Witch by Tim O'Rourke Read Free Book Online Page A

through a gap in the curtains. I glanced down at my wristwatch and could see that it had gone half past eight in the morning.
    Bang! Bang! Bang!
    “Okay, okay! I’m coming,” I said, leaving my bedroom and heading for the front door.
    I opened it to find my father standing on the other side.
    “Christ, you look like shit,” my father snapped, brushing past me and into the lounge.
    “Thanks, dad,” I said, closing the door behind him.

Chapter Seven
     
    I caught my father eyeing the room. I was glad it was relatively tidy. There were a couple of Elle magazines scattered on the floor, so I discretely pushed them under the nearest armchair with my foot. With a grunt, my father turned to face me. He was wearing his uniform, and as always, he looked immaculate in it. He took a beige coloured file from under his arm and handed it to me.
    “What’s this?” I asked.
    “It’s your statement about what happened yesterday,” he said, crossing the room to the window and pulling back the curtain.
    “I haven’t written my statement,” I said, opening the file to find several typed sheets of paper.
    “I wrote it for you,” he said, turning to face me.
    “I think it’s best if I were to write my own...” I started.
    “We all need to be saying the same thing,” he said, taking a pen from his shirt pocket and offering it to me. “Besides, I’ve spoken to Inspector Skrimshire in Penzance this morning. I’ve briefed him on our version of what happened yesterday, and he seems quite satisfied. He does, however, want to see copies of all our statements ASAP. So just sign the statement and I can get one of the team to run him over a copy.”
    “But...” I started, quickly skimming over the statement. It read just how my father had described the incident yesterday as we stood in the road together. I had been driving down the Old Buckmore Road, lights and sirens flashing. The driver of the cart had either refused to steer his horse off the road to let me pass or he hadn’t seen the vehicle because of the state of his poor eyesight, in which case he was himself at fault and caused his own death and that of his family. I had given a negative breath test and received minor scrapes and bruises.
    “Sign it,” my father said, waving the pen before me.
    Slowly, I took the pen from him and signed the bottom of each page. I closed the file and handed it back to him with the pen.
    “What about those people?” I asked him, my heart beginning to race again.
    “The drifters?” he said, cocking one of his thick, black eyebrows at me.
    “Yes,” I whispered.
    “In the morgue,” he said flatly, tucking the file back beneath his arm, and the pen into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Don’t worry, the post-mortem has been carried out on the old guy and the pathologist noted the state of his eyesight. The old fella was practically blind.” Then, placing a hand on my shoulder as if to reassure me, he added, “See? It wasn’t your fault. The old boy shouldn’t have been on the road with that horse and cart. The pathologist reckons he wouldn’t have been able to see more than a few feet in front of him. The truth of the matter is, the old sod probably steered that horse and cart into you and not the other way around. You’re lucky to still be alive.”
    “I guess,” I said thoughtfully. Perhaps my dad was right. Okay, so I had had a couple of whiskeys, but I wasn’t drunk. I could hold my liquor – most of my teenage years had been spent in a drunken blur. I knew when I was drunk, and I hadn’t been yesterday.
    “I’ll get the paperwork over to Inspector Skrimshire today so he can contact the coroner,” my father explained.
    “Coroner?” I gasped. “Will there be an investigation?”
    “Calm down,” he hushed. “I’m doing the investigation. I’ll hand everything over to Skrimshire and he’ll pass it onto the cor oner’s office. There’s always an inquest into these things. The coroner will simply want to