The Summit

It had been one of those nights that felt like a year had passed in the space a mere handful of hours. How it had begun Donovan could never be sure, like a dream it had already started before he had realised what was happening. The devil's greatest trick was convincing the world he didn't exist. Her greatest trick was entering entering your orbit without your knowledge and leaving a crime scene in her wake all without anyone batting an eyelid. She would burrow under your skin and into your memories without even breaking a sweat and then that was it. She had you.

Donovan had never really had a voice in his head weighing up the consequences of his actions. His father would wade in and fix whatever mess was left in his wake with handshakes and chequebooks. Perhaps that's what made them so well suited. Their predilection for unwitting carnage. 

He had been at a function his father had asked him to attend, the guarantee had been that it would be blessedly brief. Showing his face at such events would be an opportunity to network and glad-hand to cement his future prospects, or so he had been told. It had seemed a somewhat gruesome exercise to Donovan who was keen to skip the thing all together if he could manage it. 

A cigarette break had evolved into a brief check he hadn't left something in his car which had then somehow resulted in him driving around the roads late at night in the Business District, unlit cigarette still hanging from his lips. When was the last time he had just driven around for the sake of it? The joy of driving his extremely expensive sports car was what he was missing from his life. This is just what he needed to sustain him. Then he might go back. If he felt like it.

A young woman in a t-shirt and shorts smeared with blood was kneeling next to a man lying in the middle of the road. The figure miniature and pale in the darkened streets grew bigger as he sped along the road. He had screeched to a halt and jumped out of his car and ran toward the scene.

Her bob of hair knotted in ochre curls plastered to her glinting face in the cloying heat of the summer evening. She was illuminated by street lamps and headlights and even then she was a glorious sight to behold. Her grey eyes were rimmed with smudged black and unspent tears, she was breathing heavily, her body was almost vibrating as he crouched beside her. 

It was the middle of the night and it was unnervingly quiet. She careened forward and her cheek hovered next to the man’s face, his mouth next to her ear. The man was elderly and grey haired, he was wearing a suit jacket and a cravat. Donovan would always remember the paisley pattern of the fabric, a meld of emerald green and royal purple. He looked like he had stepped out of a catalogue for older gentleman who lived on wooded estates.

She pulled her phone from her pocket as Donovan knelt next to her. He noted her fingers were smudging the screen with swipes of red as he surveyed the crumpled man laying before them. A stream of blood was cascading down the man's face from his wrinkled temple.
“Hello, yes! I need an ambulance, there’s a man he was. He was run over. I think he was run over by a car. Uh…” She turned and looked at Donovan, grey blank eyes with mascara tracks stained her pale cheeks. She thrust the phone into his hand and scrambled to her feet.

He could vaguely hear the slap of her sneakers against the tarmac as a woman on the end of the line asked him where he was. He looked around wildly uncertain of what was happening. He had stopped his car and left it idle when he dashed to help with the best intentions.

“We’re downtown in the Business District. I think it’s near Kings Road.” He babbled, he heard the familiar growl of a car engine starting and turned to see his tomato red convertible speed away. He swore loudly and apologised to the woman on the phone, “Someone just stole my car!” He shouted exasperated. 

He was advised to stay put and the emergency services would be there in eight minutes. He was asked if he knew CPR and if anyone else was nearby. The prospect of doing CPR at that moment was beyond his capability. He told the woman he didn't know what that was. “That’s the thing with the chest pumps right?” He asked sheepishly.

The woman on the phone was very soothing and authoritative as he stared wildly around him confused and terrified. He frantically explained to the woman that the man was not breathing and there was an abandoned car nearby. She told him that the police would come to sort that out and talked him through the motions and actions for CPR. The woman on the phone emphasised the need for him to stay put and remain calm. Her advice seemed rote but she sounded genuinely concerned about his situation, perhaps she had been trained to do that, he couldn't quite tell.

He placed the phone on the floor next to him with the speaker turned on as he pressed his balled fist against the man’s chest. He heard a sickening crunch as he lent into the motion and panicked. An irrational part of him had been convinced that the broken ribs he had undoubtedly contributed to the man's death. The coroner disagreed and said something about internal bleeding, or shock, or organ failure. But Donovan was fairly certain he had pierced something with his physical force. 

The body was declared deceased upon arrival as the paramedics invited Donovan to sit in the ambulance as they awaited the police. "You're just leaving him there?" Donovan asked frantically. He was gently advised to sit with the paramedics and they would talk to him. "You can't just leave him there..." He had mumbled.

He was offered a bottle of water. He requested something stronger and was granted a grim chuckle. One of the men was rearranging their equipment in the back of the vehicle, “It’s going to be a long night mate.”

“I didn’t kill him, did I?” He asked worriedly the words making him feel nauseous.
“Probably not.” The paramedic said reassuringly. He wanted to ask more questions. How many call outs had they had? Was this the most gruesome one? Had there been any other 'Dead on Arrivals?' Is that what they call them still? Would they let him borrow their uniform for a fancy dress party he had at Lottie's house next weekend?

The police arrived and cordoned off the street with yellow tape and blue flashing lights. Donovan was asked repeatedly if the abandoned car with the dented windshield was his. He responded emphatically that it was not, he would not drive something so ugly, it was a rectangular grey people carrier. His car had been stolen, were they not writing this down? He described the sequence of events repeatedly until the men with notepads and furrowed brows were satisfied. His voice was hoarse, the bottle in his hand warm against his skin and full of water he had forgotten to drink. They advised they would still have to take him to the station for a statement and that someone would be with him shortly.

"But I gave you a statement." He grumbled glancing at the sky. He had been removed from the ambulance and sat on a bollard next to the roadside. He couldn't see any stars, the sky was an inky black canvas with a haze of streetlights distorting it.

He was assured by a young woman in black fatigues that everything would be okay but Donovan remained unconvinced. He asked if he could go home and tried to explain that his apartment complex was only a few streets away. The woman asked a colleague and a familiar voice repeated that he would have to stay and wait to be taken to the station for a statement.

At this point Donovan rummaged in his pockets and couldn't find his carton of cigarettes but managed to feel smooth edges of his phone. He did what he had been putting off for as long as he could. His phone had been intermittently buzzing for the past hour but he hadn't felt it.

“Dad, hey! Yeah, I'm alive." He laughed cautiously.
"So there’s been a car accident and uhh…” He took a deep breath while the tirade of recriminations began. “Yeah but the thing is... I just want to say… Dad I’m serious!” He held the phone away from his ear as a familiar sensation of impatience began grow in the pit of his stomach.

“Hi, Mr Policeman, hi yeah, my dad is on the phone, he just wants a quick chat with you." He thrust the phone into the woman's hand. "Yeah, you just take that, thanks.” She looked bewildered and looked around for backup with little success. Donovan backed away from her as she held the phone to her ear and terror struck her features.

Donovan ducked under the police tape cordoning off the street. He managed to walk down the road and turn off without so much as a shout in his direction. For whatever reason at that moment the scattering of people milling around the crime scene were all distracted. A part of him felt slightly stung that no one had tried to stop his exit but then again his intention had been to sneak away.

To remove yourself from a situation it was best to throw your shoulders back and walk with confidence. Donovan had plenty of experience strolling away from many situations by acting like he was strutting down a catwalk without a care in the world. His niece's school play had been a particularly awkward example of this.

Donovan felt that the air was thicker around him, as if walking through a oppressive fog. His skull particularly attuned to each minute movement but his peripheral vision completely lost. It was not dissimilar to having drank two or three shots of tequila in quick succession and then trying to find his way to the toilet. The block was the longest he had ever walked down but as soon as he found a turn off he bolted into the next street.

He had left his phone with the police officer but that was not a big loss to him, he could get another phone. Or perhaps when a member of his father's staff had picked him up in the morning he would have it returned at the police station. That would be ideal. He could go one evening without his mobile phone, of course he could. Or if he was lucky they would go to the police station without him and then pick up his phone and he wouldn't have to talk to anyone. At what point would it be appropriate to charter the private jet to an exotic island? Could he walk to the airport from here?

Of course Donovan had no idea where he was and without his phone to produce a map to guide him he had no way of knowing how to get home let alone to a runway. He wandered the streets strolling into alleyways without a care in the world. Since the 'Security Force' had been installed in the Quadrangle, the inner city was the safest place to be on the planet. Not that it was recommended to wander aimlessly in the Business District in the middle of the night, especially when theoretically descending into a potential post-traumatic disorder. Donovan had also read that it was safe to wander the streets alone but this could have easily been propaganda to prop up the martial law that had been installed in the inner city since the creation of the Quadrangle.

A flash of light caught his eye as he strolled past an alleyway. He paused and looked down the street to see his tomato red convertible with it's headlights blaring. It was wedged in among some wheelie bins and carrier bags of takeaway containers.

He approached the vehicle in a daze and rapped on the blackout window with his knuckle his heart beating in his throat.

“Good evening officer.” The woman with ochre curls appeared at the window wearing a large pair of sunglasses and crooked smile on her pink lips. The sunglasses were branded and broad, specifically designed for the travelling high class gentleman. It was clear she had found them in the glove compartment.

“This is my car!” He snapped with a burst of unrestrained somewhat unexpected fury. Donovan's fatigue and confusion evaporated and he suddenly felt frustrated and prickled with fury. He had woken from his dreamlike state and was alert and furious. “Get the fuck out of my car!”
“This is your car?” She asked tilting her head to observe the edges of the window framing her. She was resting her arm on the car door holding up her chin with the tips of her fingers.
“Yes, that’s my car. Out, get out.” He sputtered.
He couldn’t see her eyes, her lips were pursed in an ‘o’ as if about to whistle. She looked like a child being reprimanded. Then it set in a thin line and she shook her head, bouncing curls wafting to and fro. “Nah, I don’t think so.” She said distractedly.

“This is my car. Get the hell out of my car.” He stammered. He couldn't think of anything further to add to his accusations. He was at a loss but enraged.

She lifted the sunglasses from the bridge of her nose, her brow furrowed, her eyes focused on him. He launched forward and grabbed the door with both hands which caused her to jolt backwards into the black leather cavern behind her.

“Just get out now, for fuck sake.” He grunted moving away from the car and surveying the alleyway which was empty. The wind shifted an empty beer can which skittered over a puddle.

He heard a crash of metal and turned to see her arm outstretched from the window. His keys had landed on the dark damp road opposite the vehicle.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He walked over to the keys and bent over to the pick them up and turned to her. He pushed the button on the key fob and the door began to slide upwards. She yelped and burrowed into the inky black of the car interior. As the door shifted and the street light flooded in he noticed she had pushed the front seats completely back so that they were horizontal. She was curled up in the foetal position with her hands over her face.

“Right you’ve had your fun.” He muttered, “Get out.” He approached the car.
“Wait!” She bolted upright and raised her palms to him. “I just needed somewhere to stay tonight. I was going to give your car back to you. Honest!” She smiled and took the sunglasses off, folded them up and held them out to him. “Honest.” She repeated.

“You were going to sleep in my car?” He asked warily.
“Yeah...” She rummaged in her pocket and produced a bag of white powder. She was biting her lip and he noticed her legs tucked under her, the sliver of bare thigh peeking out. She appeared delicate and harmless.

“Did you run that guy over?” He asked bluntly.
“No.” She responded promptly, “Sorry I didn’t stick around...” She nodded at the bag in her hand stretched in front of her. She smiled, it took up her whole face, all teeth. He clambered into the car beside her without further argument pulling the door down behind him. He immediately flicked the switch to turn the headlights off and took the bag of white powder from her as she levered onto the passenger seat opposite him.

She commented about how she wasn’t sure how to put the seats back up. He turned the radio on and lay down fiddling with the seal of the bag distractedly. He asked her if she was homeless and she didn't answer. She lay on her seat and they remained horizontal and parallel for some time. Their conversation was stilted nonsense.

In the end he couldn't remembered taking the drugs with her. He couldn't recall the first time they kissed or the first time they had sex. He didn’t even notice the scar on her neck. A thin deep pink line embedded in her flesh. It was took dark in the car and he was too high, too lost in the moment. But in years to come he would see a red welt across the neck of every person he had sex with. As if every person he engaged with had suffered at the executioner's axe.

The memory that remained with him was waking up in the morning next to her. She was breathing gently and unconscious. His lips pressed against her shoulder, his legs entwined with hers. Her hair stroked his forehead, the taste of her in his mouth, the warmth of her skin. The sensation of her vulnerable and at peace in his arms embedded in his mind.

As it had happened it had simply been a sequence of events that he had stumbled through with no idea of their significance. It was the chemical reactions he would recall as more powerful than when they had occurred. The thrill of her crouching over a dead body. The fear as she had sped away in his car. The adrenaline that had mounted within him as the severity of the situation had set in. The shock that followed as he sat on the side of the street dazed and bewildered. The rage in finding her and the release in fucking her in the cramped convertible. He couldn't imagine his life feeling more real than that which he experienced when he was with her.