British Crime Drama

It’s fine. Don’t worry. Let me call.” “For Christ’s sake, Hep, just leave it,” he hissed at her, his contrition disappearing in an instant. Hep noticed his shaking hands and a tremor in his voice. “What’s the problem?” “Nothing. I said I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” “You can’t leave it until tomorrow, Bill. Whatever’s the matter?” Bill didn’t reply straightaway. He paused, took a breath and swallowed hard. “I’ve had a drink.” He stared down at the carpet and whispered the words. “Jesus Christ, Bill,” gasped Hep, overcome by a wave of anger and disappointment. “I’m fine to drive.” “You’ve just run a deer over.” “I’ve only had a couple. I’m not over the limit.” He was short and defensive, and she became wary. “But...” “I just need a minute before I head home. It’ll all be fine. I’ll sort it tomorrow.” “The police will find you and it will be worse then.” “I’ve already driven away. If I call them now they will also know I’ve been drinking.” “But it’s wrong.” Her voice sounded thin and whiny. “So it’s better that I lose my licence?” He challenged her with his gaze. “The business will go under. Who’s going to pay the mortgage and the bills? Where are we all going to live? You want your niece and nephews in bed and breakfast?” “They won’t be in bed and breakfast. You’re always so dramatic.” “What do you suggest? Second drink-driving offence. They could put me away.” That reality hung in the air between them for a moment. “So what are you going to do?” She let out a small sigh. There was a warped reasoning behind his argument. “I’m not sure. I came straight here.” He sat, quieter now, sensing that her moral defences were weakening. He took up all of the armchair, his hands resting on each arm. “What about if I phone anonymously? No. That won’t work. But we can’t leave an animal half dead. That’s horrible.” Her partly formed thoughts flowed out. Bill stood. He took her by the shoulders and gently made her sit. She balanced just on the edge of the sofa cushion. “This is what is going to happen. I’m going to go home. I’m not going to say anything to anyone. Not Suki. Not Mum or Dad. When I get to work tomorrow I’ll make a call. Report it. Apologise. Take my fine and it will be forgotten.” “But...” She looked up at him and resisted his grip on her shoulders. She was slight compared to the bulk of him. “Hep,” he said firmly, keeping her in her place on the sofa. “I am not ruining my whole life because of a bloody deer in the road.” She stared into his eyes, which were the same greeny-grey as hers, but his were calm and reassuring. Where was the anxiety? The fretting? Why was it always her who did the worrying? “We should see if it’s done any damage to the car,” she said, relaxing back into the sofa cushions, complicit now, practical. Bill strode back into the hallway and she followed behind. He stood at the front door and gathered her to him, hugging her close. “Haven’t we always looked out for each other, Hep? Helped each other?” He held her and put a kiss into her hair before stepping off the porch. The security lights flooded the driveway, illuminating Bill’s Range Rover. Splashes of blood were spattered over the radiator grille. Smears of blood and gristle clung to the sides of the windscreen and there was a patch of blood in the middle of the bonnet, already turning a rusty brown and gradually draining away in the misty rain. “Oh my God.” There was so much more than she had been anticipating. Bill turned to see what had startled her. “Oh Jesus.” Bill held up his hands to his head. Hep was unable to move. Blood. And bone. And muscle. A hellish contrast to the verdant greens of the shrubs and bushes edging the driveway. “Right. Right,” Bill said, struggling to keep his voice controlled. “Get a bucket of water. Soapy water. Hot, soapy water. Let me wash this – it – off. I can’t go home with the car like this.” Responding to his order and desperate to get away from the gruesome scene, Hep fled back into the house and into the kitchen. She pulled the bucket from the cupboard under the sink, jammed it under the tap and let the hot water spurt in with a squeeze of washing-up liquid. Above the noise of the water slamming into the bucket she could hear the quickening beat of her heart forcing the blood to her head. She took a long, slow breath and looked around her kitchen, finding comfort in the normality of mess and clutter. This was the most modern part of the house, the back wall removed, knocked through and extended to create a large kitchen-diner with sleek, cream cupboards. After spending the first three years with the original cramped, dark scullery, Hep had been excited to see the new kitchen take shape, imagining a calm, minimalist environment with just some bright fruit on display in a beautiful bowl. The reality of the life of two adults and two teenage children meant that dream hadn’t lasted long, and surfaces were stacked with letters and flyers, recycling piled beside the back door, a pair of sunglasses with an arm missing discarded beside the digital radio disguised in a retro casing, the end of its aerial snapped off. Cork tiles on one wall next to the kitchen table held an untidy collection of photographs, tickets, rosettes and certificates. It always made her smile when she looked, finding something half-forgotten every time. Scanning it tonight her eyes spotted a faded colour photograph, the hues fuzzy from time. It was a skinny girl with straggly red hair wearing a lurid orange dress teamed with what seemed to be black school shoes, alongside a pale, chubby boy in brown polyester shorts, a navy blue hand-knitted tank top and red wellington boots. Aged eight and ten they were hugging each other fiercely and grinning stupidly for the camera. It was her favourite photograph of her and Bill. She dumped two sponges into the bucket and carefully carried it back to the driveway. Bill was pacing, his back to the bloodied vehicle, unable to bear looking. She put the bucket down, threw Bill a wet sponge and squeezed the other out. “You do the wheel arches. I’ll do the bonnet,” she stated. “Thank you,” he said quietly, then knelt on the damp stone of the driveway and set to work. As she scrubbed at a tough piece of gristle stubbornly clinging to the windscreen,