A Bitter Feast(5)

A signpost loomed in the headlamps. It was the turnoff for Bourton-on-the-Water, the nearest small town to the Talbots’ village. Almost there, then. He was wondering if he should find a place to pull over and check the map on his mobile when headlamps blazed suddenly from his left, blinding him.

Before he could throw up a hand or hit the brake, there came a tearing impact, and all went dark.





Chapter Two

Sound returned first. Gradually, Kincaid became aware of creaks and groans, like metal protesting, and then a sort of rhythmic ticking.

Smell came next. Burning rubber. Hot metal. Petrol.

His eyes flew open. At first the darkness seemed absolute. Then, as he began to make out shapes, nothing he saw made sense. When he tried to move, his head spun and a wave of nausea hit him.

Something warm trickled into his eye. Blinking, he reached down to touch his face—down, not up.

His orientation came back with a jarring click. He was upside down. What the hell had happened?

This time he moved more gingerly. Pain in his shoulder, a twinge of pain across his ribs. Seat belt. He was hanging upside down from his shoulder harness.

A flash of memory came. Lights. Bright lights on his left.

Shit. He must have been hit.

Take it easy, he told himself, stifling panic. Assess the situation.

Cautiously, he turned his head to the left, trying to focus. In the dimness he could make out a mass of metal and glass where the seat should have been. The passenger door.

“Shit.” This time he managed to whisper it. He touched the collapsed remains of his airbag, thinking it had probably saved his life. From somewhere behind him came a strobe of light, then he heard a car door slam. A voice called out.

The smell of petrol grew stronger. His heart thudded. Bloody hell, the engine. Reaching up, he felt for the ignition and turned the key. He had to get out of the car.

Inching his right hand upwards, he felt for the door latch. There. When he pulled it, there was a satisfying thunk. Good. Not jammed. He pushed the door outwards a few inches, exhaling with relief when it seemed to move freely. Another foot and it stopped, caught, he thought, on a slight rise in the ground. Still, it was enough.

He took a breath, wincing at the pain in his ribs, then, bracing his right hand against the roof, he unbuckled the seat belt with his left. He eased his shoulders through the open door, then slithered out and back until he was free of the car.

Panting from the effort, he used the door to lever himself up until he stood, facing the bonnet. The glare from his own headlamps shone into impenetrable blackness, disorienting him. Slowly, using the door as a support against the dizziness, he turned, blinking against more lights. It took him a moment to understand that he was seeing the headlamps from two cars. The first was nose in to the hedge that bordered the verge. When he blinked against the glare, he could see that the vehicle’s front end was crumpled like a child’s smashed toy.

Behind that car, another stood at a slight angle to the road, its headlamps illuminating the wrecked vehicle—the car that had hit him, he realized, with a shock that made him grip the door a little harder. A figure moved, blocking the light momentarily.

“Sir, are you okay?” It was the woman’s voice he’d heard before he climbed out of the car.

“I think so,” he managed, his voice cracking. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Anyone else in the car?”

“No.” Thank God, he thought .

“Okay, good. Hang on. I’m ringing for help.” Her voice was calm, assured, but still he heard the tension beneath the words.

No one had emerged from the other car.

Fingers touching the underside of the Astra, he made his way to the end of the boot, then he stepped out towards the wrecked car, feeling his way across the uneven ground. The woman, who had knelt by the driver’s-side door of the wreck, stood.

“Hey,” she called. “You need to stay put.”

“I can help.”

As he drew nearer, he saw that she was dressed in a cardigan over what looked like hospital scrubs.

“I’m a police officer,” he said. “Is anyone hurt? I think that car hit me.”

He blinked as she shone a torch in his face.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a surface cut. I’m fine.” He tried not to wince as pain shot through his ribs.

She looked back at the car against the hedge, seemed to hesitate. “Okay, look. I need to walk up the road to get a good signal. Can you just talk to this lady here while I do that?”

Kincaid nodded, then, realizing she probably couldn’t see the gesture, said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

After an instant’s pause, the woman started towards the road. “Right,” she threw over her shoulder. “You know what to do.”

Crossing the last few feet to the driver’s door, he realized there was no sound from the car’s engine. Had the Samaritan reached in and turned it off? Carefully, Kincaid lowered himself into a squat, wincing as pain shot through his knee. Touching the car for support, he peered into the driver’s window.

A glance told him that the airbag had deployed and collapsed. And that the impact with his car had crumpled the front end of the small saloon into the car’s interior. The driver was trapped. And she was conscious.