Needs Must When The Devil Drives

My cheap shades are no match for the low afternoon sun glaring off the lake. I still have to squint through my tears if I look across to the opposite bank. Sweat beads gather below my ponytail and run down my spine as if I’m exerting myself, but the physical work is done. I’m resting now, for as long as I dare. Bruised arms aching, hot breath catching. Cool beer soothes my croaky throat under the shelter of a weeping willow. I could not have done this sober.

My broken nails snag as I fan myself with the dishevelled ordnance survey map. Best not to use GPS for this kind of thing. You never know who’s tracking that shit. Only problem with the paper versions is they never go back the way they were no matter how many times you examine the creases – no matter how many times you fold and unfold – no matter how many times you push and pull - you still end up cramming them into their cover in an ungainly way with bits sticking out at strange angles. Especially with your hand shaking like this. And now it’s grubby with damp, mucky fingerprints from trying. My jeans are mucky too. There's soil ground in to my sweat-stained T-shirt. I guess my face is smeared with it. My body as tarnished as my soul must be. No amount of scrubbing will clean these memories from my mind. Sleep will be elusive for a long time to come.

I may have to add real flames to the already sweltering day. It would be better to wait til sunset perhaps, but it’s the longest damn day of the year, and I can’t hang around that late. I shouldn't hang around at all. Grabbing a few sticks from near the mound of earth next to me, I pull up some dry grass for kindling and pick up some stones to contain the blaze. Glad I emptied his pockets; his monogrammed Zippo sparks first time. Best to burn his designer wallet too. Three twenties, liberated from their compartment, pop straight into my back pocket with the hope that his credit cards don’t smoke too much as they twist and melt. That sixty quid is the most positive thing I ever got from him and more than I ever expected. He was only ever generous with his lies and his fists. I stay by the lake until all the evidence is ash, then quench the fire.

Is it even hotter in there? Is he still conscious? Can he breathe? Do I want to know?

Even with all that has gone before, every broken bone, every blackened eye, every insult, curse, and bold manipulation, I have questioned my judgement at every stage from planning to execution. Did he ever question his? Are we the same in this terrible moment?

The word "execution" brings a sly smile to my lips. I wrestle it away. How can my heart be so cold when my temper is so hot?

I stand, wipe my tears with trembling, grubby hands, and gather my tools, rinsing the tell-tale soil from the spade and pickaxe in the shallows of the glistening water. They seem heavier with this muscle strain and fatigue. They clang and clatter back into the scorching bed of my pickup. The tailgate slams up into position, now with fresh scratches where I slid his shoddy box out onto the ground this morning, ignoring his pleas and banging. Like he ignored mine so many times.

This morning. A lifetime ago but only a day. The longest damn day of the year. Longest damn day of his life. 

***

Scratching with bleeding, broken fingers, sweating below the wooden lid just three inches from my face. Swollen, tear-drenched. Dazzling light glints between the planks. Blinded! Eyes closed – scorched, white lines still in my vision. Still some air coming in, dry, stifling air – but air. Breathe shallow, breathe shallow. Not working. Breath is laboured, heavy, harsh. Throat parched.

“Help!” Pathetic yelp won’t get me far. “Help!” No real sound comes.

She’s dragged me into a truck bed. I slide inside the box - round corners, down bumpy country lanes. Miles from civilisation. Miles from help. Miles from hope.

Wood splinters under my nails, sharp, unforgiving. Pull back on my escape attempt. Eyes stinging and clouded. Blinking doesn’t clear the view. Am I heading towards death? Damn the splinters – damn the agony – FIGHT. Knees and heels pounding. I scratch and scrape. Fingers jammed into the gaps in the wooden struts to pull wider air holes. There’s a little give in the lid - redouble my efforts. Try to holler but engine rumble and gravel crunching cover up my thirst-stricken voice.

Slowing – uneven ground – off road. Head bangs down – then up – eyebrow cut. Right thigh cramps – scream but no sound. No space to stretch the over-heated muscle - torture spreads towards my knee. Movement stops. Driver’s door opens. Change her mind – but how?

“Hayley! Hayley! Let me out!” Words grate in desert-like throat.

BANG! Tailgate dropping. Box rasping across metal. She’s pulling me out. Drop to ground. Headfirst. Stunned.

Conscious again – how long was I out? Forehead dripping. Check it with finger. Skin blistered. Open eyes, open eyes. Argh – grit, dirt. Stinging, smarting. Blink. Yell. Blink. Blink. Blink. Sunlight still glaring. Eyes streaming. No clear vision. Dirt filtering into my space, into my air, into my eyes, nose, mouth. Dries my tongue, textures my teeth forces eyes closed. Gagging. Try to spit. Close lips. Give up screaming. Bang fists. Kick feet. Darkness. Despair.

Moment of clarity - hardest damn day of the year for her too. Hardest damn day of her life. 

***

I prepare to welcome another self-selected guest. So many are dying to get in.

Ha ha ha.

This one's so close to entering my realm that his wheezing breaths and his full-body pain are biting at the veil. Not long now.

I’ve watched him for years, encouraging the growth of his hatred, the building of his cruelty, the hardening of his heart. I hadn’t expected his own wife to send him on his way to me, but needs must when - what was that phrase again?

She thinks she’s been tortured enough already. She has no idea of the fate she's sealing for herself. Her education won't start yet though, she still has time. His is about to begin.

My instruments are sharpened, caverns are filled, and fires are stoked. When he breathes his last agonising breath, he will fall. No mercy. His tears will dry down here. His blood will boil. His flesh will roast.

It's the hottest damn day of the year.

Hottest damn day of his life.

It's about to get a whole lot hotter.