where it was dampest and the siding was made from the longest boards.
He tapped and kicked at them. Chose one particular place and pressed
hard with his foot. The board gave slightly and opened a gap against
its rusty nail. He worked the gap and sprung the next board, and the
next, until he had a flap which would open tall enough to crawl
through. Then he ducked back into the center aisle and piled the loose
end of his chain onto the dead driver’s stomach. Fished in the trouser
pocket and pulled out the padlock key. Held it in his teeth. Bent
down and picked up the body and the chain together. Carried them out
through the open door.
He carried them about twenty-five yards. Away from the house. Then he
rested the body on its feet, supporting it by the shoulders, like he
was dancing with a drunken partner. Ducked forward and jacked it up
onto his shoulder. Caught the chain with one hand and walked away down
the track.
He walked fast for twenty minutes. More than a mile. Along the track
to a road. Turned left down the road and out into the empty
countryside. It was horse country. Railed paddocks ran left and right
beside the road. Endless flat grassland, cool and damp in the last of
the night. Occasional trees looming through the dark. A narrow,
straight, lumpy road surface.
He walked down the center of the road. Then he ducked onto the grassy
shoulder and found a ditch. It ran along the base of the paddock rail.
He turned a complete circle, with the dead driver windmilling on his
shoulder. He could see nothing. He was more than a mile from the farm
and he could have been more than a hundred miles from the next one. He
bent over and dropped the body into the ditch. It flopped down through
the long grass and landed face-down in mud. Readier turned and ran the
mile back to the farm. The streak of dawn was lightening the sky.
He turned into the rough track. There were lights in the windows of
the farmhouse. He sprinted for the barn. Pushed the heavy wooden
doors closed from the outside. Lifted the crossbeam into its supports
and locked it in place with the padlock key. Ran back to the track and
hurled the key far into the field. Wednesday was flaming up over the
horizon. He sprinted for the far side of the barn and found the gap
he’d sprung in the siding. Pushed his chain in ahead of him. Squeezed
his shoulders through and forced his way back inside. Pulled the
boards back flush with the old timbers, best as he could. Then he came
back into the aisle and stood bent over, breathing hard.
“All done,” he said. They’ll never find him.”
He scooped up the metal mess tin with the cold remains of the soup in
it. Scratched around in his stall for the fallen bolts. He gathered
as many wood splinters as he could find. Slopped them around in the
cold soup and forced them back into the ragged bolt holes. He walked
over to Holly’s stall and put the tin back on the ground. Kept the
spoon. He assembled the bolts through the holes in the base of the
iron ring, hanging there off his length of chain. Forced them home
among the sticky splinters. Used the back of the spoon to press them
firmly in. He ran the chain through the loop until it was hanging
straight down and resting on the stone floor. Minimum stress on the
fragile assembly.
He tossed the spoon back to Holly. She caught it one-handed and put it
back in the tin. Then he ducked down and listened through the boards.
The dog was outside. He could hear it snuffling. Then he heard
people. Footsteps on the track. They ran to the doors of the barn.
They shook and rattled the crossbeam. Retreated. There was shouting.
They were calling a name, over and over again. The crack around the
barn door was lighting up with morning. The timbers of the barn were
creaking as the sun flooded over the horizon and warmed them through.