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Inkerman Writers - Richard Nicholson
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Prologue to Richard Nicholsons Crime fiction Novel - The Poisoned Well
It was misty that late November morning and he was half way across the car park
before he could see the garages loom up in front of him. The imperious school
buildings always made him feel he’d no business to be there- even though he was on the payroll. Mike Carter was an outsider even before the events of that day unfolded and on
such a morning his sense of alienation was sharp. The privileged boarders and their teachers lay cocooned in their complacent,
ancient building. He was outside shrouded in fog trying to find his way. He never set foot inside the building nor did he wish to though if he’d been welcomed from the beginning it might have been different.
He was slightly hung over but he’d been much worse.
The sound of rooks squabbling in the unseen branches of the high elms but
otherwise scarcely a sound.
Until the clock struck six times.
Mike backed the bus out and turned it round in the car park. He switched on the fog lights to test how far they penetrated the gloom, and
then switched back to headlights only, back and forth trying to decide which
was best. He felt a burden of responsibility trying to decide whether to take the bus out
or not (the same when black ice was on the road) and considered seeking another
opinion; he would have to rouse the Bursar and he didn’t think Major Scott would take kindly to being disturbed so early.
There was a chance the mist would clear by the time he picked up passengers. On some of these mornings the sun was peering through by seven fifteen when he
set off from Allerton high street with pupils on board. However it could go the other way. Mist often lingered in this river valley, clinging stubbornly to its meandering
course, in summer the mist could seem like a ribbon of white silk; now it was
grey and heavy as if a huge rain cloud had dropped to earth to envelop and
saturate everything; it had a smell and a taste of its own, foul and
infectious, and it made Mike want to spit to clear his mouth.
Driving wasn’t easy. The fog was patchy; in places lifting enough to allow Mike to see the frosted
verges and a few metres of tarmac, then, just as suddenly, he was slowing down
and fumbling forward again. Mike was sitting on the edge of his seat, straining his eyes, trying his best to
concentrate, windscreen wipers and de-mister full on. As he inched forward, he was still flicking from foglights to dipped headlights
and back again uncertain which gave him the best vision.
He reached the county town unscathed but very late. Some of the pupils had melted away no doubt to tell their parents the bus didn’t show. There were about a dozen in a huddle, stamping their feet, examining their
watches, and generally indicating to Mike that they were very cold and fed up
with waiting. There were streetlights on in the town and the fog seemed less dense; a few
traders were beginning to erect their stalls for the mid-week market.
When he reached the country roads, visibility deteriorated again. Some of the kids urged him to turn back pointing out the morning would be over
by the time they reached Bylands. When Mike refused, the usual suspects started to kick off, throwing bags around
and running up and down the aisle. Mike was angry and scared because there was a strict rule that all passengers
should be sitting down with their seat belts on at all times. He’d been known to stop the bus and take names but they led him a merry dance
telling him they were Count Dracula or David Beckham.
The boys and girls were at once amused and scared by his fury; he had a
reputation as a bit of a head case.
He was still turning round to shout at them when the locomotive slammed into the
side of the bus. In that split second Mike knew he was on the level crossing. He’d felt a bump seconds before when he must have collided with the half barrier. The lights in the bus went out and they were plunged into darkness and deep
silence. And then the first screams reached his ears…
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