BARRY
Gibb was still singing. He was telling her she was living in a world of fools.
The clamor’s abrupt end hit her as a plunge underwater. The silver swarm
evaporated into the fabric of the stretched cotton.
Her
lungs supped a juddering breath. Her ears tuned into the hiss of the rain
outside. The Bee Gees number had not yet finished. How could it be that the entire
episode had lasted but a morsel of a three-minute song? She dare not lift her head.
She blinked slowly and faced the prospect.
Her
body no longer felt hers. She had to learn what she could and could not use all
over again. No pain, no pain, just numbness, a disembodiment. She wasn’t dead.
Nancy’s
vision flickered into focus. She took in the view. The sight presented
confounded and disturbed her. The planes of the cab appeared to have been sucked
inwards by the force of a vacuum. Panels jutted at crazy pleats; fissures
scarred the windows. Her enclosure resembled a glacial cave. The seats in front
had been driven backwards leaving only a foot of clearance from her knees. The
engine had cut but the single headlight produced a grim theatre. Shards diffused
light over contorted objects that conspired to trick the eye. A subconscious
insistence made her glance down. A black fluid had sprayed her skirt. She
sneered like a child at the sight of a fat worm in the garden. Stupidly, she
gawped at her hands. Why hadn’t she been aware of this…this slick?
She
turned her hands over and over but they gave nothing away. Warm, syrupy, sticky.
Nancy reared back. She flapped her palms against the seat beneath her. She
could feel no pain, she could find no wound. The source of the blood continued
to elude. Somehow, this troubled her more than the sight of a gash.
There
has to be something. Perhaps a nick, a scratch? Why was the scratch hiding from
her? Where was it? The fabric of her skirt slapped against her flesh as she
peeled the hem from her thighs. No pain, no pain, legs unfurling, legs working.
Could this be the shock?
A
black silhouette at the periphery of her vision prodded her consciousness. She
knew the instant before she locked eyes with the sight that Leon was dead.
Above
the line of his headrest, Leon’s pate protruded. His right ear should have
formed the apex but a ragged piece of flesh took its place. The cant of his
head insisted his neck must be broken. A section of the mainframe enfolded the
steering wheel. Part of it had clashed with his chest. From here, she couldn’t
be sure. Had the airbag gone off?
Where
was Leon’s ear?
Where
was Leon’s ear?
The
slick.
Nancy
seized the door handle. A film of blood coalesced at her fingertips. Her tongue
grew thick in her mouth and her breaths condensed upon the window. Fractured
glass closed her in. Vividly she comprehended another self on the outside
looking in. Blood smeared the glass as she wiped the condensation with the palm
of her hand. The limo was a tomb. The only object of colour was her face
looking out into the rain. She could not hear herself. She was wiping the
window but her hand made no sound. Her breaths made no sound. Only the hiss of
the rain.
Someone
was watching her from behind. She could see his reflection in the window.
Nancy’s pulse nudged at her throat as the cab swam around her. Vince was gazing
at her. A sickly sheen coated his face. His pallor matched that of the
stretched cotton on the ceiling. The weight of his eyelids implied desire…or
hatred.
‘How deep is your love?’
the next bar seemed to speak on his behalf.
His
pupils burrowed into her.
He really needs to learn…
The
moment entranced her in the most repugnant way. Beneath him, the unit had collapsed
into his leg space. The fate of his feet made a grim speculation. The seat and
the unit’s fascia formed a vice where his knees had become clamped. The
rotation of his right kneecap made no sense.
He
was still looking at her.
Guilt
clouted her in a riptide – guilt for her unscathed status, guilt for her sorrow
over a bloodied dress, guilt for having the exclusive power to walk from this
prison.
At
least Leon felt no pain.
Movement
drew her eye. Tramlines in the leather seat tapered from Vince’s fingernails.
Woollen innards pushed through the membrane. Gouge, gouge, gouge. She bear not
contemplate this small outlet for the agony he must be feeling. His other hand kneaded the skin just above the collar.
Why
doesn’t he say anything?
Gravel
from the overpass drummed the roof of the car. Her synapses recoiled. But
nothing from Vince; he continued in a mindless quest to expose more of the
seat’s innards as though his shoulders where prohibited of any other movement.
He
wasn’t making a sound.
