Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Two - Part Nine

9

 

SOMERSET - ENGLAND

 

When he opened his eyes, all Jack Catholic could see was clear blue sky. It filled his field of view, top to bottom and left to right.

He was lying on his back, only the vaguest ache in his body and limbs; no agony of shattered bones or pulped muscles. He was damp and cold but only on his underside. His chest; the front of his arms and hips; his face: they were warm in the sun.

He tried to lift his hand but something pulled at his arm, sucking on the flesh like fly paper. He had to strain, then suddenly it came free. He held it up, bending at the elbow. His arm and hand were covered in mud, dry caked over by wet. Jack dropped it back down. It cracked against the mud that he was lying in. He lifted his head with difficulty. He was lying on a shallow muddy slope. The cold grey filth coated his clothes and body and hair. The river was less than a foot away.

It ached to hold his head up. Exhausted, he lowered it back down for a minute, rested, then raised it again. The river was wide and strong here; far wider than it should have been; maybe a couple of miles across. It wasn’t the river Avon. It had to be the Severn. He wasn’t anywhere near Bristol. The river must have carried him… how far? Miles at least.

Surely it wasn’t possible.

He remembered every moment of the fall; turning slowly over and over, the bridge becoming smaller above him as the river grew to fill his view below. He remembered it in slow-motion detail until he hit the water; then nothing; blank. Until now: hours after dawn.

 He should have been dead or close to it. The fall should have killed him. From that height it was like falling onto a road.

It knocked him out. He should have drowned. There was no way he could have been carried that many miles unconscious without breathing in water. The cold and damp alone should have killed him.

But it hadn’t.

He tilted his head back. High grass glistened just inside his field of vision. There were traffic noises far off but he couldn’t be sure of the direction.

Jack struggled, fighting against the suction of the mud, the vacuum he was creating beneath him as he forced himself to sit up. He managed to lift a few inches, turning; pushing his hands into it for purchase so that he could get a better view. Solid ground was twenty yards away past the reeds. If he tried to crawl or walk in that direction he might go under. He imagined slipping face first into the grey morass and shuddered.

The tall grass obscured most of the view but he was definitely away from any buildings or people he could call to for help. A little way downstream was an old jetty, made of logs rather than planks. Black ropes covered in weed hung from it into the river. Jack turned his body toward the water and squirmed, spreading his weight, tugging forward, slipping and losing, but pushing on; winning.

He reached the edge of the river and slipped in. The intense cold instantly banished the sleep from his eyes. Surfacing, he swam, the current moving him faster downstream than his arms and legs could. It almost carried him past the jetty. He only just managed to grab hold and he was still weak. Pulling himself up onto the platform took what was left of the wind out of him.

He knelt, dripping and waited grimly for his lungs to fill. The water ran off him, washing most of the mud away in dirty rivulets. After several minutes he got enough breath and strength back to move. He sat back on his heels and looked round.

There was no sign of Bristol or any kind of habitation in sight. The reeds on his side of the river obscured much of the view, but he could make out farmer’s fields beyond and perhaps three quarters of a mile away a raised up stretch of road, cars speeding along it, just glints of reflected light and colour. On the other side of the river were more fields; no particular landmarks to tell him where he was. Then upstream he caught a glimpse of something; far off. It was the southernmost suspension bridge that spanned the Severn: vast and white, reaching right across the gap. That gave him a rough idea of his location. He was right. He’d been carried miles and miles downstream.

It was a beautiful fragrant morning. For a little while he simply looked, the rasping becoming panting then normal breathing. Then the memory of what he had done to Lucy coursed into the front of his mind so hard that he physically jolted. He saw her body lying on the hearth, horrifically splayed. He felt the sharp crack against his palm as though he had just slapped her. He saw the blood; the dent in her skull. He felt the guilt. Then the things she had said came following: the secret words that had driven him to do it. The same anger came back with them. The muscles around his eyes and mouth twitched. Blood flushed into his limbs. The fingers of his right hand screwed into a fist.

All the moral lessons from his father as he was growing up and he still couldn’t help thinking that he had been right to do it. However abhorrent he had always known killing was, now that time had passed he could only be glad.

Did that make him a murderer?

He hadn’t meant for Lucy to die. The blow was an impulse thing, sparked by hurt. If not for that untied shoe and her falling against the fireplace, she would still be alive. But he had killed. There were no two ways about that. Of course he was a murderer.

He looked back up into the sky, into the sun.

He had survived the fall when he should have died. He had endured unconscious when he should have drowned. He was alive and free.

All of this pointed to one question.

What now?