Something hit him, or he hit something, hard; he was sure of it. The car rocked violently. Enough to cram his heart in to his mouth, he didn’t see it, he didn’t see anything. The heavens had opened up and his demister was struggling impotently against a clouded windscreen. The wipers swung uselessly as the mist prospered on the inside of the glass. He wished he had switched on his air conditioning which normally did the trick. But he was too cold, too cocky, and the road was deliciously deserted. He couldn’t recall when he saw the last vehicle, just after midnight was a safe hour to drive partially blind. He was maintaining a cruising speed of hundred on a seventy stretch. Cop cars and speed cameras were no match for the tropical type thunderstorms that sometimes gripped Melbourne. He had tested this theory repeatedly, frequently; and successfully.

And he knew the road well, too well. He knew exactly where he was, it was where Greensborough Highway fattened out to three lanes from two, just before the Grimshaw Street intersection. It signaled the start of the home stretch, Greensborough Bypass was less than half a kilometer away. The vast Bundoora reserve staggered over two kilometers to the left.

The car executed three hundred and sixty degrees as he stood on the brake pedal. He felt his heart hammering his rib cage and his ear drums, like a drum roll. The car rested against a hard edge, the kerb, he felt it. He peered through the rear view mirror, but the rear glass was yet another white screen. He wrestled with the door which was pushed back by the brutal winds like a feather. The wet and the ice lashed his face, his body as he stepped out.  The rain wrought crazy artwork all round him, in sheets, spirals and pillars. He shivered violently, as the cold sank in to his bones, ripping effortlessly through his flimsy long sleeved Batik shirt and pants. Like a knife passing through soft melting butter. His leather jacket rested on the back seat, forgotten. His visibility was no better. A lonely truck passed him, beamers on. He quickly stepped back to the driver’s side and switched on his beamers, he didn’t want to get run over. But he didn’t switch on his emergency lights, attention was the last thing he wanted. He took his first steps to the front of the car, willing his legs. He didn’t feel any pain as his knees smashed against the asphalt; the dent was bad, and it disfigured the front of his car. He didn’t want to touch it. His sweat was now killing the cold, mercilessly. He wanted to strip and allow his body to breathe, to ventilate. The heat was choking him. He didn’t want to look around anymore. Perhaps the man was bleeding, a broken mess, dying, gasping for air, for some water, to whisper some last words, a wish for his family. Perhaps it was a woman, an innocent child. He half pulled out his mobile from his waterlogged pocket, but couldn’t motivate himself to dial ‘triple 0’. They could trace his number easily. A car splashed by passing him, he cringed. He couldn’t remember getting behind his wheel again, or taking the Plenty Road exit, or turning left on to Betula Avenue. The drum roll kept him company, his constricted chest detained his focus. They didn’t give him time to articulate his dread better; but fear consumed every fibre in his body, his jumble of thoughts and guilt walked all over his conscience.

The beamers lit up his garage door, the engine was running. He was staring through the front glass, in to nowhere; his mind scavenging for lucidity. The rain had ceased, completely. The skies had released a full moon, it was as if it never rained. The Christmas party was a distant memory, it had happened in a previous life. The double scotch on the rocks had dissipated from his system. The patio lights came on. He didn’t see his wife’s silhouette against the open doorway.

“Are you all right?” her soft voice collected him like a warm blanket. She was at his door, his window was half open and the engine was still running. He switched it off. The artificial and the natural beams failed to unveil the scintillating hazelnut of her eyes, or highlight the grey that was slowly overtaking the luscious darkness of her hair. But the kindness still shone out, he saw it, felt it. For the first time in a long, long while. He had shut it out all this time. He dragged his legs out, one after another, and finally hauled his body out calling on the ruins of his physical energy.

“Something’s happened, what is it?” she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her touch was a balm he suddenly craved for. Her tone bore her concern and anxiety.

“I-I,” the tears ambushed him out of nowhere and his face collapsed in to the softness of her neck. “I may have knocked down somebody on the way home,” he said, her neck soaked his words. She said nothing, just stroked his head, and pulled him tightly against her. He inhaled the natural fragrance of her warm skin with an uncharacteristic obsession. Suddenly, Scandalous and Escada nauseated him, he couldn’t quite work out their charm anymore. Or why he had wasted all that time and money admiring them on other women. He knew she knew. But she had always waited at the door, and he had got used to seeing her there. He gave in to his sobs, and she restrained hers.

“Did you hear what I said?”

He said when they were inside. She shook her head slightly.

“I’ll get you some green tea, you are soaking wet, poor thing.”

“I knocked down a person on the road, I-I may have killed him…or…her, I don’t know.”

She froze, turning back to him.

“Who was it?”

Her voice trembled.

“I don’t know, I didn’t wait to see, I took off…I… gosh…I don’t know.”

He struggled wanting to hold her again. She gathered his head to her chest, reading his mind. She allowed two tears to trek down her cheeks. They perished long before they reached him.

“Shhh…but, but you don’t know, perhaps they survived, whoever it was, and you didn’t want to kill them, it’s the intention that counts isn’t it? It was an accident.”

He lapped up her words hungrily, she always made sense. Finally his mind started the long process of de-cluttering itself. She released him, but the comfort lingered.

“I should have called an ambulance, I feel like shit, It…could have been a kid, I don’t know, I was worried they might trace the call.”

She didn’t hear him. She had disappeared in to the kitchen to make his tea. She reappeared a few minutes later holding a steaming hot cup and a warm towel. She began drying his hair and his face, wordlessly.  

The warm water sucked out the tension from his mind and body, he didn’t want to step out of the shower. It cleared his head. The aroma found him as soon as he got out, Papardelle with Lamb Ragu, one of his favourites lay on the table. He didn’t have to see it, she hadn’t eaten yet. But his appetite had succumbed on the highway along with his victim. Her face was still unblemished, uncorrupted by any mascara or foundation cream. The fledgling wrinkles on her brow and next to her eyes did nothing to diminish the look that had hooked him more than a decade and a half ago.  The grey did not matter at all. He had marshaled two of his best mates to stake out Costana’s where the bridal party had chosen for the finishing touches; just to be sure. She was undecided even the night before. She took the aisle seriously, walking down that path had to be final. A lifelong commitment which could only be tested by a lifetime. This terrified her. He had perspired until the moment she stood next to him at the altar. He had uttered his lines with reverence and enthusiasm; with a shaking heart and trembling voice. He had lived a dream ever since. A dream that he had grown bored with. Self-loathing seeped in to his being like water through a leaking roof with too many holes in it.

She forced a smile.

“I love you,” he whispered impulsively. It sounded strange, alien. He looked around nervously, but the kids were fast asleep.

“Love you too,” she mouthed in return. As if to spare him embarrassment.

“Please, please, you can’t just turn yourself in, what will happen to the kids and me?”

Her face teetered on the verge of collapse, but she held it back.

“Look, there may have been cameras out there, despite the rain, and…and they may be on to me already; you see? I KNOW it, trust me, I have to surrender.”

His tone came out calm, which surprised him. The shower had purified his brain. He was stroking her head gently as if she was a child; she leaned her head against his shoulder in blissful submission. The food intervened. They munched, swallowed, choked and scavenged for conversation. He looked at his son: his thirteen year old, with shock. He had grown. His little clone was fast asleep, long legs jutting out from his double bed. He was hugging a pillow like he used to when he was a toddler. He spent several minutes meditating on the gentle rise and fall of his breath, never wanting to move. He kissed the boy’s head lightly. His son woke up with a start, befuddled with sleep.

“Dad!”

He looked surprised. And forced a feeble smile.

“Hey Buddy, tomorrow you are getting a bigger bed ok? Oops! no it’s today.”

“Aww…just a bed?” his son gave him a huge dimpled grin, shaking off his sleep now. He loved his smile. He squeezed the boy’s cheek, kissed him again and went out. He wanted to buy that bed. He tiptoed to the next room, wanting to see his five year old daughter. But was scared that he might wake her up. He crossed the expansive living area to his room, and the bejeweled wall clock strode in to view; five am. He could see the darkness thinning away through the blinds, a Red Wattlebird picked up its pre-dawn call. She was fast asleep, or pretending to. She was holding her breath. Shed tears had left trails on her cheek, which looked like parched creek beds. The pillow carried an ever widening mosaic of moist. He slid silently behind her and gripped her waist tightly, pulling her to him. She arched her hand back and stroked his head. Her body shook gently as she smuggled her sobs ever further in to her pillow.  Sleep was a distant dream. The sun baked his back, some Crimson Rosellas and Cockatoos were making a racket outside. He woke up with a start, and looked at the clock. Disoriented. It was twelve-twenty. He realised it was a Saturday without too much of an effort, things looked normal, but something felt out of place. She was seated on the edge of the bed, looking down at him; every facial muscle contracted. The hazelnut in her eyes looked jaded. It all came back then.

They rode in silence. His hand felt steady on the wheel. He had checked the dent, the thick, dried stains he had only imagined a few hours ago mocked him in open view. She had insisted taking her car; but he wanted to drive his own. The windows were up and winter ruled inside; the air conditioning was cranked up. They were shivering. He took a right on to Childs Road; the brilliantly yellow Acacia flowers and red Grevilleas were in full bloom. They passed their children’s school, now closed for the holidays. Redleap reserve with the lake and the ducks and the play area knotted his breath. The play area was filled with parents and kids, soaking up the ever dominant sun. The amber and brown building with the blue and white squared sign floated in to view. He could hear the sound of her breath vying for top spot with his own. His palms were plastered on to the wheel. He parked, they didn’t get out for a long time.

“What can I do for you mate?”

A blonde girl with dark eyes and a million dollar smile greeted them at the front desk. Her police uniform and side arm did nothing to take away her bubbly spirit and infectious nature. He wanted to talk, but his lips refused to part. They felt like sandpaper.

“Oh! You ok? Just relax ok? I’ll get you a glass of water, it’s all good.” She was about to turn.

“I knocked down a person on Greensborough Highway yesterday night…I mean early this morning, sometime after midnight.”

He reaped immediate relief. The big burly cop serving next to her gave her a quick look, but didn’t join in.

“Where exactly? It’s ok, ok, take your time mate.”

She was concerned, now mostly for him. She wasn’t even taking notes, it was all informal. But he knew her brain was ‘sponging’ it in.

“Near the Grimshaw Street intersection, I was coming from Burke Road; I was worried, scared to report it yesterday, this morning, but I…we couldn’t keep it back any longer.”

He spoke with blossoming confidence, he flashed a nervous smile at his wife.

“Ok, stay here for a tick ok? I’ll be back soon.”

She gave him and his wife another warm smile and went inside, losing none of her sparkle. The benches were now filling up, an assortment of blurry faces; the noise of disjointed conversation. Some yelling. Police two-way radios chattering away. His wife was standing like a statue, preferring to stay tensed. She didn’t want to be tricked in to any false relaxation. Time lost all meaning.

“Hey mate?”

They both jumped. He wondered what happened to her smile.

“What’s your name?”

He exchanged looks with his wife, brimming with worry.

“My name is Anthony, and…and this is my wife Darshani.”

“Well,” she took a deep breath, “I am Sergeant Sharon, I have contacted all the mobile patrols on that stretch this morning, and…and there was a casualty…a badly injured Joey, but it’ll live.”

Sharon laughed out loud, then clapped her hand over her mouth when everyone looked at her. Clearly embarrassed.

“Oh my God! Thank God! I really thought he killed someone,” Darshani was ready to collapse on to her knees. She hugged Sharon, laughing and crying, really crying this time.

Anthony kept looking at his wife; silently. He loved her.

They were back in their badly dented car. Anthony was driving. A stupid, permanent smile etched on his face; which led to a dimple which she  loved to look at. He was whistling tunelessly. The mercury had hit thirty degrees, and was rising. To make matters worse he lowered the windows, wanting to feel the frizzled wind on his face, on his soul. Darshani was looking at him. She knew that he should never know. Some confessions had to be made in silence, introspectively. She took a long deep breath, which was half sob. She had the rest of her life with him to make up for her guilt. She hoped. The tears warned, but the dam held; she had complete control over the sluice gates. She loved him.

“I am sorry…so sorry, sorry for everything.”

He whispered, eyes on the road. She pressed his arm hard.

He parked next to a bed and bedding store.

 

Copyright @ 2018 Jude Perera