***********************************

Deceased Two

CLARK, Sean DOB 25/02/05 17 DALE STREET UPPER BROCK LANSTON LA173FG

IC1 MALE F408 slim build, short brown hair, brown eyes, wearing a white, short sleeved t-shirt and navy blue gym shorts with blue gym socks and shin pads and black school shoes.

School: LANSTON PRIMARY SCHOOL 1 CALDER ROAD LANSTON LR172JU

Next of kin

Father: CLARK, Steven DOB 17/03/80 17 DALE STREET UPPER BROCK LANSTON LA173FG

Mother: CLARK, Dana DOB 17/10/83 17 DALE STREET UPPER BROCK LANSTON LA173FG

                                      ************************************

A hundred yards or so away from the bridge and the road was still empty. Alec Monroe’s control over the vehicle was too erratic and he strayed between lanes. He wasn’t thinking straight. Get it together, he told himself. What the hell are you doing? He quickly pulled the car over and his far side tyres crunched to a stop in rough gravel. It had only been a minute, maybe two. He could still go back. He kept picturing the driver’s face and guessed him as mid-forties. He had a moustache and thin hair. Monroe almost imagined fillings in the round man’s mouth but of course he couldn’t have seen any. He wanted to scratch and he wanted to cry as he found strength to grip the wheel with his numb fingers. His knuckles turned a milky white, not that he noticed. His head pounded as if shame was a heavyweight beating on his brain. Monroe saw the yellow minibus in his mind and screwed up his face again. The round faced, middle-aged man driving the bus was terrified, of that there could be no doubt. That would be the natural reaction, easily explained and to be expected. But Monroe knew there was more to it. It was more than the fear for self-preservation. His own instincts had taken over in the same moment and he had reacted in the only way his mind had allowed; he had wanted to save himself. In driving off he was still trying to save himself. The driver, on the other hand, had different desperation in his eyes. He could have driven straight forward and ploughed into Monroe’s car. He would have hit the brakes, probably, allowing Monroe’s silver Lexus to swerve around the bus to safety. But he had mistakenly swerved too and taken action to save the lives of the passengers on board. The realisation was creeping into Monroe’s head and he tried desperately to wish away. He knew he had seen it but tried desperately not to remember. Those eyes. It was the eyes of a young boy looking out the window. Monroe had seen them as he flung by a whole line of faces, all children. The particular blue eyes under blonde curtains had stood out amongst the others and Monroe had seen the terrified face as clear as he had the driver’s. He felt hollow and the taste of bile lingered in the back of his throat. Maybe there’s still time, he thought, they might be ok! Monroe stretched and let out a loud yelp as he untethered himself from his seat and threw the door open. After a couple of weak steps Monroe lifted his knees. He felt the hard tarmac beneath his feet and the cold breeze on his face, and quickened his pace to a sprint.

Arriving on the bridge, he reached the low stone wall and leant over. He continued to move beside the wall, running his fingers and palms along the rugged top and feeling a scratching pain through the numbness. The water, murky and rippled, reflected a distorted black image staring back at him from far below. Monroe got to the breach in the wall and noticed yellow paint and dark scores on the closest stones. Pieces of amber coloured glass lay shattered on the ground amongst small rocks and pieces of rubble. The stone work itself was penetrated remarkably cleanly with whole stones missing at the edges rather than broken in two. Stopping for a moment and studying the water, he saw something on the surface. It was bubbles. It was air. It was life escaping from the minibus. They can’t have long, Monroe thought, and remembering the pamphlets he darted to where the ancient steps had been carved into the rocks leading down to the riverbank.

On his way down, Monroe studied the rock face and realised the minibus must have collided with that also, bouncing off the cliff and submerging into the river. In his hurry, he slipped on the moss covered smooth stone beneath his feet and landed hard on his hip. He felt a stinging pain throughout his body and tried to get to his feet but his arm buckled and he fell again. Monroe, now angry and determined, dragged himself to his feet and eventually reached the riverbank. Seven minutes, he reckoned, maybe eight had passed since they went over. There’s a chance they’re still alive down there. But why haven’t they surfaced? The amount of seats on a minibus he estimated at twelve, but Monroe couldn’t picture how many had been on board. Everything had happened much too fast. He looked up to the bridge and at the hole. Rummaging in his pockets, he took out his wallet and tossed it aside before wading into the water.

Alec Monroe suddenly remembered he was not a swimmer. When he was ten years old, his parents uprooted and took him from the small, rural primary school he had grown up in to an inner city school where swimming lessons were compulsory. In a class of nearly thirty children, he was an loner. In his first week, the class went swimming and every one of them had laughed at him as he tried and failed to doggie paddle across the breadth of the pool. Monroe improved over time and achieved his hundred metre ribbon, then two hundred and so on. Proficiency never really came however and he gave up after school; he never managed to tread water for more than about a minute. It was never a relevant skill, he reflected, until now. The water was freezing and appeared to be still but in fact had a steady flow. Monroe noticed how the bubbles bursting on the surface were causing little ripples which fought against the ripples stemming from his waist as he stepped forward. The sludge beneath his feet fell away from him without warning. He threw his arms out and began paddling towards the bubbles. Monroe’s chest was painful and his teeth chattered as he tried to puff out his cheeks. Taking a few deep breaths, he dove beneath the surface.

Struggling against the hidden currents, Monroe dove further and further and kicked harder and harder. He could swear that he was kicking fish until his outstretched arms touched something. With wide eyes he could just about make out a Ford Transit, an early 2000s model, maybe 17 seats. It was white at the top and bright yellow at the bottom, the colours bisecting the windows. The vehicle was lying dormant on its side like a torpedoed submarine. Monroe began pounding on the passenger door window and tugged at the handle. Too heavy. It was dark inside the vehicle but it looked to him like the heavyset driver was moving in slow motion, waving his arms at the smashed windscreen. Monroe felt his stomach churn. There was a faint, steady tapping coming from within; a bag bobbing around most likely. His chest tightened as he moved along the side of the minibus to check on the passengers inside. They were all children and they were all small; maybe ten or eleven years old. It was too dark to see properly but he could see they weren’t in their seats. Monroe imagined that they had tried desperately to escape before drowning and he began to cry. He was running out of air. He placed his feet on the window ready to kick off and swim for the surface. As he did he heard the tapping again, except it was more rapid and frantic. It wasn’t a bag. It was coming from the back of the bus. Looking down he saw two small hands pushing hard against the rear side window. He crouched to peer inside but he was beginning to feel dizzy, the oxygen fast leaving his lungs and escaping through his teeth. There’s no time, he thought, I’ll have to come back. Hold on! As he kicked off the bus, Monroe thought he saw blonde hair press up against the glass, but through the murky water he couldn’t be sure. It must have taken ten or fifteen seconds to swim back to the surface but it felt like an age. He burst through the water mouth first and inhaled everything he could. Spluttering and coughing, Monroe felt the pressure subside on his chest. As he bobbed on the surface he gulped down water and spat it back out. It was torturous. He didn’t have time to reflect. Monroe took another deep, full breath and plunged back down again. This time, arriving at the minibus, he immediately found the rear door and pulled on the latch. It didn’t budge. Grabbing with both hands and steadying his feet on the bumper, Monroe pulled on the handle with everything he had and the door released slowly. As he bent down into the tomb, blue eyes pierced the cloudy sediment and Monroe was confronted by the young blonde boy. The child stared straight forward wide-eyed and open mouthed, his arms reached out for a hug. Snatching at the floating limbs, Monroe tugged the child out from the vehicle and dragged him up and away from the wreckage, thinking all the while about how heavy the boy seemed.

On the surface, Monroe pulled the boy backwards to riverbank, keeping his head above the water the way he had seen in the movies. It was hard work. He clambered through the muddy bank and laid the boy flat out on the ground. After a second or two, Monroe began to take in more details about the child. The boy was around four feet nine inches tall, skinny, with an awful nineties bowl-cut. He was wearing a white short sleeved t-shirt and baggy navy blue shorts which were both off colour and clinging to his cold, pale body. Monroe noticed the child was wearing knee high socks and shin pads but not shoes. Why did he have no shoes? He quickly checked for a pulse with two fingers on the boy’s throat and clasping the nearest tiny wrist in his other hand. Water was dripping off him into the child’s blue eyes which didn’t blink as he knew they ought to. I have to do CPR, Monroe thought. “Fuck!” he whispered, “Come on!”

Monroe tilted the boy’s chin back, his hands trembling as he fumbled to open the mouth. He stalled again, wondering whether to begin with compressions or rescue breaths. “Help me, somebody!” Monroe tried to shout. He wasn’t sure if anything actually came out. The area seemed calm and tranquil and didn’t reflect what had transpired. Monroe felt the opposite and hurriedly looked around. He was freezing and panting heavily. Deciding on rescue breaths, Monroe tried to breathe in but ended up coughing. He wiped his lips and tried again. Holding the boy’s nose, he began; five breaths, thirty compressions. Each compression felt weaker than the last as he relied more and more on his gross weight. He tried again to shout for help but his voice was hoarse and he was breathing too heavily. After a few minutes, Monroe knew he was already too tired to continue. What about the others? He found his voice, letting out an unrelenting howl which frightened himself and shattered the calm surroundings. Birds scattered from their nests into the sky overhead and Monroe looked up. In doing so he saw someone, standing and watching from the hole in bridge above. The figure was too far away to make out any features but he recognised the figure as a man.

“I’ve called for help,” a voice shouted down. It was loud and young and reassuring. “I’ll be right down!”

Alec Monroe rested with his hands on his knees, looking into the boy’s eyes. They weren’t blue anymore. They were a shade of grey and they were empty. He heard footsteps racing down the steps and, for a brief moment, a level of calm came over him. His heart, beating at a consistent rate, felt as sodden as his jeans. He wondered what he was going to say to the stranger but was drawing a blank. He took a deep breath. Wiping his mouth, Monroe tilted the boys chin and pinched his nose and administered three more breaths. As he looked up he saw a man standing over him. The man had a diminished, slender frame and a gaunt, expressionless face. The man stood over them looking at Alec, not at the boy, and clasped his hands together on top of his bushy red hair.

“Please, help me,” whined Monroe. In asking he felt utterly pathetic. He didn’t know where to begin or how to tell the man that it was his fault. Instead, he left his plea hanging in the air and held out for a reply, except one didn’t come right away. Instead the stranger continued to stare intently until, to Monroe’s surprise, he smiled. It was a wide, reassuring smile and unnerved Monroe. He didn’t know what to make of it until the silence was finally broken.

“You don’t have to worry,” the man said, “I’m here for you, friend.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 3