am nothing, but she sees.

I focus. I need to act swiftly. I don't think she can hurt me, but the sun can. The labourer is in poor shape. The younger man seems fitter, healthy.

I draw myself inwards to a single point, and move into him. Then I expand, I connect. I evict. He is thrown out of his own body. I see him—he flutters and flickers like a fish hauled out of water.

Then he is tugged away, rising as if caught on the wind. He falls up towards the sun, slowly at first and then gathering speed. A long journey ahead.

His body drops to the ground and I feel the impact.

I've taken him.

* * *

I'm speaking with the workman. The ambulance will be here soon. The police are coming too. We agree that if the woman tries to run or escape, we'll try to stop her.

I look back at her. She's climbing out of the car, her face full of fear. She looks up into the air, pointing, following—screaming. She points at me.

Blackness. Intense pain in my head. I'm falling.

Now I see light. Everything is so bright. I'm floating, I can see the scene of the accident, but I'm above it; I see myself, lying on the ground. Solid shapes, the trees, the road, the cars—all have faded to non-distinct outlines, silhouettes.

The people below, and in the cars nearby, the birds in the trees, they shine – they're glowing balls of energy, like miniature versions of the sun. Each one sparkles with golden light; it shines in every direction, overlapping, everything connected.

The sun above is vast. A sphere of energy; ripples of purple, gold and blue radiate in all directions, filling the sky, passing through the Earth, me, everything. I can feel it pulling me, firm and strong, and I rise upwards into its light.

* * *

I see it.

I have a gift for these things. I have always been able to see spirits. Ever since I was a child and I watched my grandmother pass away.

But this is not natural, this is something else. A black shape, dark like a storm cloud, almost invisible at first. It gathers above the dead body into a swirling, writhing, dark aura, wisps extending and contracting like tendrils.

The same darkness that I saw in Bishop, and which I'd glimpsed in Quinn, revealed in all its horror.

It comes for me, and I scream out in terror. But I'm not its target—it strikes at the young man. I see him die—his spirit cries out and passes away as he falls to the ground. Now that dark thing, that monster, is in him, alive once again.

I know what I have to do.

* * *

I'm ... Max.

I stretch. I flex my shoulders. I extend myself like tree roots into soft earth. I'm in his brain. I see through his eyes. I recall his memories as if they were my own.

I'm here. He is gone.

"Are you okay?" one of the workmen asks.

Before I can answer, the woman runs at me. She's holding a gun. The man nearest me intercepts her. He holds onto her arm. I step back. His friend runs across and the two of them wrestle her to the ground.

The hunger will return, as it always does. The urges, the craving. I'll need to get the right nutrients, the right things to sustain me.

But first I need rest. I can't go to Quinn's place now. I need somewhere else. Somewhere quiet, where I'll be undisturbed.

* * *

They think I'm mad. I want to scream and shout, but the weight of them crushes me. My face is pressed into the tarmac, and my arm throbs painfully where they've pinned it behind my back.

I've failed. I'm beaten. I hear the first sirens in the distance. They won't believe me, they'll take me away.

I have to try. I force my head up, I attempt to rise. I scream as their strong hands push me down.

* * *

I hear the woman—Stella—behind me as I walk back to Max's car. My car. His mobile phone is ringing. The display tells me it's Lucy, his girlfriend. My girlfriend.

I take the call. She wants to know what's happening.

"There was an accident," I tell her. "Someone died."

I concentrate, and the route to his house comes into my mind.

"Don't worry," I tell her. "I'm okay. I just need to lie down for a while. I'll see you soon ... I'm coming home."

Back to: Vol 2, Issue 2