So, then: Reasonably recently, a hale and healthy sixty-three-year-old man named Martin Hudson lived alone in a medium-sized house in a rural area, until a very bad man came out of the woods and killed him.
It happened pretty much the way you’d expect.
The dripping was starting to drive him crazy when he heard someone out front. The lights were on, so visitors would know to knock at the door. But nobody did, or rang the bell either. He glanced at the clock. It was just growing dark. Give it a minute, he decided. Give it two. He hovered on the kitchen threshold, while that damn tap kept dripping: splat splat splat.
Nothing. He must have been mistaken.
And then came the banging on the back door: a banging like whoever was out there was being chased by wolves.
“I can see you,” a voice called.
Well, that made sense: There was a window by the back door.
“I don’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that I could really use some help.”
It was a young man’s voice. He didn’t fear the young, but didn’t relish company just now. “Who are you?” he called.
“Name’s Holt, sir. Ian Holt. I’ve broken down a little way up the road.” There was a pause. “Well, quite a long way, actually. I kind of got lost in the woods.”
“And then came creeping round my house.”
“I knocked on the front door. I guess you didn’t hear me.” While he was speaking, the man tried the handle, and the door wasn’t locked. He stepped into Martin Hudson’s kitchen. “Hello.”
“I don’t remember asking you in.”
The stranger said, “I don’t mean to scare you.”
“What makes you think you’re scaring me?”
“You’ve got kind of a defensive body posture going on.”
“Who are you? And what do you want?”
“Name’s Ian Holt. Didn’t I just say? I broke down. Well, not so much broke. Ran out of petrol’s the plain and simple truth.” He put his hands up in front of his chest, as if surrendering. “I know, I know. Stupid move, tell me about it.”
He was youngish: thirty or thereabouts. Wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt; an ill-fitting black jacket over the top. And he had a gash on his left cheek, which looked fresh and pretty wide.
“What happened to your face?”
Holt raised a hand to his cheek. “Is it bleeding bad?”
“Not so much. But it’s quite a scratch. What did you do, run into a cat?”
“Ran into a branch. Cutting through the wood.” He shook his head. “It looked like a shortcut. Didn’t realise it would be so dark.”
“You want to be careful, taking shortcuts. Things can get pretty treacherous.”
“I won’t do it again in a hurry, I can tell you.” Holt looked around: took in the kitchen, and what looked like a warm sitting room through the doorway. “I didn’t catch your name, sir?”
He said, “Hudson. Martin Hudson.”
“Nice place you got here, Martin.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Holt? Now that you’ve invited yourself in.”
“I’m sorry about that, but it’s cold outside. I wouldn’t normally... Look, could you tell me where the nearest garage is?”
“Didn’t you see the sign?”
“Sign? I must have missed it.”
“Really? You can’t have been paying attention. No wonder you walk into branches. It’s not far, Mr. Holt. The garage. Just follow the main road.”
“Great. Only thing is, you wouldn’t have a canister I could borrow at all? A plastic jug or something? To carry petrol in?”
Martin said nothing.
“I hate to be a nuisance. But I’ve been on the road for a few days, I’m within spitting distance of home, and you’d be doing me a huge favour if you were to lend me a jug and set me on the way to the garage.”
“They can probably let you have one at the garage.”
“Not always. I’ve been caught like that before.”
After a moment or two, the older man said, “You’d better step on through to the sitting room. I’ll sort one out for you.”
“That’d be kind. Like I said, it’s cold out there.”
Holt walked through to the inner room, where there was still a fire burning. He made straight for it; stood toasting his hands at its flame, admiring the postcards and candlesticks lined up on the mantelpiece.
“Very nice place you’ve got,” he said again.
“I won’t be a moment.”
Martin disappeared back into the kitchen. Holt heard him opening cupboards, looking for the large plastic jug that was bound to be around somewhere.
Holt had been truthfuclass="underline" It was a nice place; a nice room. Books on shelves; a sound centre in one corner. TV on an elevated table; sofa placed just right for an evening’s viewing. There was something slightly off-key, though — a tapping, was it? Like the branch of a nearby tree, rattling at a window.
The older man returned from the kitchen. “Where did you say you were driving from?”
“Don’t think I did,” Holt said. He’d picked up a pebble from a little bowl of them on the mantel. It was smooth and pink and speckled, like a candy-coated chocolate egg. He put it down again. “But I was in Westerton this morning. On business.”
“What kind?”
“I’m a salesman.” He nodded at the jug in the older man’s hand. “That’s it? Great. Thank you.”
“I’ll let you out, then.”
But Holt didn’t move towards the door. He put one hand to his wounded cheek, then lowered it. “The thing is,” he said at last, “I don’t have any money.”
“You don’t have any money.”
“I lost my wallet.”
“When?”
“Well, if I knew that, it wouldn’t be lost. But somewhere between here and the car would be my guess.”
“Maybe it’s in your car. Or next to it. Maybe it slipped out of your pocket when you were getting out.”
“No, I had it then. I always check, you know? Kind of a nervous habit.”
“So you’ve lost it since.”
“Must have been when I walked into that tree.”
“You said a branch.”
“Branch, whatever. It comes snapping back into your face like that, it feels like the whole damn tree, you know? Anyway, that must’ve been when I dropped it. Jesus, and it’s got all my plastic in it and everything.”
“That’s very awkward for you.”
“You’re telling me. ’Course, look on the bright side, I’ll have time to cancel them before anyone finds it. ‘Less you’ve got larcenous foxes out there or something.”
“They steal from bins. I don’t think they’ve raised their game to credit-card fraud.”
Holt threw his head back and laughed, a little too hard, a little too loud. The older man smiled. He knew his pleasantry hadn’t deserved this response. “So,” Holt said when he’d finished. “I guess you can probably imagine what I’m about to ask.”
“You’re wondering if I can let you have some money.”
“It’d be real Samaritan stuff, you know? Straight out of the Good Book.”
“Except the Samaritan was the one who was passing, wasn’t he?”