I looked down and saw my knuckles whiten around the shaft of the knife that I'd stolen from my parents' kitchen.
The autumn breeze caused a shiver as I slunk back into the shadows of my hiding place. The sound of water weaving a path through pebbles and rocks, tiny splashing echoes from the arch under the ancient bridge, broke my concentration. The wind rustled the sycamore trees lining the road, sending showers of brown helicopter seeds and yellowed leaves into the air. I could hear the little scratches and crackles as they brushed the stony surface behind the gate that clinked ominously. It gently swayed against the deadbolt that locked it in place, stoically guarding the private estate from intruders.
The tarmac gave way to gravel, beyond the shiny black bars of the steel gate. The driveway curved and twisted until it arrived at the white house, set imperiously in the middle of a pristine lawn and surrounded by low, artfully sculpted yew hedges. Iron lampposts that dotted and staggered along the length of the gravel driveway were glowing warmly in contrast to the fading temperature, as evening broke towards night.
I glanced up at the clear skies, blending from deep orange to purple and then black, carpeted with a billion flickering stars, and wondered how my life had arrived at this moment. The anger welled up inside me, along with the deep, gut-wrenching sorrow that threatened to overcome me so frequently.
I only realised I was crying when the salty tears tracked down my cheeks to the edges of my lips. I missed her so much, and as her face shimmered in my mind, I felt nothing but fierce hatred for the man who had destroyed my world.
A door closed in the distance and shook me from my grim reflections. There he was, walking towards his car, utterly oblivious to my pain.
I felt my grip tighten as the anguish purged any remaining scrap of rational thought. It was foolish to use a knife from my house, and I knew how this would end — with my incarceration — but I had long ago stopped caring about my life. Without her, it had no meaning, no joy and no escape.
I heard the engine start and the growl of six air-cooled cylinders firing as he eased the sports car up towards the gate, the callous absence of dented bodywork and her blood enough to stop me breathing, and I choked back a sob.
I had watched him do this over and over. Timed him from the house to the gate — sixteen seconds. I'd hidden behind the bridge as he exited the vehicle to open the gates. Then he drove ten metres forwards with the car door still open, as if he was too important to make the effort to close it before getting out again to pull the heavy gates closed. I barely moved as he leaned down to lower the bolt into the metal hole set into the tarmac.
Unknowingly observed, he'd stretched after the exertion of closing the gates, casually stepped back into his car and roared off, tyres squealing, leaving nothing behind but a ringing in my ears and the noxious odour of charred rubber.
But not today. Today would be his last. They would find him here, by the gates, the dents and blood on his body much harder to repair than his precious car. I saw him approach the gates and tensed as he pulled up and opened the driver's door. He climbed out into the crisp air, his brown loafers crunching the gravel as he stood up in his neatly pressed jeans, tan linen shirt tucked behind a thick leather belt and covered by a navy-blue blazer.
I edged up the bank, steadying myself carefully, my knuckles almost translucent against the hilt of the knife, to the edge of the stone ramparts that flanked the narrow bridge. I was about to press my back to the limestone, waiting for the familiar chumble of wide tyres on dewy gravel to transition to the smooth and quiet purr of rubber on tarmac, when I heard a noise behind me.
There stood a man, just metres away on the towpath, staring at me with something akin to pity. I tried to hide the knife behind my back, but I knew it was pointless. I was caught bang-to-rights regardless of the outcome. My breath misted the autumnal air, and I glanced surreptitiously over my shoulder towards the man that murdered my sister, willing myself to leap over the crumbling wall and sink my blade into the soft flesh of his belly. Before I could muster the courage to act, I felt a hand grip my shoulder.
That was thirty-three years ago. My name is Mason Winward. I have a year left to live, and this is my story.
