Fraught [Part One]

1

I found him lying in the road, poor bastard. Later I wished I’d run him over, for both our sakes. He looked surely dead at first, too pale for life, yet there was paddling-pool breath in his throat and distant music in his veins. A dead body on the highway is an inconvenience, a living body on the highway is a responsibility.

His face looked fairly young, save for skin beneath his eyes that was tauter and greyer than my dear departed grandmother’s. I thought of trying to rouse him, but sensed this slumber was too deep to penetrate. No, I would take him to a hospital and let professionals perform the awakening - if still possible.

Heaving my find from the ground, I was shocked by his levity. This man was seriously underweight, to the extent that malnourishment alone could well be the cause of his current plight. Nevertheless it was a struggle to place him in my vehicle, forcing relegation of several suitcases to the boot. Job done, I paused to study the black tarmac for any signs of a hit-and-run that might have left my passenger alone in these desolate surroundings. There was no blood or broken glass or anything of that breed, though I did find a small silver strobe torch in a patch of dry grass on the verge.



2

Night approached, the darkness bleeding yellow wherever my headlights stabbed. I’d strayed onto one of those endless roads where it’s easy to despair of ever finding civilisation at the end, as though humanity might easily have perished while I was out here wishing for a map. I kept nervously checking my petrol, unsure of the distance or even the destination. Yet somehow I didn’t want to know, feeling the journey could only retain aim so long as I didn’t attempt to think of one.

Instead I thought of my father, and long drives down winding country lanes. Such events were by no means frequent, yet I remember each one vividly. I always feared the roadside at night and its unlit nothingness whizzing past the protective windows. It would have been preferable if our route was lined by toothy monsters and wild-eyed men clutching bloodstained axes.

To counter my fears, my father would talk incessantly. He’d tell tales of great historical events, making each war or revolution more thrilling than any television show. Most gripping of all however was his personal transformation from melancholy brooder of the house to great storyteller of the automobile. It was nice to see him that way.



3

I miss Dad.



4

‘...getting on for eight o’clock...suddenly just started screaming and stuff...flailing around...I pulled over...tried to calm him down...like he was in a waking nightmare or something...don’t think he could even see me...turned on a torch...saw his eyes...all bloodshot...the light seemed to calm him down...just sorta fell asleep again...nah he didn’t attack me...don’t think he could even see me...’

‘Torch seemed to calm him down?’

‘...gained some kinda comfort from the light...I left it shining for him...just glad I found a hospital...’

‘Where are you headed?’

‘...down to the coast...hotel...sort of a holiday...getting away from it all...’

‘Okay Mr Atkinson, thanks for your time. We may need to contact you later for further details. I don’t know if you want to stick around, but I’m told Mr Fraught will be conscious soon. Oh yes, he’s well-known in the area. Very old family. Moneyed. I’m sure he’d like to thank you.’



5

With three teaspoons of politeness and one of morbid curiosity, I waited. Being somewhat superstitious, hospitals unnerve me. My thoughts linger on so many lives stuttering out of existence within these walls, their resentful phantoms returning to spite us. And in blackest moments, I can envision only a plot of land. No deity. No afterlife. No redemption.

Fraught. An odd name. Not one I was previously familiar with. Listening to the relentless chime of machinery by his bedside, the urgent motion of heart and lungs translated into an artificial language of beeps and lines, kindled memories...



...to be continued...