Now my perspective is changing. Maybe the same damn thing

that got me here is the same thing that happened to him. I never looked into his history. Never learned whether his family had

died, never learned what drove him to drinking. There was way

too much anger for that. He stood in the grave and he cried as I levelled the pistol at him. He told me he was sorry, and I told him that was enough, that I didn’t want to hear any more, that it was time to take responsibility. Through all his fear there must have been some hope I was going to let him go. I was hoping he would accept it, that he would shut up and make peace with his maker and just accept it. But he didn’t.

Quentin James was still begging for his life when I shot him in the head. It didn’t feel as good as I thought it would.

I shuffled his body so it was nice and snug in the grave he’d

dug, and then I buried him. I walked away without giving him a prayer or spitting on his grave. There was just a smooth transition between shovelling dirt and then turning away. A smooth

transition between going from father to killer. I carried the shovel back to my car, drove away and have never been back.

Unless I’m back here now. These could be the same woods.

‘It was an accident,’ I repeat.

‘You had a daughter,’ he says. ‘It’s all over the news now. How the hell can you, of all people, drive while completely tanked?’

‘There’s no shovel,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘You should have made me bring a shovel.’

‘What for?’

‘What do you think?’

‘You think I care whether I bury you or not? You think I care

whether you’re ever found?’

‘You should do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re going to throw away your life. I deserve what

I get, but you don’t deserve to be punished.’

He takes a small step back. I’d rather he’d come forward. I’d

rather he was pointing the gun at my head. Rather he did us both a favour and got this over with.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Just pull the trigger.’

‘I’m going to.’

‘Yeah, you’re saying it but you’re still talking about it. Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. But if you’re waiting for me to beg for my life, I’m not going to. You might want that, but it’ll only make it harder. It’ll haunt you. The fact is you’ll shoot me and you’ll discover it wasn’t satisfying. You’ll feel nothing. At least that’s how it was for me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Could be different for you. Your daughter’s alive, right?

Rather than being with her, you decided to come out here and be with me. You’ve got your priorities wrong. You’ve fucked up your timing. You could have brought me out here any time.’ There’s

a wedding ring on his finger. ‘Your wife and daughter, they need you now.’

‘Shut up. Don’t tell me what my family needs.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘What?’

‘Your daughter. Her name. I don’t know anything about her.’

‘You don’t deserve to know it.’

‘If you’re going to kill me, I think I ought to know her

name.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Just pull the trigger.’

‘What’s your hurry?’ he asks.

202

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

‘You don’t think I’m going to do it, do you?’

‘What do you want me to say? You want me to say something

that will sway your decision? How about this? Your daughter

could have died, but she didn’t. She’s fighting for her life and she’s still with you. Does that make a difference? Of course it does. You’d have to be stupid not to recognise it. Do I deserve to die for that? That’s up to you. Me, I’m at that stage where it doesn’t matter either way’

‘How dare you.’

‘What?’

‘How dare you kneel there and act like a goddamn martyr.

How dare you act like you’re the one who’s the victim, like you’re the one having a bad day. Don’t you get it? Don’t you get what you almost did?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Yeah, you’re good at taking responsibility, right? But all you’re doing is trying to mess up my reasons for bringing you out here.

Why don’t you just shut up, huh? Shut up and let me decide for myself what I’m going to do. This is my life we’re talking about.

My sixteen-year-old daughter you tried to kill. How dare you

kneel there acting as if you don’t fucking care whether you live or die. Show some fucking respect and at least beg for your life, right? Make me feel something. Make me want to hate you even

more, make me want to hate what I’m doing.’

‘I’m sorry about your daughter.’

‘Emma,’ he says. ‘Her name is Emma.’

‘My daughter’s name is Emily’ I say, as if she’s still alive. At first I’m not sure why I say it, but then it comes to me. I want to live. I don’t want to die out here. I want the chance to make things right.

‘Emma. Emily,’ he says. He doesn’t expand on the thought,

but he’s really thinking about it. Thinking hard. Maybe drawing some parallels between the two names.

“I still have a wife,’ I add. ‘Her name is Bridget.’

“I know. And I’m sorry about what happened to your daughter,’

he says, ‘but that makes what you did even worse. Don’t you get that? It doesn’t make me sympathise with you, it only makes me angrier.’

And so it should.’

‘There you go again,’ he says. ‘You’re trying to diminish the

moment.’

‘Are you really a lawyer?’

‘What?’

‘You talk like one.’

“I’m a divorce lawyer.’

And when you came to the prison, you gave them your name,

right?’

“I had to so I could bail you out. But they don’t know I’m the one who brought you out here.’

‘You don’t think they’ll figure it out? You don’t think they’ll work out that the lawyer, who they’ll soon realise is the father of the girl I hurt, was the last person to have seen me? And you went into town and bought yourself some black-market weapons. That

shows premeditation. That’s bad for you.’

He thinks about it for a few seconds. ‘Fuck,’ he says.

‘See, you’re being driven by emotion, not logic. You should

have known that. It’s a pretty simple equation, and you looked right over it. Don’t do this. Don’t throw away your life.’

He takes a step forward, raises the gun so it’s pointing at

my head. But the cold and the nerves are too much for him to

control, and his hand is shaking badly. His breathing is ragged.

He’s fighting with the same decision I had back when the roles were reversed, only it was a decision I didn’t fight with. I was comfortable holding a gun. I just aimed and fired.

“I’m going to do it,’ he says.

‘You’ve got no argument from me.’

‘Shut up, damn it. Let me think.’

I stay on my knees and I force myself to keep looking at the

gun, and it terrifies me. His face is taut with pain, his mouth forms a grimace as he runs through the scenarios in his mind.

One, he walks away with blood on his hands; the other, he walks away feeling a little unsatisfied. I decide against giving him any more advice. He’s a big boy. He can make up his own mind.

It takes him a minute. It’s painful to watch. Painful to stare at the gun and wonder if he’s about to pull the trigger. In the end he takes a step back. Then another. But he keeps the gun pointing at me.

If she dies,’ he says, ‘we’re coming back out here.’

He backs away, turns, and then I am alone.

chapter thirty-four

I lie on my side and bring my knees to my chest and squirm

around to bring my hands up under my feet. It doesn’t work. I roll around, but the plastic ties are securing my wrists, and there isn’t enough room to stretch my arms all the way around. I get back