AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He’d cracked a couple of ribs once, while playing rugby at university, and the sharp pain he felt now whenever he breathed in deeply made him think he’d done it again – only more spectacularly this time.
But the worst of his injuries was the one to his leg. Suspended in the driver’s seat, Finn couldn’t assess the extent of the damage, although his first tentative exploration had terrified him. When his trembling fingers had encountered the long piece of metal skewered through his thigh, he’d drawn them back in panic. He’d stared in shock at his left hand, which looked like it was wearing a single crimson glove that dripped like something out of a horror film. Finn knew just enough first aid to realise he shouldn’t be attempting this again, but what else could he do? He had to try.
His hand shook as he reached for the water bottle and stole a quick swig, wishing – as he did every single time – that it was Scotch or brandy.
His breathing was already ragged, and all he could do was hope that this time he wouldn’t pass out. The shard of metal was slippery and his fingers struggled to find purchase. He gripped it awkwardly as he began counting down. Three. Two. He closed his eyes before reaching ‘one’ and summoned up Gemma’s face. He pulled on the metal with all his strength, feeling the hot gush of fresh blood coursing down his thigh, but the metal refused to budge. His scream of agony was swallowed by the darkness of the gully that came up and washed over him, as he once again lost consciousness.
*
He came round the way he always did, panicked and disoriented. There was a drumming in his ears and he was slow to realise something was trundling along the road. Whatever it was, it was heavy, for the wreckage shook in the ditch and the metal shrapnel in his leg stung like hell as it dug a little deeper into the meaty flesh of his thigh.
Finn quickly moved his hand to cover the horn. Timing was everything. His previous over-eager attempts had all been too hasty. The passing cars’ own engines had muted the feeble bleat of his Ford’s horn.
‘Hold your nerve,’ he instructed himself. It had taken too many failed attempts for him to realise he needed to let the passing vehicles drive beyond him before leaning on the horn. He reckoned that three seconds should be just about right. ‘One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi,’ he gasped hoarsely, before slamming his good hand on the horn. Nothing. Not even a pathetic squeak. He hit it again and again, practically punching it in his frustration, even though he knew that by now the van, tractor, or whatever it had been, would be too far away to hear him. The car’s electrics had finally given out.
It was a miracle that they hadn’t shorted out in the accident. It had been his one and only stroke of luck, and now that too was gone. In hindsight, he realised he’d wasted too much juice in the first few days, switching on the radio, convinced he would hear a news report about his disappearance. After several bulletins, he’d felt the first touch of his own mortality. There had been nothing about him being missing on either the local or national announcements. Why was no one looking for him?
His secret wedding gift now seemed like the most stupid idea he’d ever had. Why had he told no one about his plan? How ridiculous to have been so worried that someone might accidentally ruin the surprise. There were only two people who knew anything about it, but unless the media was reporting him as missing, neither of them would think to come forward with information. And no one else had any reason to suspect he was in this area.
To the rest of the world, it must look as though he’d walked away from his wedding and the woman he loved – from his whole life, in fact. And how could he blame anyone for thinking that, when he’d done something similar so many times before? But surely Gemma would know he’d never have done this to her, to them? She knew how much he loved her. She knew that he’d changed. Didn’t she?
26
I phoned Inspector Graham again, gripping Milly’s card so tightly I was in danger of crushing it. To give him his due, the policeman heard me out, and even though I suspected there might have been some eye-rolling at his end of the line, none of it was evident in his voice.
‘Miss Fletcher – Gemma – I know how much you don’t want to hear what I’m about to say.’ He might as well have stopped right there; I already knew what was coming. ‘What I need, what police regulations require, is cold, hard, tangible evidence that Mr Douglas hasn’t simply decided to take himself away from the… situation.’
By ‘situation’, he meant me.
‘I know you think you’ve found it in this gift your fiancé sent from the pet shop, but it still isn’t enough for us to proceed.’
My frustration finally erupted. The only surprise was that it had taken so long.
‘You want evidence that this man wouldn’t have left me on the day of our wedding? I can give you hundreds, no, thousands of pieces of evidence.’ I was breathing hard now, as though this speech could only be completed at a full-pelt run. ‘But none of it is yourkind of evidence. You can’t drop it into a sterile plastic bag, you won’t be able to produce it in a court of law when someone asks for Exhibit A, and you can’t transcribe it into any of the boxes on your bloody missing person report.’
Inspector Graham drew in a breath as though he was about to interrupt me, but I spoke straight over him.
‘My kind of evidence isn’t tangible – you can’t pick it up and hold it in your hand, but it’s still one hundred per cent solid. It’s in the way Finn will watchThe Notebookwith me, even though I’ve seen it a hundred times and it’s not his sort of film. It’s when he passes me the tissue box at just the right moments, because he knows which bits make me cry. It’s how he puts way less chilli into a curry than he’d like, because he knows I can’t take it hot. It’s there when we sleep under a fifteen-tog duvet, even though he’s sweltering, because otherwise my feet get cold.’ I drew in a shuddery breath. ‘And it’s how he’ll buy me flowers on my mum’s birthday, even though she died long before we got together. That’s my evidence. That’s how I know how much this man loves me. And that’s why I know without a single doubt that something terrible must have happened to stop him from being at the church last week.’
Inspector Graham sighed, and I thought I could hear a trace of sadness in the sound.
‘Are you married, Inspector Graham?’ I asked suddenly.
The question clearly threw him. ‘Erm, I’m not sure how that’s relevant.’
‘It’s not a hard question. Is there a Mrs Graham?’
He paused, and I imagined there was probably some rule prohibiting police officers from divulging personal details to members of the public.
‘Yes, there is.’
‘Then you already know what I’m talking about. There are things only you and your wife know about your relationship. The behind-closed-doors things. Things that no one else looking in from outside would ever understand. It’s the DNA of your love story: the history, the secrets, the memories, even the silly jokes that only the two of you share. They’re your evidence. And every couple has them.’
There was a long moment of silence. Was he wavering now?
‘I need more, Gemma. Give me just one tangible fact so I can get this thing started.’
‘I’ll find one,’ I vowed.
