The Driver

I suppose it all started a couple years ago, around the beginning of August. It seems like a long time ago, when I discuss the matter with my husband, Dennis. Back then I wasn’t married, and I was very lonely. I recall early in the morning, finding the first of the letters slid carefully and precisely halfway through my front door letter box. Unlike the usual postie who fires my envelopes through the plate like a change-bearing child at the pier, this delivery was conducted with tenderness.

 

The kettle had just started boiling, and my tongue could already taste the Earl Grey tea soon to be. I swiped the brown envelope and flicked it upon the kitchen table, giving the face a quick scan. It was addressed to me, of course. The hot water had begun to spit inside the whistling kettle. Amy, my displeased Border Collie had promptly left the room to escape the piercing shrill. I felt bad. Afterall, she was the only friend and family that I had. After brewing the tea, I couldn’t resist any longer. Tearing the top section, I removed and read the contents.

 

Dear Madam,

 

I am not sure how to write this letter, but I will give it a try. Earlier this year, your son and his girlfriend were tragically killed in a hit and run incident. They never found the driver, nor any footage due to the secluded area that this occurred. I have followed all the articles in the papers since that day, and slowly watched as the case was dropped. It has been months now; I cannot begin to imagine how you feel. I am writing this letter to finally tell you that I am the driver who murdered those two teenagers. I hope you take some reassurance in knowing that I have been unable to live with myself since, and I do not know how much longer I can carry on running from what I have done.

 

I will not disclose my name, yet. I need to figure out whether I am going to take my own life or not.

 

I am so, so sorry. Deeply. I am sorry for taking your son away from you.

 

 

That was it. That’s all it said. Silent was the room, and the birds and everything. I didn’t know whether to cry or be sick. A few moments passed and I collected myself.

 

I’m done crying.

 

I thought. The police could fingerprint this, surely. I typed the whole thing out on my phone first, so I always had the confession on hand. I then wore a latex glove from under the kitchen sink and dropped the letter into a sandwich bag. Visits to the constabulary were somewhat frequent in the past, and I felt like that had to continue again. I handed it over to a young sergeant who remembers the incident well.

 

“It’s about time,” he says. “We’ll get forensics to check this out, see if anything comes back.”

 

It’s a small-sized community that I live in, and people tend to be acquainted with each other. I mostly kept to myself. People treat you differently when tragedy is amidst, they try to avoid the landmines that surround them when they speak to you. Wordless and awkward. All you want is for life to carry on, and for everyone else to carry on. You do, but they don’t. You’re permanently wounded, and they won’t let you forget it. To my face, my name is Fern. To my back, I’m known as ‘The Woman Whose Son Has Died.’ That won’t ever change. Weeks go by, and I heard nothing from the police. I almost had closure, almost. Soon enough, I forgot about the whole ordeal. I knew the evidence would yield nothing; I was just trying to keep the case alive.

 

It was now September, and I remember the weather being strangely hot. I woke a little earlier to take Amy out for a walk before the sun was at its peak. In the door, once again, another brown envelope. I knew straight away it was from The Driver. Wrenching it from the door, I opened it there and then.

 

Dear Madam,

 

I was not going to deliver another letter, but I feel compelled to right my wrongs before I go. I am unable to repair the damage I have caused. What I can do, however, is explain what happened that night. I can share with you the reasoning for my behaviour and how it ruined our lives.

 

When I was younger, I met a beautiful woman named Rose. Have you ever had a friend whose personality mirrored your own? One who laughed and cried with you through life and its tribulations? That friend was Rose. Things were rather simple at first, but I quickly fell in love with her, and she fell for me.

 

We moved in together, just outside of your town. Things were perfect for just over a year, and life seemed to be complete. Eventually, Rose became quite ill. She had spent some nights in hospital, and it became evident that whatever she had was getting worse. After a biopsy, they discovered cancer.

 

I remained strong for her, and she did not change in any way. Her body was giving up on her, but her spirit kept strong. Past my positivity and care, I was falling apart. She said I would be okay, and I would carry on living a happy life.

 

I did not.

 

Rose wore this one face, raising her upper lip when she smiled, showing off the top row of teeth. The complexion of her face would match her name, and it would render you completely defenceless. After the hospital found that Rose was pregnant during a scan, they terminated our first and only child. I never saw that face ever again.

 

 

Another letter and a lot more questions. I became so enraged; I smashed the fruit bowl on the floor. Amy made off with a banana and I had to chase her down with tears in my eyes. The sheer gall of this person, writing and delivering their sob story and making it about them. I didn’t bother bagging it up for the coppers - I immediately scrunched it up and binned it. That’s when I was struck with a thought. They said about delivering the letters. That means they’re coming directly to the house.

 

 My anger faded into fear, realising that the killer not only knows where I live, but has been visiting my house. Are they entering my property when I’m out? Are they posting mail through the door when I sleep?

 

After work the next day, I drove to a tech shop and bought myself a camera for outside the front door. I didn’t want to set up a doorbell camera as that would most likely deter them. I set the device up behind an empty plant pot next to the flower bed, facing up to shoulder level. It was a 0.5x wide lens, and when I checked the app, most of the driveway was in view. There was no possibility of being unable to catch The Driver.

 

 Time went by, as it does, sailing into October. Halloween was always a highlight in the year, and almost topped Christmas. My Son was obsessed with zombies when he was younger. I helped him cut up some clothes and spray them with fake blood every year when he went out trick or treating. I even painted his face, etching round his head and cheekbones. He inherited his heavy brow ridge from his late father, and the hazel eyes. Most of his outfits are still up in the loft, somewhere. I tried to hide his things, with an ideology that it could help me move on. This seemed to make it worse, so I kept it all. I missed him. God, I missed them both. What I would have done to bring them back.

 

One weekend, the rain came down so heavy in the early hours that the planters outside overflowed, spilling sopping soil across the paving. Either that, or the raindrops had fallen like pebbles. I returned to the door, only to find a soggy brown envelope drooping out of the box. I pulled the paper back out the way it was pushed in, lightly shook off the excess water and opened it up. Some of the words were diluted, but it was still readable.

 

Dear Madam,

 

I regret to think that my infrequent mailing disturbs you, I apologise once again if it does. I visited the police station this morning, their hands seem idle. I suppose there is minimal crime in this area, with exceptions to the local youth and their shenanigans. I wish the officers who worked our case could have tried a touch harder. Maybe I would already be behind bars? I should be.

 

The once vibrant wife of mine deteriorated until she passed away not long after the baby. I stopped going to work, stopped eating, and starting drinking again. From the moment I woke up until the sorry state of sleeping in my own sick, I drank all the while.

 

One night, it was pitch-black outside, and I had just finished off a bottle of scotch. The television was on, and I was watching one of those God-awful soaps. The screen flashed a shade of colour which caught a photograph of Rose on the shelf display. I was entranced by the fact that this woman does not exist anymore. Not on this planet, not anywhere. I still tragically yearn for that carbon-based lifeform whose dust has returned to the dirt from which it came. I felt utterly pathetic. It was that moment I decided to go for a drive to clear her from my mind once again.

 

I peeled out of my road and drove the back route where I knew it would be quiet. Not only was I drunk, but I could barely see through the tears in my eyes. I drove faster and faster. Turning the corner past Becker’s Farm to see two people walking my direction. I couldn’t slow down in time. Their eyes wide with shock. The expressions on their faces were the most terrifying thing a person could see. Twisted in the moment of the realisation of death.

 

I left the area for a while, got my van repaired and came back home to carry on as if nothing happened. My plan failed, and I was never the same man. Rose wanted me to be happy, it was her dying wish. No one could ever be happy after causing such damage.

 

I’ve lost everything, I have no one.

 

 

Something changed within me after reading that third letter. A feeling that I didn’t know I could possess anymore. I felt empathy. Radiating warmth surrounding this subtle relief that I wasn’t the only one who lost. I needed to find out who this person really was. As I really did feel for them, disgracefully.

 

As I returned outside to sweep up the wet soil, I notice the camera. Finally, I could check the footage and catch the culprit in action. I took my phone from the kitchen counter and opened the app for the device. Luckily, the memory card overwrites older footage when it maxes out, so I had the complete recording of the night before.

 

On the seventh of October at three twenty-nine in the morning, the footage showed a man wearing a black coat and blue jeans walking up to my front door. The rain had blurred the camera that I had positioned facing upward, so I was unable to clearly see his face. As expected, he removed an envelope from one of his coat pockets. He wore winter gloves of some kind, and that was probably why the constabulary couldn’t pull any prints. He deposited the piece, then left. Behind his figure was the vehicle he drove in. A white Ford Transit, with the name ‘Smooth Path Driveway Repair’ written across the side panel. Busted. I could now find exactly who he is.

 

I opened the web browser on my phone and jabbed the company name into the search bar, deleting discrepancies a few times as I rush. Finding their website, along with customer testimonials, there was one person I knew. Carol. I had bumped into her a few times when I walked Amy, and we’d became good friends. I dropped her a text, asking her if she knew any local driveway companies. Lo and behold, she provided the company title I saw on the van and the full name of The Driver. After a little search on the directory, I found out where he lived too.

 

I thought about showing the footage to the police, as futile as that may be, at least this person wouldn’t be a threat to themselves or others anymore. I quickly dropped the idea and picked up a pen instead. Deciding to write a letter of my own, I carefully crafted one as if it were from The Driver themselves.

 

Dear Driver

 

I have received three of your letters so far, and it brings me great disappointment to know that you are still a free man. My Son and his girlfriend were only fifteen years old at the time of their murder. Fifteen years of age. It seems you have and are still suffering the consequences of your crime.

 

By your reception of my letter, it should now be obvious to you that I know who you are and where you live. That means your freedom is in my hands.

 

You have two options:

 

1.      Give yourself up to the police.

2.      End your own life.

 

I folded the letter in half, inserted it in an envelope from the recycle bin and sealed the whole thing with glue. I stayed up late, watching sitcoms from the nineties. Amy really wanted me to go up to bed, but I stayed on the sofa. Every now and then, I checked the clock.

 

One fifty-six

Two forty-eight

Three thirteen

 

It was time to make my delivery. I drove a short way out of town, it was dead quiet on the road apart from some scatty foxes and hares. I did see some young adults walking along the kerb on the other side of the road, a man, and a woman. I arrived at The Driver’s property; I didn’t think I’d be this nervous. I shakily climbed out of my car and shuffled up the perfectly paved driveway. As I moved closer, I was startled by a motion-detecting light which revealed my presence. I panicked and I threw myself into a nearby bush, cutting up my arms a little.

 

The front door slowly drifted open, a hand holding the inside handle. I looked up to see a head peering around the doorframe. The light from the hallway had spread across his face, which looked to be rather red, especially around the eyes.

 

“Is anyone there?” He sobbed. “Hello?”

 

I still don’t know to this day what I was thinking, but I stood up.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“I thought you’d recognise me.” I whimpered “You’ve seen my face in the paper quite a lot.”

 

Then, it hit him all at once. Me, standing in his bush in the early hours of the morning. He almost fell back, though grabbing the outside of the doorframe saved him.

 

“F-Fern…”

 

This grown man, weakened like a lost child, burst into tears right in front of me. That feeling I felt, empathy, wasn’t it? I had that all over again. Swirling around like a slush machine. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know what to say. So, I did the one thing that I needed all these years and never ever got. I walked up to the door, looked him in the eyes and I embraced him. I thought of my Husband, and I thought of my Son. In a breath, I let them both go.

 

We cried for what seemed like an hour, until we both had nothing left to give. He invited me inside and we talked until the sun came up. Turns out, we had a lot more in common than I thought we would. He tended to my bleeding arms and patched me up. His house wasn’t too dissimilar to mine. He also had a little Terrier, who in fact, was the only thing left keeping him alive. He is such a lovely man, I’m so glad I met Dennis.

 

We moved in together and got married not too long after that. We let our past remain in the past and learned to love again.

 

I recently found the letter I wrote all that time ago in my jacket pocket. I read it through, once, and laughed. It carried so much hatred, so much sadness and confusion. I couldn’t remember who wrote it. I held a lighter up to the paper, burning it away. Just like the ones I loved before, I let it go. I will never let the past define me, for who I am now is no longer the person I was before.