Any Other Day
1/13
It felt damn good to drive this car, Bill thought as he turned off the slip road and sped out onto the motorway. He eased down on the accelerator with his right foot and felt the Porsche rumble beneath him, purring like a contented cat. The whole experience made him feel like a man, powerful and in control. Of course, that was how the Bill Kettle saw himself, and that was how he wanted the world to see him too.
He flicked his thumb over the smooth black button at the side of the wheel, and above him, the canvas roof began to retract into the car’s sleek frame. He laughed as the wind whipped through his dark, curly hair. ‘This is it, Bill’ he thought, ‘You’ve finally hit the big time.’ After everything he had put up with, his life was finally coming together. He let a whoop of delight.
Bill was forty-four years old, and for the past three of those years, he had worn an engraved wedding band on his left ring finger. The ring now sat hidden, deep in the shadows of his glove compartment.
As he sped down the smooth, open road, he pressed ‘5’ on his phone’s speed-dial. There was a moment’s pause, and the speakers in the leather dash told him it was connecting. He reached across the passenger seat and popped the glove compartment open with a gentle clunk.
The car-phone clicked, and a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Sandy, babe. It’s Bill. How’s every little thing?”
“Bill!” his wife cried, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s so good to hear you, honey. Are you coming home? Tell me you’re coming home!”
The grin which hadn’t left his face all morning, widened further. She wanted him, and nothing in the world could compare to that feeling.
“I sure am, sweetie,” he replied, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling its contents onto the passenger seat. “We finished up this morning. Everything’s signed and sealed.”
His wife let an audible squeal of excitement.
“Oh my God, that’s great, Bill! How many did you sell?”
He let her wait a few seconds as he rooted through the clutter on the passenger seat: his wedding ring, some sales papers, and most memorably, a pair of red silk panties. He slipped the ring onto his finger, and wrapped the delicates around his wrist.
“Bill, are you there, honey?”
He flicked his eyes back to the road. “Sorry babe. I’m on the motorway and traffic’s a bitch.”
It was just one of the little lies Bill Kettle allowed himself. Sandy hated lies, even white ones, but they kept his marriage from getting dull. In the end, he thought, what was good for him was good for her.
“So?” she prodded, “How many?”
“Twenty”
She gasped. “All... all twenty? Bill, are you serious?” She sounded incredulous, and as she spoke, he caught a glimpse of himself grinning in the rear view mirror. For ten years, he had slaved as a junior manager in her father’s textile plant. Now, after one trip for his new employers, he had earned what would once have been his salary for a year.
“Every last one of them, babe,” he replied. “Twenty potential clients on the list, twenty new companies using OmniMax.”
“Oh Bill, honey that’s great news. I’ll have to prepare something special for you when you get home. I’m just so happy. All twenty!”
He raised an eyebrow, “How about that lacy black number you got at Christmas – the one with the frills?” She laughed, “Maybe, but only if you’re very lucky, honey bear.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
And that was the truth. He liked to think of Sandy as a ‘stone-cold fox’ - one of those women every man wanted, and every woman secretly wanted to be.
“So what time can I expect you home?”
He checked the digital clock on the car’s dashboard. 15:30. “Shouldn’t be too long, babe. I’ll be in before dinner if the traffic eases off.”
Ahead of him, the motorway was clear to the horizon, but selling even a small lie takes some embellishment.
“Okay, honey. Keep your eyes on the road and come home safe. I’ll have that surprise ready and waiting.” “
He laughed. “I’ll look forward to it, babe. Say hi to Boo for me.”
“I will. Ciao, honey.”
“Ciao for now.”
The car phone’s speaker clicked, and the red light above its “Call Status” button blinked off. Bill checked his speed gauge, and pressed down on the accelerator once more. Beneath him, the Porsche gathered speed like a sprinting cheetah. 100, 125, 160.
He lifted his right hand from the wheel, and unwrapped the panties from around his wrist. They were as soft as the sultry brunette who had worn them getting into the car last night.
It felt good to be king.
A sign to the right of the road read “Dunshank: 100km,” but Bill Kettle sped past without reading it. He raised his right hand into the air, and let the wind catch the panties like a kite before a gale. With a flourish, he let the delicates go – and the last evidence of his infidelity flew into anonymity.
2/14
Dunshank passed in a blur, drawing not even a glance from the salesman. He grinned as the Porsche blasted AC/DC along the road, the only way in or out of town, and for the thirty seconds he was there, he kept his eyes on the asphalt. He thought about the uneducated farmers who lived here, who would for their entire lives remain within an hour’s drive of the motorway slip. It was a poor excuse for life.
Beyond Dunshank lay kilometres of open fields, most of them filled with cows and sheep, but ahead, just below the horizon, he saw something at the side of the road that sent an icy shiver down his spine.
He turned off the music and applied his brakes gradually, dropping down to sixty so he could get a good look. At first, it had seemed little more than a collection of rags, abandoned by some careless villager. However, as he grew closer, he realised with dread that he had made a mistake. The day was warm and the air still. As the Porsche slowed, even the illusion of wind vanished, and yet the bundle of rags continued to move.
After a few seconds, Bill passed the bundle, and looking closer, saw the dirty face of a pale, red headed boy.
“Jesus Christ!”
He slammed on the breaks, and threw his door open. Leaping out, he circled the car and ran onto road’s dusty verge. Already, he could hear a muffled whimpering from the ragged bundle, and he threw himself onto the ground beside it.
“Hey! Hello?” he said as he rested his hand on the top of the bundle. The cloths wrapped around the kid were dirty but well-kept, and their purple and yellow pattern struck him as distantly familiar. He had more important concerns now, though. The little boy was shivering, and in obvious distress.
“Hey there, sport,” he said, lowering his face to the cocooned child. The kid looked maybe six or seven – the same age as Boo – and had fresh tears running down his face. Bill shook his head at the picture, and hunkered down, the knuckle of his right hand brushing against the dirt. “Hey little man, are you all right?”
The boy peeked up at him, a look of terror in his wide, blue eyes.
Bill pulled the rags back a few inches, and placed his palm on the boy’s shoulder, “What happened to you, kid? Where are your parents?”
The boy stared back at him, and tears began to run down his cheeks once more.
He didn’t answer. Bill looked the kid over, and bit his lip. He wondered what horror could have landed the kid here, and if that same nightmare could have made him mute.
“My mum’s dead,” the kid eventually replied, rubbing his right eye with the back of his palm.
“I’m sorry to hear that, bucko,” Bill said, squeezing the child’s shoulder. “Is your dad nearby?”
The boy’s eyes dropped to the ground, and he resumed his silence. Bill let a minute pass in silence, and realised his opportunity was lost. He nodded, and stood to his full six feet, “Alright then,” he said, “I’ll call an ambulance.” He reached inside the lining of his thin, Italian business jacket, and extracted his mobile phone. It was a touch screen model, and he had already dialled ‘9-9-‘ when the boy cried and reached out a spindly arm.
“Mister, don’t!”
Bill paused, his finger hovering over the final button. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at the kid. “Are you going to tell me who you are?” The boy nodded, and Bill lowered his phone, and slipped it back into his pocket.
He put his hands on his hips and hunkered back down.
“So what’s your name, kid?”
“B... Billy Stanton,” he stuttered, and then: “43 Hebron Terrace, Kildera, Co. Meath.” The words tumbled from his mouth like an avalanche.
Bill nodded. He could work with that. He knelt down, and used his best reassuring voice – the one he normally tried when a customer was trying to slip the line.
“Well," he said. "‘Billy’ is my name too. Well, my boss calls me Mr. Kettle, and my friends call me Bill.” He paused. “You can call me Bill, if you’d like.” He smiled that old familiar grin, the one he had rehearsed for days in front of the mirror, but the kid didn’t bite. He looked away.
Bill was about to take out his phone once more, when his young namesake looked up.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bill”, the boy said. “He’s making...”
As he spoke, Bill suddenly heard a noise behind him – a clatter of footsteps racing across the gravel. He spun, just in time to see a thin, bearded man in jeans and a blue sweatshirt lunge at him from across the verge.
Bill raised his hands in front of his face, but he it was too late. His assailant slammed into him, sending them both spinning to the ground, the attacker on top. The bearded man held a cloth in one hand, and slammed it into Bills face before he had a chance to react. It was wet, and stank of rotten eggs. Bill struggled, trying to force the man off him, but suddenly felt woozy. His hearing went faint and everything began to spin. The man stood up, and Bill struggled to do the same, but tripped on the rags behind him and collapsed again.
He hit the ground with a dull thud, and suddenly, everything went black.
3/15
“He’s awake... dad,” a young voice spoke in the darkness. A series of images flashed through Bill's mind; a bundle of multi-coloured rags, the road, the bearded man. He let an involuntary moan and coughed.
“The chloroform’s wearing off,” a deeper voice replied, “Don’t worry.”
Bill’s throat was raw and sore. His entire body was numb, and it took him few seconds to force his eyes open. He was sitting on a wooden chair.
At first, there was nothing but blinding light, and he threw his head backwards to protect his eyes. “Wh... where am I?” he stammered. He turned his head from left to right, but the light, which he now realised was in front of him, made it impossible to see anything nearby.”Who are you?”
Somebody else was in the room. He could hear them breathing, but no response was forthcoming. “Billy, sport, is that you? Who’s there?”
The numbness almost gone now, he struggled to move his arms, and found that they were tied to the chair with rope, his legs the same. He fought against the bindings for a moment, and realised they were too tight to escape. It was like a scene from a bad movie.
To his right, he heard a series of heavy footsteps crossing the floor. “Billy, come over here please,” the man said, somewhere behind him. He had a deep voice, a spoke in a halting, but serious tone.
Several seconds passed in silence, and then he spoke again. “Billy, please, this is for your own good.”
Bill didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice. It sounded desperate, unstable.
“Here, take this.”
“This isn’t fair,” Billy replied.
“Just go get yourself something in the shop. Please.”
“I hate you.”
The words lingered in the air like a foul stench, until Bill heard the slow creak of a door opening, and a bang as it slammed shut. As soon as they were alone, the man sighed and twisted the shade of the lamp so its light hit only the roof. Bill blinked and waited for the flying flashes of coloured blobs to clear from his vision. As his captive sat, dazed, the man walked around the chair, and sat down opposite him.
“That’s your fault, you know,” he said. “We weren’t close, but you turned him against me.”
Bill leaned forward to get a better view of the man, and as he did so, felt a slight give in the rope around his right wrist. He moved his thumb back and through the loop, and slowly began to pry at the knot. The man seemed too distracted to notice.
“He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand what I have to do.”
As his vision finally cleared, Bill glanced around the room. It looked like a motel room, its blinds closed and the lamp tilted on a short table in front of him. His kidnapper sat on the bed a few feet away, his pale, clammy skin made sickly in the dim light. His eyes were a wide mixture of fear and anger, and he was shaking, even worse than the boy had.
“You’re not gonna take him again, Mr. Kettle,” the man said after a minute. He leaned forward as he spoke, and Bill noticed the bed was missing its duvet, but the pillow cases were the same pattern as the boy’s rags.
He shook his head. “Listen pal, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
The man jerked his head from side to side in a series of quick spasms. “I don’t think so, Mr. Kettle. You’re the right man and this is the right time. I got you here now, and I’m gonna keep you here”. He stood up and balanced on the balls of his feet, waving a finger towards Bill. “You’re not going to take my boy from me again.”
Bill’s heart raced as he watched the man, and his eyes darted around the room for any weapon the nut might have with him. Unless there was something behind the bed, it seemed bare.
"Listen, pal. You let me go now and we'll forget this whole thing. I’d never seen your boy before I pulled over on the road. How he got there is none of my concern."
“Never seen him?” the man cried, leaping onto the bed like an enraged chimpanzee. He jabbed his finger down at Bill, casting a long shadow across the roof. “You weren’t paying attention, were you? Playing your music! Talking to your wife on the phone!” He leapt from the bed and landed inches from Bill’s face, shaking with rage. “You killed him, you bastard! You killed him, and killed him again!”
He curled his hand into a fist swung wildly at Bill’s face, sending his head flying onto his right shoulder and shaking the chair beneath him. Dazed, Bill lifted his head and looked at the old man. His head was ringing and he could taste acid rising in the back of his throat. The kid could have told his father his name, but how did he know about the conversation with Sandy?
“I didn’t do anything, you crazy bastard!” Bill yelled, giving up any hope the man would listen to reason. He prided himself on being able to talk his way out of – or into – anywhere, but that seemed unlikely now.
The man looked at his still clenched fist, turned his bony arm and looked at his faded wristwatch. He shook his head. “Nope, you didn’t – not yet. But you will, and you did," he said. "You did, and you will, if I don’t stop you.”
He took a step back, turned, and began to pace the room, moving just beyond Bill's line of sight at the end of each crossing. His hands moved as he spoke, their gestures growing wilder, more violent with every pass.
“I... I thought it was a nightmare,” he rambled, slamming a fist into his open palm, “The first time, I mean, when I woke up. You know? Yes, it was a nightmare. Of course it was. You killed my boy, Kettle. What else could it be? I’d just got him back and he was dead. You killed him!"
He turned, and slammed his hands down on Bill’s arms, across the loose binding on his right wrist. Again, he didn’t seem to notice.
“Is it you, Kettle? Is it you doing all this? You knock him down in the middle of the road, and then come back for more? Why? Why?”
He shook Bill’s wrists so violently the chair rocked, creaking on its hinges. Bill opened his mouth to reply, but could think of no answer that would sate his kidnapper. The man was clearly insane, and Bill, King of the World just hours ago, was unlikely to see his wife and child ever again. He wondered if Sandy would call the police when he didn’t arrive home. He hoped they would find the car, wherever it was.
“Never mind. Never mind,” the man said, letting go of Bill’s wrists at last. He stood to his full height and brushed his hands across each other, as if dusting them off. “It doesn’t matter now.”
He turned, and walked towards the motel room door. Bill heard the metallic catch of the lock twisting, and the man turned back to face him. He reached beneath his sweatshirt and waistband, and removed a small, silver pistol.
“The name’s Stanley Tanner, by the way," he said. "Dr. Stanley Tanner. You should know that before I kill you."
4/16
Bill's heart leapt into his throat. For a moment, he felt like was going to throw up, the taste of acid now filling his mouth. He tried to push away from Tanner with his feet, but the chair wouldn't budge. “I swear to God,” he cried, “I’ve never seen either of you in my life. I’m just a...”
Tanner took a step forward. “A computer salesman, I know!” he roared, lifting the gun above his head. “I know everything about you, you son of a bitch! I know you have a daughter named Boo. I know you just closed some deal in Cork. I know you couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but yourself and now I’m suffering for it! First Sarah and now this! Now always this!”
Bill was speechless. There was no way Tanner could know any of those things. The thought that it was all some elaborate TV stunt flashed across his mind, but he had to discount it. There was real terror in Stanley Tanner’s eyes, real rage across his face.
“Oh yes, that's the look,” Tanner said, watching Bill’s frozen expression of fear and confusion. “You thought I was just a kook last time, mad because you killed my boy. But you told me things, Mr. Kettle. I figure it was your dumb-fuck way of easing your conscience."
He threw his head back and laughed. "Conscience? You'd never have stopped if I didn't grab a hold of your car, would you?” He shook his head and licked his lips, “But this time, I was ready, Kettle. This time the lambs got one over on the fox.”
Tanner lifted his trembling hand and put his pistol to Bill’s temple.
"Goodbye, Mr. Kettle.”
Before he could fire, Bill’s right hand shot up and knocked the weapon from his hand and onto the bed. The rope, loosened enough to let his arm free, remained wrapped around the chair. Tanner looked at him in shock, and went to punch him again, but Bill was too fast.
He dodged to the left, and realised that his knees had regained some movement. With his right arm free, there was even some slack on the rest of the rope. He stood, taking the chair with him, and spun on the ball of his left foot. The back of the chair slammed into Tanner, splintering across his back and leaving Bill with only to the base and front legs.
Tanner growled, and lunged across the bed for the gun. Before he could reach it, Bill was on top of him. He had spun around, and thrown himself onto the bed ass first. He landed with a crash, sending a crooked nail from the base slicing into Tanner's right arm.
Tanner roared and rolled off the bed, leaving a trail of blood behind him. As he fell, Bill shook his legs. Free from the last of the ropes, he stepped onto the bed. Tanner had collapsed on the floor, cradling his injured arm in his good hand, blood seeping between his fingers.
Bill reached down and picked the pistol from the bed. He had never held a gun before, and it felt heavy and uncomfortable. Once he was sure Tanner was no longer a threat, he stepped down onto the ground and walked towards the door. He had no idea where he was, or where his car was, but he could figure those things out once he had made his escape.
He kept his eyes on Tanner as he moved, and as he put his hand on the doorknob, the other man shifted towards him. “Please,” he cried, hugging his arm, which was now soaked in blood. “Please don’t kill him. Please don’t kill him.” His eyes were obscured by tears now, and Bill was surprised to find himself pitying the old kook.
“Why the hell would I want to kill your boy, you crazy bastard?” he demanded, holding the gun at his side. He had no intention of using it, but couldn’t risk putting the thing down. “And how did you know all those things about me?”
Tanner’s cries had quietened to a whimper, and he was breathing in short, shallow breaths.
“Because you did it before,” he replied, his voice cracking with emotion. “You knocked him clear off the road, and when I fell asleep in the hospital, I... I woke up in my car again this morning.” He shook his head and placed the palm of his hand over his right eye. His sweatshirt and the carpet beneath him were now stained a deep burgundy.
“I saw you kill him, and then twelve hours later, he was sitting in the car beside me as if nothing had happened. He didn’t remember a thing.”
Tanner let a desperate wail and threw his eyes to the ceiling. “But I remembered, Mr. Kettle. I remembered. I thought it was a dream, or a premonition, the way everything went just like it had the first time, but when I stopped you from getting away, I thought it was over. I thought it was one of those ‘putting right the wrong” things you hear about in Church... but...”
He looked up, and their eyes met, and Bill realised the other man was no longer shaking. His eyes no longer darted around the room. He was speaking only as a desperate and loving parent.
“All right, said Bill, placing the gun on the far corner of the mattress. “We’ll wait here until whatever you think will happen is passed.” He sat on the edge of the bed, facing Tanner, and rested his hands on his knees. “How long?”
Tanner lifted his arm to check. “Half an hour,” he replied, grimacing in pain as he moved. The bleeding had stopped, but his wound was still fresh, and Tanner looked pale. “Think you can wait that long?” Bill asked. Tanner nodded, but said nothing.
Suddenly, a noise echoed through the room from the street outside. It was a sound with which Bill was very familiar; the deep, rumbling purr of a contented cat, and the squeal of tires.
He jumped to his feet.
“That’s my car!”
5/17
Bill leapt over the fallen man, and stretched to open the door. His hands, coated in sweat, slipped on the handle. “Billy! Billy!” Tanner cried, stumbling to his feet and clasping his wounded arm. "Open the door! My son! My son is out there!”
Bill twisted the key in the lock and yanked the door open, sending it crashing against the wall as he ran from the motel room. He sprinted into the car park and only then realised how late it must be. The night sky was cloud free, and a blanket of stars twinkled overhead. He scanned the car park, but it sole occupant was a forlorn blue station wagon.
Down the road, he could just hear the rumbling of his car’s engine, as it faded into the distance.
He turned to see Tanner staggering from the motel room, craning his neck to the horizon for any sign of his boy. “He’s gone, Tanner,” Bill said, placing his hands on his hips. He turned and walked out to the road. “Was this all part of your plan?”
No reply came, and after a few seconds, he turned and saw Tanner hobbling towards the station wagon. He was holding his wounded arm close to his body, and fumbling for car keys with his free hand.
Bill watched in silence for a moment.
Part of him wanted to run, to cut his losses and make for the nearest town, but something about Tanner made him stop. The strange man might well be crazy, but he had known too much, and when he spoke about his son, Bill couldn't help imagining how far he would go to keep Boo from danger.
That, and the kid had stolen his car.
He jogged back through the lot and towards the station wagon. “Tanner,” he said, holding out his hand. Tanner turned and looked back in surprise. “I’ll drive.”
He threw Bill the keys and staggered round to the station wagon’s passenger door. Bill slid behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition as Tanner took the other seat. Both doors slammed shut, the wheels spun, and slowly, the station wagon made its way onto the motorway.
Bill slapped the wheel and glared at the dashboard as he drove. The speedometer, sitting in darkness before him, claimed they were doing 50, but Bill thought he could probably run faster. "We'll never catch him like this," he said, drumming his fingers on the wheel, but as he spoke, Tanner leant forward.
“I see him! I see your car!" he shouted, jumping up in his seat. "Its going to end, I've saved him!" He slapped his knee hard with the hand of his good arm.
Bill remained silent. He could just make out the two red dots of the Porsche’s tail lamps on the road ahead, growing larger with every passing second. The kid had probably left it in first gear since taking off, he thought.
As he watched the car grow nearer, he took a deep breath to calm himself. The chloroform, or whatever Tanner had knocked him out with, had worn off, and except for a few cuts and bruises he was in good shape. He would soon have his car back, and be on his way home.
Up ahead, the boy had realised they were following him. His pale face turned and looked back through the rear window, and the Porsche began to drift across the road. Suddenly, Bill realised it was not alone. From the other direction, an enormous truck was bearing down on the tiny sports car.
"No!" Tanner cried, leaping from his seat and crashing into the roof of the station wagon.
“Billy!" he roared, pressing himself against the dashboard, "Billy, stop!”
Suddenly, he reached across and slammed his fist into the horn. Bill clasped the wheel to keep them on the road, but the distraction kept Billy's eyes on his back window. As Bill watched in horror, Tanner made a grab for his door handle. It was already half open when Bill reached across and grabbed him by the collar.
“My son!” Tanner screamed, “My son! No, not again!”
The truck continued sounding its horn, but Billy seemed oblivious. At last, the driver tried swerving from the car's path, but it was too late. One long, final blast escaped the truck, and then time itself slowed to a crawl.
The Porsche hit the truck. Its bonnet collapsed like a tin can. The truck skidded for twenty meters and tumbled off the side of the road. The Porsche’s gas tank ignited in a blinding fire ball and the car spun through the air. It catapulted, finally crashing upside down on the hard shoulder.
6/18
The station wagon screeched to a halt opposite the burning wreck, and Bill threw his door open. As soon as his feet had hit the ground, Tanner was out and racing across the grass verge. His face was a mask of terror as he cried his son’s name. Before him, orange flames leapt from frame of the Porsche and licked the sky.
Bill followed a few metres behind his one-time kidnapper, his eyes scanning the wreckage for any sign of life. As his feet reached the grass, however, he saw that it was too late. The fire had engulfed the sports car. There was no chance the boy had survived.
Tanner stopped a few metres past the edge of the road, his eyes fixed on the burning hulk. His face was dark, stained black by the billowing smoke, and two clear bands ran down his cheeks.
Bill stopped running.
He stood for a moment, unsure what he should do, then began slowly walking towards the other man. “I’m... so sorry, Stanley,” he said when he was close enough for the other man to hear. As they watched in silence, the flames found another pocket of diesel, and smaller fireball erupted from beneath the car’s hood, sending it flying into the air.
There was no response. Blood was once again seeping from Tanner's wound, but he paid it no attention. His arms hung loose by his side, his mouth open like a trapdoor.
“I couldn’t stop it,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye, and smudging streaks of ash across his face. “Three times I’ve watched him die. No matter what I do, I can’t stop it happening again.”
Bill turned and looked back across the road. The truck was just visible on the other verge, and smoke was now pouring from beneath the bonnet. It had struck a tree as it skidded off, but the driver seemed fine. The fat, long-haired man stood on the far side of the road, a lit cigarette in his hand, his face had drained of colour.
Bill rested his hands on the roof of the station wagon and bit down hard on his lip. Behind him, the remains of Billy Tanner were turning to ash, but Bill could only think of Boo, of how he would feel if she were in Billy’s place, her slight frame engulfed in flames.
He felt a stupid well of tears build behind his eyes, but shook his head and blinked back them back. He cleared his throat and looked back at Tanner.
"Do you have a phone?" he asked. "We should call an ambulance, the fire brigade."
Tanner didn’t reply, but eventually shook his head. He stood for several minutes, watching his son's burning tomb, sobbing. Bill waited in silence, unsure what to say or do. What's the right course of action when your kidnapper's son dies, in line with the kidnapper’s own prophecy?
Eventually Tanner coughed, and wiped the tears from his face. He shook his head again, but kept his eyes on the car... on his son.
"No," he said, "No phone. My ...ex-wife just died. I'd have no-one else to ring.” He shook his head. “This was my first day with him.”
Bill nodded and glanced over to the trucker. He felt at once guilty and relieved to take his eyes from the burning wreck. He banged his fist on the roof of the station wagon.
"So what happens now, Stanley? Is it over?"
He could never have imagined it, but they both knew what the question meant. Tanner knew too much for all this to be a hoax. Bill couldn't tell if he was crazy, psychic or telling the truth, but it was clear the man had been through a lot, and not just tonight.
He turned from the trucker and looked back to Tanner, who was now sitting on the ground. The other man shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Kettle,” he said, and looked down at his hand, “It could follow any number of paths.” Bill followed the gaze and his heart jumped to the back of his throat.
Tanner was once again holding the gun.
He took a step backwards, not wanting to startle him. “What’s with the gun, Stanley? I thought we were past all that.”
Tanner lifted his eyes the sky. The tears had stopped. “It isn’t for you, Mr. Kettle,” he said. “You’ll walk away from this without a scratch. Maybe you’ll walk back all the way into town, and phone the police. Maybe you’ll go home to your wife and daughter tomorrow, and live out the rest of your life.”
He sighed, and for the first time, turned his neck to look at Bill.
“But I won’t. Billy’s dead. I’m here, and you’re here, and a few hours after I fall asleep, I’ll wake up again, and I’ll be sitting in that station wagon beside my beautiful six-year-old boy.”
He leaned down, and pushed himself to his feet with his good hand. His right arm now dangled loose by his side. “Again. And again and again.” He lifted the gun, and rested the barrel between his lips.
“Stanley, don’t!” Bill cried, and ran forward, but Tanner removed the gun from his mouth. He pointed it at Bill and shook his head. “Don’t try to stop me, Mr. Kettle,” he said.
“I can’t go through this another time. If I’m right, this will stop it. “
Bill stood, helpless and watched as Tanner turned the gun once more. “And what if you’re wrong?” he asked, “What if you killing yourself does nothing to change what’s happened?”
Tanner smiled then, the first genuine smile Bill had seen him make, though it was a sad one. “If I’m wrong, Mr. Kettle? If I’m wrong, then I’ll see you in the morning.”
He returned the gun barrel to its place between his lips, and gave a subtle nod.
And pulled the trigger.
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