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Torchlight Dance

Harrison Linklater Abbott

    I stopped drinking and my mood and energy livened a great deal. Most things got better for me. But I was unable to sleep at night. Almost every night I’d lie awake for hours, unable to stop thinking. So long had I used alcohol as a sedative before sleep, what was left was a restless consciousness.
    It got so bad that I took to walking at night. I was lucky to live in an area surrounded by woods and parks. I started going out in the a.m. hours. There was a lush adrenaline to exploring in the dark. It felt other-worldly, an escape from civilisation.
    There was a trail by the river which I became fond of. I went off the main path and followed the bankside. Which was bumpy and a proper trek. And I liked the roving presence of the water.
    One night I was walking along, when suddenly this light sprang on downstream. It was so unexpected that I flinched and crouched down. Somebody else was in the woods with me.
    The light came from a phone or a torchlight. A person was standing on the bridge over the river, maybe fifty yards off. It was a man – I could only see his body. And something that he was holding. A bag.
    The man threw the bag into the river. Then he turned the torch off and he vanished. I remained on my knees. In the gloom I could see the bag float down the river. Its shape tingled past me and sailed beyond view.
    I waited for some while, in case the torch should shine again. Then hurried home. I’ll admit that I enjoyed the spookiness of the incident. I wanted to get back in the woods again the next night.
    And I did so. I put on some extra clothing and set out. Hours went by as I crept across the woods, making the same circuit back and forth. My feet clamped up with cold and my nose numbed. I began to think nothing else was going to happen.
    Until there was a burst of birds in the trees behind me. I spun around. There was the light again. A lot closer to me this time. I swore and hid in some bushes. Then watched the torchlight dance through the twigs. The man was carrying another bag.
    I let him get a safe distance away and then I followed. He went down the valley towards the river and then the trail which led to the bridge. I had an idea: if I waited down the river maybe I could catch it somehow? I wanted to see what was inside.
    So I diverged from the trail and ran farther down the valley. Then perched on the riverbank. I saw his light reach the bridge. Same thing happened: he tossed the bag in and then disappeared. I locked-on to the bag.
    Had to improvise ... I looked around me. There was a long stick nearby. I picked it up. The bag paced towards me, closer and closer. I leaned out with the stick. I touched the bag and it ducked under the stick and flumed on. I hopped up and lunged a second time: it skewered the bag and I had a hold of it! I drew it up to the land.
    It was a bin bag. I pulled the stick out of the plastic. Now that I’d caught it, I wasn’t sure whether I should be doing this. Had I climbed too far into a mystery? Should I kick the bag back in the river and pretend nothing had happened? I hesitated for a long while, and curiosity eventually won.
    I shone my torch. Then pulled the plastic apart at the top and looked inside.
    Colourful clothes. Little clothes. Looked like they belonged to a child. A girl. There was a skirt with mud on it. Pants and socks.
    I swallowed. Then turned the torch off and backed away from the bag. What an idiot I was. My immediate decision was to get out of the woods fast and go home.
    Leaving the bag where it was, I picked my way up the valley, aiming for the quickest route away.
    I heard a brief flutter of noise ahead of me in the trees and I stopped. There came a scuffling in the bushes, followed by a dense silence. Then a light pinged on in front of me.
    It was him, holding his torch.
    I screamed and ran. My shriek echoed out across the forest. The man chased me. His torchlight knifed across the floor. And the flashing changes made it difficult to dodge the tree trunks. I narrowly missed running into a bough head-first, lost balance, and then the man jumped from behind.
    He toppled me over and we landed clumsily, him on top of me and then he rolled off to the side. I got up and kicked out at his arm. His torch flew out his hand into the bushes. He punched me in the cheek. I kicked him between the legs and he buckled over.
    Then got up from him and kicked him in the head. He was wearing a hooded top, with the hood up, and I couldn’t see his face. He was floored. I took my chance and bolted.
    I ran and ran, charged with terror, until I left the woods and came out in a panting wreck into the streets. I got back to the house. Sat in the kitchen and waited for my mind to calm down.
    I thought about calling the police. But what on earth would I tell them? They would want to know why I was in the woods at night. I hoped that if I just left it then it might go away. I felt like a criminal myself and that the best option was to leave it.
    This all happened on a Sunday morning, meaning I had the rest of the day to brood about it and was back at work on the Monday. I did not sleep at all throughout this period. And it made work hideous. I got into the lunch canteen at noon, feeling like I was going to die.
    I thought some food might help. And I sat down and ate my sandwich. Then I heard some of the colleagues speaking at the next table. One of them was reading the newspaper.
    “Did you hear about that girl that went missing?”
    “Yeah. From Gilmerton, right? Have they found her yet?”
    “No. She’s been gone five days now. It’s not looking good.”
    A weight settled in my throat and I couldn’t eat my sandwich. I wanted to leave the canteen and throw up in the toilet, but that would be too suspicious. Now I expected exposure. I had done something mad and unforgiveable. And for the rest of the shift I sweated and stayed silent.
    Gilmerton was where I lived: I’d found that girl’s clothes in Gilmerton woods. Were my fingerprints left on that bin bag? Would the police find it?
    Tuesday gruelled by after another night of no sleep. I saw the story about the girl on the TV. It was on the radio too. On Wednesday night I started drinking again just so I could get to sleep.
    And the habit came back. I drank heavily each night and slugged through the hangover at work. This process lasted weeks. During the shifts I constantly imagined the police coming into the office and handcuffing me.
    But a month passed and then another, and the girl was never found. The media seemed to lose interest. She was forgotten.
    At the end of the year I was hospitalised with kidney issues. The doctors told me I needed to go to rehab if I wanted to survive. I stopped drinking completely after that.
    And now I’m left alone with insomnia. The guilt drives it. It’s been years since this all happened. The shame over my cowardice in the woods that night keeps me up. It’s my punishment. I deserve it.’

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