Two years ago William Harper seemed to have everything: a house in a leafy suburb of Manchester, a loving wife Eleanor, plans for the future, hopes that stretched as far as the eye could see. Now none of that remains, and the ache of loss refuses to loosen its grip. If he could turn back that cursed day, he would move heaven and earth to stop it from happening. If only
For the first time since that night, William hurried back into the oppressive silence of the empty home. At last he could exact the revenge he felt his wifes death demanded. He had intended to stop at the offlicence for a bottle of gin, but the thought faded. The hour of vengeance was at hand, and his mind needed to stay clear. He went to bed early and, surprisingly, fell asleep straight away. Two hours later he awoke with his heart thudding, lungs clawing for air. In his mind Eleanors breath lingered beside him, and he strained for her presence, hoping his eyes would open to find her there. The pillow lay undisturbed. He slipped back into sleep.
His hand brushed the sheets; the fabric warmed beneath his fingertips, granting a fleeting illusion that his wife still lay beside him moments before he stirred. Sleep would not return. He lay staring at the ceiling, its plaster pale in the darkness, replaying two years of waiting, yearning, and the certainty that his enemy would soon be within reach.
On that illfated afternoon Eleanor had taken off work early. She was on her way to the local health centre for an ultrasound, having grown weary of pregnancy tests after years of trying for a child. The hopes they had nurtured together felt as fragile as glass.
Eleanor stood at the curb, the traffic lights flashing green across the road. She stepped onto the zebra crossing first, unaware that a car was barreling toward her, eager to beat the flow of pedestrians. A cyclist, coming from the opposite side, had forced the driver to swerve. The motorist turned sharply to the right, sending the vehicle onto Eleanors path. She was struck dead on the spot. The nearby car dealership later testified that the driver received a twoyear custodial sentence; the cyclist escaped with bruises. Doctors declared that Eleanor was not pregnant.
The enemywho had vanished into a new life with his own wife and childwas living on while William was left with nothing but a hollow ache. He had long resolved to end the mans life, to hurl the same force of a car into him, and to let his own family endure what he had endured. He swore he would not hide or flee, even if it meant his own death. He, too, had died with Eleanor two years prior. The years spent waiting for vengeance could not be called a life.
From time to time William drove to the very crossroads where Eleanor fell, bought a bunch of fresh roses and laid them on the curb. Passersby glanced past, indifferent. He stood there, trying to guess Eleanors final thoughtsperhaps hoping for good news at lastbefore she took that last breath and stepped onto the crossing.
He visited her grave, attended church, yet found no solace. Only by avenging his foe could he hope for freedom. Exhausted and sleepless, he rose, took a shower, shaved meticulously, and ate a simple toast with tea while eyeing a ragged stain on the wall where Eleanor had meant to paste new wallpaper. He left the stain untouched; it was a fragment of his memory. He slipped on a clean shirt, cast one lingering look around the room, and wondered if he would ever return.
At first he drifted aimlessly through town, killing time. It was far too early; his enemy still lounged in fresh sheets beside his own wife, perhaps already risen, stretching, heading to the bathroom, scratching his leg just below his knickers. He might have been sipping his morning brew, the scent of the shower still clinging to his skin, before kissing his wife and sitting opposite his son at the breakfast table. Enough, William muttered to himself. The villain looks far too handsome. The man who killed my wife cannot be that dashing.
He imagined the enemy the night before, drunk on cheap lager, nursing a pounding headache and a crushing thirst. He splashed his face with water, gulped straight from the tap as a convict might, and sat at the kitchen table in his underpants and a tee. Now thats how it should be, William thought. No need for a shave.
He turned his car around and drove toward the enemys house. In the driveway he parked so the front gate was in view. Two children played on the nearby swing set. He settled in to wait. Sooner or later the man would emerge, alone or with his familydoesnt matter. Not today, perhaps tomorrow, vengeance would find him.
It was late April. Fresh buds thrust through the hedges on the sunny side of the garden, the asphalt still damp from the nights rain, clouds hanging low, a chill in the air.
A boy of about six burst from the front door, ran to the playground, then paused at Williams parked 4×4. Could he be the enemys son? William wondered, lowering his window.
What do you want, lad? he asked.
Nothing, the boy replied, staring unflinchingly. My dad also had a car, not as posh as yours.
So where did it go? Sold it? William prompted, pleased at the easy line of inquiry.
Had a crash, havent bought a new one yet. The boys answer was simple, but William searched his face for any resemblance to his foe. He saw noneperhaps the boy looked more like his mother, a woman William never met. The enemys features, however, were etched in his mind. Rain droplets dotted the windscreen.
Want to sit in the car? Youll get wet otherwise, William said, opening the passenger door. The boy hesitated, then climbed onto the high seat, slamming the door shut. The patter of rain was barely audible inside. He gazed at the dashboards red glow.
Got heated seats? It must drink a lot of petrol, he asked, sounding older than his years.
William answered each question willingly, feeling uneasy standing in the yard with a child. Shall we have a spin? The rains still falling. The boy glanced at him suspiciously.
If you dont want to, we can just sit here, William said aloud, thinking, a brave, clever lad. He added, Mum would have a fit if she saw this. I understand.
The boy looked away. Shes not looking for me. Not long.
William drove off, wondering if anyone had noticed. Children rarely recall car makes or licence plates. A thought struck him: the best revenge is to hurt what the offender loves most. The idea settled like a stone.
Whats your name? he asked.
Charlie, the boy replied eagerly.
Charlie? Well, we share a name thenmy names William. He smiled, feeling a flicker of humanity.
He thought, I wont kill him. I cant. The boys innocent. The enemy is another matter. He imagined taking the child far away and leaving him, letting the foe scramble for a son that would never return.
What? Charlie asked, puzzled.
I said my dad didnt hit that lady. Mum was driving, dad was beside her.
What lady? a cold dread ran down Williams spine.
The woman who died wasnt my dads fault. It was his wifes, he muttered, surprised at his own words.
Yes. Dad took the blame. Mum couldnt survive prison; shes ill, often in hospital.
How do you know? William asked.
Im not a fool. I heard them whisper, and Mum told me herself. A sudden heat flushed Williams cheeks; his palm gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Why tell me? William demanded. Should I go to the police?
Fathers already served. Can you be punished twice for the same crime? Charlie replied, cocking an eyebrow.
Probably not. William forced a grin.
He didnt notice theyd left the town until the road stretched out, the wet asphalt marked with white lines beneath the wheels. Where are we heading? Charlie asked, a hint of fear in his voice.
Im thinking, William said, pulling over, lowering the window, letting the fresh damp air flood his face. The hum of passing traffic grew louder.
Youre not feeling well? Charlies tone shifted to concern, his eyes surprisingly understanding, and William felt a rush of heat.
Do you really get it? Children and animals arent fooled. He turned the car around and headed back toward the city.
Eleanors gone. The driver didnt hit her; his wife took the blame and paid his debt. Who should I now avenge? Her? Shes already sentenced to a short life, her kidney failing. What did Charlie just say? Her mothers only kidney is failing. What about me? I thought of taking the innocent lads life as payback
Who were you with when Mum was in hospital? Charlie asked.
My granny. Shes heartsick and never liked Mum. William watched the wet ribbon of road ahead; the rain had stopped.
How old are you? Charlie asked.
Seven. Ill start school in September. Do you have children? William shivered. He wanted to tell the boy hed longed for a son, a bright, clever ladyet his own wifes death had been caused by that very father.
Weve arrived, William said. They turned into the yard; the children hurried indoors to escape the drizzle. No one ran about in hysteria. Charlie opened the car door.
Who were you visiting? William asked, puzzled.
What? I came to see friends. Nobody was home. Charlie hopped out onto the pavement.
Will you be back? William asked.
Well see. If I come again, will you ride with me? I have no son, no daughters, no one. He paused. If your dad ever buys a new car, that would be a fine choice. He wont regret it.
Thanks. Goodbye. A bright voice merged with the sound of the closing door.
Goodbye, William replied, a thin smile on his lips.
Charlie lingered at the entrance, looking back. William raised his hand, then drove away, buying a bottle of gin at the corner shop. He pulled over by the riverbank, sat on the damp grass, and poured a shot straight down his throat. The fire burned his stomach. He lay back, eyes fixed on the sky now cleared, blue and endless.
Hey, uncle, you wont catch a cold, will you? a hoarse voice called.
William opened his eyes to find two teenagers standing over him. He must have dozed off. He sprang to his feet, shuffled toward his car.
Hey, uncle, want a drink? one of them shouted.
Too early for that, William replied, picking up the nearly full bottle from the ground. A string of curses rose behind him, but he didnt look back.
He slipped into the drivers seat and drove home. For the first time in two years he felt a strange, fleeting lightness.
Lord, I almost did something dreadful, he whispered, tears blurring the road ahead. If only I had a son The notion of revenge had seemed his lifes purpose, yet now it felt like a hollow pursuit. The road stretched on, his mind a mixture of grief, regret, and the faint hope that perhaps, someday, the weight of hatred would finally lift.
