Read by Henrietta Clemett
Henry told the young couple with their thumbs out that he could only take them twenty-five kilometres or so, but if they wanted a lift then they were welcome to it. After briefly marvelling at the coincidence of being picked up by an Englishman, Emma and Dan explained to Henry precisely what it was that they were doing in the middle of rural France with nothing but their backpacks.
“We’re on our way to Morocco. It’s a hitch-hiking challenge. The students’ union organises one every year and we get sponsored to do it.” Dan said.
“Although, to be perfectly honest, it’s more for the fun of it than for charity.” Emma said.
Dan thought for a moment; then said, “I can’t even remember who we’re raising money for, now that you mention it.”
“It’s something to do with children and gardening.” Emma told him.
“Surely, it’s all a bit weird though,” said Henry, “I mean, I know that we used to do all this sort of stuff when I was your age, but that was way back in the seventies when nothing bad ever happened to anyone. It seems sort of irresponsible for the university to encourage its students to bowl about foreign countries picking lifts from strangers. What I’m saying is, for all you know I could be a serial killer and in essence they would have delivered you into my wagon of death.”
Emma considered pointing out that Henry was driving one of those old-fashioned Citroens, which surely must rank as one of the least murdery cars in the world, but decided against it. They drove in silence for a while, 10 kilometers or longer.
Dan was the one to break it, “How about you?”
“Me?” asked Henry.
“Yeah.”
“How about me, what?”
“What are you doing here?” Dan asked.
“I live here. I like brie; I speak passable French; I figured Why not? You know?”
They drove in silence a while longer. This time Henry broke it. “I’m terribly sorry but I’m going to have to stop for a minute, I have irritable bowel syndrome.”
“Oh my God, that must be awful.” Emma said.
“Yeah it’s not great. It can be very inconvenient sometimes. They used to call it a spastic colon. I don’t like having a body-part described with a schoolboy insult. It’s like finding out your liver’s a gay-lord or that your tibia’s mum’s a slag.”
Henry got out of the car and went to the boot. He opened it and rummaged around for a while, emerging with a loo-roll and the sort of plastic shovel one might use for building sandcastles. He hurried off into the woods.
“I think we need to leave.” Dan said, “I’m certain he’s going to kill us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emma said, “He’s a bit weird, sure, but he’s not a murderer.”
They debated the point for a couple of minutes. Dan took the view that nobody would say they could be a serial killer unless they actually were one and also that only a dangerous sociopath would tell virtual strangers about his bowels for no reason. Emma opined that IBS is not the sort of illness contracted by psychopaths, and besides, it would be incredibly rude to leave the car without explanation while Henry was off in the woods burying his faeces.
As an act of compromise, Dan wrote a note, “Dear Henry, This feels too much like the start of a slasher movie. Emma does not believe you to be a serial killer, but I think there’s a reasonable chance that you are. Since it’s better to be safe than sorry, and I have no desire to see you hacking either one of us to pieces, I am going to run away from you now, and Emma may be joining me.”
Dan took off, North-West-ish, uphill. Emma hesitated for a second, before remembering that the rules of the competition required all teams to stick together, regardless of how clearly ridiculous one member was being. She chased after him and overtook shortly thereafter. She jogged at a leisurely pace ahead of her panting, sweaty boyfriend, and wondered to herself why she hadn’t broken up with him yet. She turned off the narrow path into the thicker grass, which she knew would really slow Dan down.
The trap had probably been meant for a fox or something, it was one of those big ones with two sets of serrated teeth that snap together when set off. Emma didn’t see it. It clamped down on her leg hard, cutting through her flesh and breaking her bone. Henry would have been in earshot as she cried out in pain, had he not already read Dan’s note and driven away.
Dan had a feeling that he’d heard someone tell him that although most French people speak very good English, they get quite snippy when English people don’t at least make an effort to speak the lingua franca in France. Not knowing the word for “Help” – he later learned it was “Dépanner” – he screamed out everything he knew. “Bon jour, bon nuit, le chapeau,” he cried out. He tore up one of his spare t-shirts and tried to turn it into a tourniquet for Emma, tying it round her leg with a clumsiness that reminded her of his fumblings in the bedroom. “Boulangerie, Ambulance, Voulez vous coucher avec moi?” he called out, and then, realising that ambulance was in the right ballpark, “Ambulance, Ambulance, Merci, Ambulance.”
A Frenchman on a bicycle was cycling along the path from which Emma had deviated ten minutes prior. He heard Dan calling out and alighted from his ride to investigate further. Later, when retelling the story, Dan would recall how the Frenchman had actually said “sacrébleu” before springing into action. It was not his trap, although he did know the local farmer who’d set it. He reapplied the tourniquet, then lifted Emma onto his shoulder with one arm, while lighting a cigarette with another.
“I’m taking you to a doctor,” the Frenchman said in barely accented English. Emma, not unreasonably, felt as though this might be a good time to pass out. She did so.
Three days later Emma woke up in a hospital bed. Dan was smiling down at her. “What happened?” she asked.
Dan noted her croaky voice and handed her some water, “I don’t know how much you remember. You were in and out of it a bit. The French chap who found us took us on his bicycle to the local GP’s, about five miles down the road. It was a spectacular piece of cycling, but that’s by the by. You’ll never guess who the doctor was. Henry! Lovely bloke as it turns out; he used to work in an emergency room in London. Anyway, to cut a long story short, your leg went all manky or something and had to be cut off while we were waiting for an airlift. Is embolism a thing? Henry said something about embolism. He said that lopping it off was the only option and he seemed pretty sure.”
Emma itched at the space where her leg should have been, unable to take any of this in.
“Dan,” She said, “We need to break up.”
“That’s just the painkillers talking,” Dan grinned a well-meaning grin, “You know I’d still love you even if you were missing two legs.”
(c) Matthew Parker, 2013
Matthew Parker was born in the West Midlands, but spent most of his formative years on the Hampshire-Surrey border. He has a degree in Maths & Philosophy which he has never used. He lives in Hounslow.
Henrietta Clemett’s TV includes Doctor Who, Doctors, The Bill and Ultimate Force. Film credits include Run Fatboy Run directed by David Schwimmer. Theatre work includes performances at The Pleasance (London and Edinburgh) in the debut of Who’s Harry, which won a Fringe First at the Edinburgh Festival. Other work includes numerous short films, commercials and voice over.
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