Shrine The Dark Magazine

At first, she thinks it’s yet another accident, here on this straight stretch of back road treacherous only for the speed it provokes in the young and the impatient. Another accident, right where that Nelson girl was killed last summer in fact, and Lynn lifts her foot from the accelerator, squints her eyes against the early evening glare. Really, she should be wearing her glasses. Should stop pretending that she’s still in her thirties, that her eyesight is good enough for driving without them. Never mind that they make her look like an accountant. Never mind that they make her feel so damn old.

But no, it’s not an accident.

The car she thought had slewed off the side of the road is actually just parked at an awkward angle. There’s no sign of damage, not to it, not to the bicycle that’s leaning against the tree next to all the flowers and wreaths and hand-made signs that have festooned its trunk for months now. Although the two figures standing in front of the car—there is something off kilter there. Two men, or a man and a boy, rather, a teenager. Father and son perhaps, the older man with his plump face squeezed red and tight with rage, thrusting a finger into the boy’s chest, hard enough to push him backwards a little with each angry jab.

There’s not even the slightest acknowledgement as she drives past—close enough to spot the spittle spraying from the man’s lips, close enough to catch the glazed, frightened look on the boy’s face. Lynn keeps her eyes on the rearview mirror.

As the man pulls back his fist and lands it, with a violence she can almost feel, right into the boy’s face.

As the boy crumples and falls, shielded from view by the parked car.

“Shit!” Lynn brakes hard, the seat belt cutting into her collarbone. Drive on, the no-nonsense voice in her head commands, this isn’t any kind of business of yours. But she’s sick of listening to that voice, sick to death of it, and now she can see the man’s shoulders jerking, his upper body moving as though he’s kicking something. Kicking someone. She changes gears, reverses the few hundred metres back down the road.

The boy is curled on the bitumen, skinny arms wrapped about his head, as the man’s sneakered foot thumps into his back and ribs. Lynn leans on the horn, doesn’t let up until the arsehole stops and stares at her, mouth agape. He’s crying, tears and snot streaking his face, and there’s something so broken in his expression, so gut-wrenchingly familiar, that she wishes she’d listened to the voice after all.

Lynn slides down the window a few inches. “Everything okay?”

Not the winner of the World’s Dumbest Question Competition, perhaps, but most definitely a contender.

“Go away.” The man sags against the bonnet of his car. “You don’t know.”

The boy has gotten to his haunches, scrabbled a few metres out of range. There’s blood on his pale, freckled face, a lot of it. Blood in his hair too, the short orange curls matted red. He’s older than he looked from a distance, late teens or very early twenties perhaps, short and thin and weedy.

And hurt, who knows how badly.

Lynn looks at the man again, at the way he’s snuffling and wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jumper, and decides the risk is minimal. Still, she moves slowly. Opens her door and steps onto the road, walks over to where the boy is sitting while keeping a careful watch on his attacker.

“Here.” She holds out a hand. “Let me help.”

His fingers are warm and slippery and she tries not to think about that too much as she pulls him gently to his feet.

“What’s going on?” she whispers.

The boy shakes his head and shrugs. He doesn’t let go of her hand.

Behind them, there’s a shuffle of shoe on bitumen, and Lynn turns around to see the man stalking towards the tree. “Bloody thief,” he mutters, grabbing the bike with both hands and throwing it into the centre of the road.