All Write, Already!

Internal voices made war, and all the rest of me could do was sit and stare.

He's a fucking murderer! screamed one voice. For Christ's sake, get rid of him before he pulls a knife!

It was an accident, said a more reasonable voice. He's crashed his car, his wife or girlfriend is trapped, unconscious, maybe even . . . He's come looking for help. Then, more forcefully, You have to help him.

Get rid of him! He's dangerous! Trick him into stepping outside the car, then drive like hell!

And if I turn on the news tonight in my hotel room, hear about some guy whose wife bled to death in a car wreck because nobody stopped to help? I couldn't live with that. No way.

Look at him! No injuries, no cuts or bruises. Just sweat and dust and grime. This guy has not been in a crash.

Well, I don't know. Maybe he and whoever "she" is are climbers. We're in the middle of a mountain range after all.

Is it worth the risk? He could be anybody.

Yes, but he could be a regular guy who needs a hand.

But how do you know? The selfish, whining voice was losing. I realised then that my fear was irrelevant - I was going to help him.

"I have to," I muttered.

He looked at me then, puzzlement showing through the mask of grief. "Huh?"

"We have to do . . . something," I said, with only a bit more confidence. "Tell me what's going on. What's your name?"

"St- Stephen," he said, his lower lip trembling. He suddenly looked like an upset child, pouting lower lip trembling. For one insane moment I nearly laughed out loud.

"Stephen, okay. What's the problem? Is someone hurt? Have you crashed your car or something?"

Pain showed plainly when I mentioned a car. Stephen hesitated, then explained, his voice hesitant, speaking in short, sharp sentence fragments, staring straight ahead at the glove box. "My wife, Amy. She's . . . gone. I was driving. Needed to piss. We stopped, I got out. No other cars around. I went into the bushes. Then-" Stephen's jaw worked up and down soundlessly for a moment, then he found the words. "Screamed. She screamed. Oh, Jesus, Amy screamed. The car started. I was running, dick hanging out, pissing on my shoes, running back to the road. Fuck, why was I such a prude? Too far into the bushes. Too far from the road. Took too long. Engine revved, tyres squealed. Got to the road and . . . Amy, the car . . . Disappearing around the next hairpin. Just for a split second I saw her. Someone else driving, couldn't see who. Then . . . gone." His red eyes welled again, and he repeated, "Gone. Gone. Oh Amy . . ."

I think it was guilt that spurred me, knowing how close I had come to throwing him out. My thoughts crystallised. I was going to do everything I could to help this man. I knew I had an obligation, and I also knew I was going to carry it out. The doubting voices were banished in an instant, and I began to plan.

"Okay, Stephen," I said sharply but, I hoped, kindly, "you have to tell me a few things. How long ago did this happen? What does Amy look like? What was she wearing? What kind of car do you drive? Tell me everything you can." As he began to speak I checked my mobile phone. No luck; we were too far from anywhere and in the middle of mountains. No police for the time being, at least.

Stephen ghave me a lot of good information - I think my clear thinking was somewhat contagious. He told me Amy was twenty-three, as was he, fairly short, slim, with long, straight brown hair and brown eyes. She was pretty, he said, and a really good person, and a few more tears fell as he told me about her. She was wearing a red t-shirt and a pair of jeans. The car was a dark blue Subaru Outback, and had been missing for-

"Three hours?" I almost shouted. "You've been walking for three hours?" He nodded. "Oh, you poor bastard. Let's get moving, then." As I popped my rented Falcon into gear, I confirmed that his car had gone the same direction which we were now facing, and started rolling. "Try not to worry too much, mate," I said, trying to sound reassuring. "This sounds like a carjacking. Most of the time a carjacker will throw out any passengers the first chance they get. They don't hurt them - there's no need. Why go to jail for ki- uh, for hurting someone if all you wanted was a car? Makes no sense. Don't worry, we'll probably find her at the first petrol station we come to."

Stephen nodded, but the fear did not leave his eyes.