A Prickling of Fear
December 2011
Christmas was fast approaching, a week or so away. The snow came down hard and relentless. But that was what winter could be like in Wales. Gareth Davies wasn’t complaining; it was part of the attraction, being cut off, isolated from everyone and everything. Isolation did have its drawbacks, namely the weather; he had risked the elements and driven out in his wheezy old Land Rover to stock up on exorbitantly expensive provisions from the Cavendish sisters’ store during one of the few windows of opportunity the weather presented. It had been a nightmare getting out, driving down the lanes and small single-track road; the council’s gritting trucks only concentrated on the major routes so when the blizzards came they experienced a total wipeout, with the small side road and neighbouring fields becoming one under the heavy drifts of snow.
He had loaded his carrier bags into the back of the Land Rover and was making his careful way back. Night had fallen and the snow came down again in Arctic proportions. He cursed. He didn’t want to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere. The final mile stretch down to his cottage was on quite a steep incline, the road giving way to a muddy track, heavily rutted and frozen solid. It was covered in a fresh blanket of fine snow. The old headlights didn’t do much to light up the track, and the windscreen wipers came from an era when slow and erratic represented British quality. He was concentrating hard, struggling to keep to the track and avoid letting the vehicle slide into one of the deep, snow-filled ditches.
He was, however, glad to be on the last leg of the uncomfortable journey home, and was looking forward to hunkering down in front of a log fire with a stiff drink. He’d even break into one of his recently bought sherry-filled mince pies as a minor salute to the season. And perhaps it was this warming thought that distracted him, because he did not see her till it was too late to do anything.
A woman, her face gleaming like a bright full moon in the glare of the headlights; a look of surprise that switched to horror as she burst from the hedge to his left and realised that a car was bearing down on her. She appeared to slip on the snow, crash down the steep bank.
He hit the brakes, more by instinct than anything. The wheels locked but the car kept moving, slewing madly from side to side. He heard the awful thud of impact; saw her head bouncing off the front of the Land Rover like a volleyball. She disappeared beneath the vehicle and Gareth closed his eyes as if somehow that might stop the inevitable from happening.
His heart was performing a loud and fast Lord of the Dance routine as he swung open the Land Rover’s door. ‘OhJesusohJesusohJesus…!’ he said in a wild rush of air that spiralled into the sky like a cloud of cigarette smoke. He leapt from the cab, his feet plunging into deep snow. The rhythmic rumble of the engine was ominously loud in the snow-muffled lane, large flakes still falling from the sky, spinning around him and hitting him on the face. He saw her legs — bare legs — lying prone in the light from the headlamps.
He dashed around to the front, slipping in his haste and grabbing the wing mirror to steady himself. Her head was turned away from him, one arm draped protectively over the bridge of her nose, the other across the chest of her sweatshirt, an oversized, sodden raincoat wrapped loosely around her.
There was a carrier bag by her side and inside he saw a small cardboard box poking out. But he was more concerned that he’d killed her. Bending down he patted her face. ‘Hello,’ he said dumbly. ‘For God’s sake, answer me.’ He spotted blood on the snow and his insides crumpled. She remained motionless and he saw her face being leached of colour, growing dangerously paler by the second.
He reached into his coat for his cell phone — he needed to call an ambulance. After much fumbling from pocket to pocket he remembered he’d left the phone on the seat and ran madly back to the cab. He retrieved it, but there was no reception. He cursed, waving it around in the air, as if he could somehow snag a stray bit of signal. He failed.
Could she be in shock, he thought? He pocketed the phone for now and slipped off his coat to drape it around her body. Flakes of snow settled quickly and evenly on it.
‘Don’t you worry,’ he said worriedly. ‘We’ll soon get you taken care of.’
He tried the phone again. Nothing. He stood there with a hand to his head wondering what on earth he should do now. He could run back up the lane to see if the reception was any better, but he doubted it; he’d be cut off from a signal for quite a distance. Anyhow, she was unconscious, not a good sign, maybe even bleeding internally, broken bones, shock, and laid freezing in the snow. No one else would happen on them as few cars came this way, even in mid-summer, so on a night like this waiting around just wasn’t an option.
‘Why me?’ he said angrily. ‘Of all the lanes in all the country you had to fall into mine!’
The engine grumbled impatiently. The snow came down in thick, unrelenting globs. Deller’s End was still three quarters of a mile away with no other house between here and there. At least there was a landline to use in the farmhouse. Gareth bent to his haunches. Aside from his Land Rover and his own laboured breathing, the countryside was deathly quiet. It was unreal. His breath was pumping out in clouds to play around her face as he thought through the limited options.
He needed to get her in the vehicle then get home as fast as he could so he could call for an ambulance. But, having made his decision, he was hampered by the thoughts that he could do more harm than good in moving her. She might have a broken neck or something. He swept his hair back over his head in desperation. She’d freeze if she stayed here much longer, he thought. It would take ages to run to the farmhouse and make the call. The nearest cottage back the way he’d come was at least two miles distant.
Then, as if in answer to his prayers, the woman moved and turned her head, letting out a muffled groan before stretching her legs and falling still again.
No broken neck, he thought gladly.
There was nothing for it. He went to the back of the Land Rover, opening the door and clearing the deck of tools and shopping. He took off his jersey and laid it on the floor. Not much but it would have to suffice. He went back to the woman, paused over her, drew in a calming breath and bent down to take her weight, which, as he lifted her, was not too great. Undernourished rather than slim, he thought. She didn’t make a sound as he carried her to the rear of the Land Rover and placed her as gently as he could on his jersey. He tucked his coat around and under her head, noticing with a sinking heart that there was blood streaming down her forehead. He only hoped he hadn’t done any damage carrying her. He did his best to tend to the wound with a dab or two of the sleeve of his coat before he gave in, slammed the door shut and retrieved the carrier bag from the snow, tossing it carelessly onto the passenger seat.
He pressed the accelerator as gently as he could, both to gain traction and so as not to jolt the vehicle unnecessarily. It appeared to take an age to traverse the snow-packed lane, the drifts getting progressively deeper as he neared the cottage. He could not get all the way to the gate. The Land Rover got itself bogged down in a drift about thirty yards away, so he clambered out of the cab. He checked on the young woman, deciding to remove her coat which was wet-through and no doubt contributing to any hypothermia. He ran the rest of the way to Deller’s End.
Tossing the dripping coat over the back of his sofa he bawled into the phone that he needed help — ambulance, paramedics, helicopter, anything — and realised he must have sounded like an incoherent, babbling idiot, but they appeared to get the message and advised him to leave her in the Land Rover but to keep her warm and as comfortable as possible till they got there. On no account must he try to get her to the hospital himself. Having got his orders he stripped his bed of his duvet, grabbed a pillow and went back to the woman.
As he tucked the pillow under her head and wrapped the duvet around her, for the first time he noticed how pretty she was, in a plain, everyday sort of way. No makeup. Face dirtied by her fall. Late twenties, early thirties tops, he thought. Slightly familiar, if he were to be honest, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. But his attention was more drawn to her lips, which appeared as bloodless as her skin.
‘Can you hear me?’ he asked, getting in beside her and closing the door on the swirling snow. He picked up the torch he kept in the back and shone it at her. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be long and they’ll be here.’
He put the flat of his hand on her forehead. Why, he had no idea, because he didn’t have the faintest idea what he was looking for. She felt cold, but was that good or bad? If she’d been hot and feverish would that have been preferable to cold and clammy, given her condition? And what exactly was her condition?
Jesus, he thought, I could have killed her! And she might die if they don’t get here soon.
‘I’m called Gareth,’ he blurted, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Stupid bastard, he thought; like she’s going to hear you. But it made him feel better, to offer what little support he could. The only way he knew how. ‘Welcome to Deller’s End,’ he said, looking through the fogged-up window of the door towards where the ambulance would appear. If they could get down here, he thought bleakly.
At that moment a flurry of snow rattled softly against the sides of the Land Rover as if to taunt him.
About three-quarters of an hour passed. The temperature inside the vehicle dropped sharply and he was hoping the young woman was still warm beneath the duvet and was deliberating whether to fetch more from the house when a shadow flitted by the steamed-up window. At first he thought his tired eyes had imagined it, but he distinctly heard someone — or some thing — tramping softly in the snow outside. He thought that somehow they’d arrived without him noticing, to take her to hospital, but it was only when he swung open the back door and jumped down from the Land Rover into the thick snow did he realise no one was there. No ambulance, no paramedics, nothing.
Nothing except a deep and fresh set of footprints pockmarking the drifts. ‘Anyone there?’ he called out, flicking his torch beam into the ragged, thorny undergrowth by the side of the lane. The thin beam did little to penetrate the scrub. Gareth traced the footprints, fresh snowflakes already settling in them. They appeared to circle the Land Rover and then head off towards the cottage, where they looked to meld with his own footprints of earlier. He aimed the torch down the lane, and then swung it to his left; the beam struck out across an empty expanse of ghostly white field. There was not a soul to be seen.
His curiosity was just dipping into the first prickling of fear when he saw the starlight-blink of headlights in the distance, shining sharply through the curtain-like screen of denuded trees. He went back to the Land Rover and waved the torch in their direction, relief flooding through him, warming and welcome.