Leaves flurried off the trees in gusts and skittered across the road. In the beam of the headlights, it was hard to be sure they weren't little animals, and I was nervous about what my tyres were eating. It had been a hard day, and even though I was leaving on time, I was anxious to get home.
My mind drifted as I negotiated the familiar twists and turns of the lane home. Familiar, but not in darkness. I had only driven this route since the summer. It was a quiet lane, twisting its way alternately through ancient woodland and open fields. The woods were reputedly populated by a herd of muntjak deer, but I had never seen anything more unusual than a dead badger by the roadside.
With half an eye open for oncoming headlights reflected on the canopy of trees arching over the road, I applied my mind to such pressing issues as whether I might have acrylic nails put on; and what I should cook when my mother came to visit in a week's time.
A runner hove into view round a bend in the road. I admired his reflective tights. They would be a useful thing to track down. I wondered where the nearest running shop might be, as I hugged the opposite side of the road, allowing him plenty of space. Lights illuminated the trees ahead of me, a way off yet; just around the sharp bend. Nonetheless, I returned to my side of the road, catching the edge of my tyre on the banked earth at the side of the narrow highway. The car passed me just as I reached the bend, travelling quickly into the straight of road I had just negotiated.
I settled on chilli. I make a good three bean chilli, not too hot but pleasantly spicy and not too obviously a meat substitute meal. She'll expect a dessert, too, never mind that we have to eat this meal before we set off for the theatre. Still, I can get away with buying a dessert. She knows I don't have time to make fancy meals. I can make the chilli the night before - it'll benefit from 24 hours of flavours seeping and melding into each other. It'll be rich and delicious. Yes, so if I leave work early, there should be plenty of time to finish it off, eat it, and get to the theatre in time for a drink before the curtain rises.
I reach the T Junction, and am irritated by the fact that there's traffic on the road I want to join. I have to wait for five or six minutes. I reach forward and put a CD into the player, and tap my wheel impatiently in time to the music. The traffic forces my attention to return to the driving, and as I join the stream on the busier, bigger road, I am focussed on the vehicle in front of me, and the minutes ticking past.
I am two thirds of the way home before I can relax again. The traffic is inexplicably thick for this time of night, and I'm slightly peeved that I've been forced to devote my entire concentration to it for all this time; time which I usually spend clearing space in my head before the evening's activities. Still, I think the acrylic nails are winning.
Once home, I struggle into my running gear and whistle the dogs. We set off, out of the house and heading towards the canal. It should only be a short run this evening, but the dogs are explosive after their day alone, and we cover some good ground. I get home, pleasantly sweaty and with the satisfying sensation of work well done.
A hot bath, a glass of wine, John Martyn on the CD player in the living room. My phone rings, and a friend announces that a group of them are considering a spontaneous visit to the Odeon to see the new Jude Law thing. Do I want to come along? I agree, provided food can be involved, and go upstairs to dry my hair.
The doorbell rings ten minutes later. "Bloody hell!" I yell, as I jog down the stairs "You're early! Couldn't you wait?? I haven't dried my.........Oh" I tail off, as I open the door and register the uniform, the peaked cap, with its slightly ridiculous black and white checked band. "Umm... Hello. Sorry. I thought you were going to be my friend." I babble, aware of the ridiculous playground tone of my words.
"Miss Davies?"
I nod. A knot is forming in my stomach. I can't imagine what's going on, but picutres are flashing through my mind and none of them are good. Fear is gnawing at the back of my throat, and my mouth is suddenly very dry.
"Miss Davies, I'm PC Pickering, and this is WPC Dodd. May we come in?"
I nod again, and trip backwards, holding the door open. The dogs bounce excitedly at the strangers as they walk through into my living room. "Sit down please, Miss Davies." He's taking charge, and I'm powerless to take it back, somehow. I sit, mutely. A dog bounds onto my lap and the other sniffs at the feet of the woman.
She sits down, too. I realise I should at least try not to appear a bumbling fool. "Um. Sit down" No, too late. She has. "I mean, er, would you like a drink?" I half rise but she shakes her head.
"No thanks, Miss Davies. Sit down." He's authoritative. Slightly intimidating. Hell, I'm completely intimidated.
"Have you been drinking, Miss Davies?" He gestures to the bottle of wine, open on the side.
"Um, no. Not really. I had one glass earlier, while I was running my bath" I'm going to be late for the cinema. I'm beginning to be irritated, as well as intimidated. It's an odd combination, and I feel slightly sick. "Um, sorry. But what's this about? Why are you here?"
"Can you tell us what time you got home, Miss Davies?"
"About 6.30, I think."
"And did you come straight home from work?"
"Yes"
"You didn't stop anywhere first. Didn't go for a quick drink, perhaps?"
"No! No, I didn't!" I'm indignant now. What's he suggesting? How bloody dare he? "I don't drink before I drive. Ever. Look, what is this about?"
"Just bear with us a minute, love" the woman advises, quietly. I look at her. I'm not her love. But the reassurance in her voice is welcome, all the same.
"Can you tell us which way you come home, Miss Davies?"
"Yes. I come down the Lane, onto the A753, and into town"
"Do you always come that way?"
I nod
"Did you come that way this evening?" she presses the question.
"Yes. Yes, I did. Why? Why are you asking?"
"Miss Davies." He's standing behind me. I have to turn, to twist on the sofa and look upwards at an odd angle to see him. It's uncomfortable, and I have a suspicion he meant it to be.
"Did you pass any other cars on the Lane this evening?"
My mind is blank. I don't remember. Did I? Suddenly, my journeys home merge, one into another and I can't remember. I'm frightened, but I can't remember.
"I don't know. I can't remember. Um..."
"Come on Miss Davies", she cajoles "Surely you remember. You hadn't been drinking, had you?"
I feel that they are closing in.
"No! No I hadn't been drinking! I absolutely hadn't had a drink!"
"But you have now, haven't you?" I turn behind me, towards him. I want to look at him. I think if I can see him, I might be able to guess what he's insinuating.
"Yes. Yes, I have now. I had a glass of wine just before you arrived. Look, is that what this is about? Do you think I've been drink driving?"
"No, Miss Davies. That's not what this is about. This is about the body of a young man we found on the Lane about half an hour ago. A runner. He was found in the ditch by a woman walking a dog. He'd been hit by a car. A car travelling quite fast. The woman lives in the farmhouse on the corner of the lane. She only remembers seeing one car this evening. Your car."
My blood is chilled. My head spins. My tongue is fuzzy and heavy in my mouth. I think I might be sick, actually.
"So, Miss Davies. Think hard. Did you see any other cars in the Lane this evening?"
But I can't remember. I can't remember what I saw on my drive home. I think so hard I'm screwing my brain up, trying to wring every last drop of information out it.
But all I can remember is three bean chilli. Three bean chilli, the theatre, and acrylic nails.