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Coincidence: it had to be. Fate. The Hand of God.

The sergeant, a religious man, took off his cap, standing there looking down at the pool of blood, dark on the roadway, where a man had died—run down by the man whose child the victim himself had run down a few weeks before.

‘The Hand of God,’ he said. ‘Some of us might call it Fate. I call it the Hand of God.’

The Other Granny—she was a fly old bird. Grannies come in different ages but this Granny had had a long family, with Bill Evans’ son-in-law at the tail end of it: she was
old
. They all met at Evans’ home on the day of the inquest and drank a quiet cup of tea to celebrate his exoneration from blame in the accident to Jellinks. An extraordinary coincidence, the coroner had said, echoing the sergeant’s words on that earlier night; but Fate, that was all you could call it, blind Fate.

And Fate was what they were calling it at home, over their cups of tea. ‘Everyone knows Bill gave his evidence honest and true, when he might have said a wrong word and got that villain what he deserved. Not that you could say anything else, love. We know that. You had to say it.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Bill.

‘Well, I don’t know that
I
could have done it,’ said young Tom. ‘Not stood there and let him off scot-free, when he’d surely have got a stretch for it. I got to respect you, Dad, honest.’ Unless, he added, with one of the few smiles he had smiled since his pretty young wife and their baby had died, his pa-in-law might have been saving it up—for this?

‘Don’t talk silly!’ said the old lady. ‘How could Bill know that Jellinks would be staggering about the road that hour of night? It wasn’t closing time, was it? And just as he happened to be driving by; all sorts of odd times he goes up to—well, we all know where he was going, poor old Bill, same as all of us goes. And that Jim What’s-his-name coming out with Sam, the exact right minute to see it happen. Fate it was, the Coringer said so, and he was right. Fate. Retribution, that’s the big word for it and just Fate that our Bill was the one to hand it out.’ And she got up and stretched her old bones and said if Bill would be a dear now and run her home—

‘I’ll take you, Mum, in the side-car.’

‘No, you won’t, Tom, thanks all the same. I’ll go with Bill. That side-car of yours—no, thanks! I’m a bit too fly for that.’

And a bit too fly for Police Constable Evans too. Sitting beside him, nice and comfortable in the car. ‘Well, it’s all over, Bill, my dear. And you’ll feel better, now it’s done.’

‘What’s done?’ said Bill, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

‘Like I said—retribution. What they’re all calling Fate. And let ’em,’ said the old lady. ‘Then everyone’s happy. That’s best.’

‘Fate and retribution—aren’t they the same thing?’

‘No, they’re not,’ she said. ‘And you know it. None better. Fate you can’t control, can you? Retribution you can.’

‘God helps them that helps theirselves,’ he said.

‘He wasn’t going slow, was he? Police after him or not, he drove like a demon, always did. Came blinding round that bend, didn’t he? And you’d have said so. But when it come out that it was his own car, not stolen, no
need
for him to be driving fast—well, then it was going to be his word against yours, and you her Dad and the baby’s Grandad. With a doubt like that in their minds they’d never have dished him out a long sentence, they couldn’t. And what was a few months to that one? In and out of prison like a jack-in-the-box, his home away from home. That wasn’t going to be any punishment, that wasn’t going to be enough. You were going to have to take it into your own hands.’

They had come to her gate; it wasn’t very far—Jenny had been walking it that evening, pushing her baby in the pram. ‘She never did run into the road, did she?—poor little love. In the push-chair, like some of them gave evidence, only they all contradicted one another. In the push-chair—why would her mum be walking her home, that time of night? He came round the corner, didn’t he, driving like a maniac, as always; took the bend too sharp and just—just mowed them down.’

Two tears trickled down her withered old cheeks; she made no attempt to wipe them away, they were welcome there. Her thin fingers, noded like bamboo, rested on Evans’ heavy hand gripping tightly now on the steering wheel.

‘You’re safe with me, Bill. Nobody else will know. But I
saw
her go off with the baby in the push-chair, didn’t I? So I realised. You’re not so green as you’re cabbage-looking, old Bill, are you?—and you thought quick and acted quick; and all I’m saying is, right or wrong, you’re safe with me.’

‘I made up my mind,’ he said. He had switched off the engine; the car stood, an oasis of warmth and privacy, at the little gate. ‘All in a minute I made up my mind and I never changed it again and I haven’t changed it now. I had to make him pay, and anyone who couldn’t understand that—they didn’t see my pretty ones die; they didn’t hear them die.’

‘He’s paid,’ she said. ‘With his life.’

‘And with every hour to the end of his life,’ said Bill. ‘You should have seen his face when I said he was driving slow. What’s he up to, he was thinking to himself, he knows I wasn’t driving slow. And then when I said about—about the baby running to meet me, running out into the road! She was in her pram, he knew she’d been in her pram, Jenny was wheeling her in the pram, right on the verge, on the grass. So why was I saying different, why was I saving his neck? He was frightened then. But what was he to say? I’d got him trapped, hadn’t I—he couldn’t contradict me. Whatever way he played it, I’d gotten him trapped.’

‘That’ll be why he took the drink so much?’

‘That’s right. I couldn’t know what way it would take him, I just had to wait and hope that the chance would come. I wouldn’t want to get copped for it; for myself, I didn’t care—you can understand that, old lady, can’t you?—but there was the missis, and your boy, too, I wouldn’t want more pain for him. But Jellinks started drinking hard and I knew that was going to be a help—night after night, drinking himself silly to shut out the fear of the threat—he knew some threat was there and there was nothing he could do about it. Short of confessing to perjury, short of admitting to have killed them through reckless driving, what was he to do?’

‘He might have done that in the end. Rather have gone to prison.’

‘Even Jellinks wouldn’t like the sort of sentence that would have got him, him having perjured himself and all. And it wasn’t the first accident he’d had and he hadn’t stopped for the last one. But like you say, he might do it—I had to go careful. So I watched him. Night after night—the missis thought I was out alone somewhere, brooding. Well, so I was; but I was watching him. Out by the pub, sitting quiet in my car, watching out of the darkness, under the trees. Till I knew exactly, as time went by, how long he’d last before they chucked him out. And then one night, when things were right, I’d cop him. And so I did.’

‘All planned?’

‘Like I said,’ he said. ‘And nothing left to chance.’

‘It was chance them two being there to witness it, Bill. You couldn’t judge what time they’d come out.’

‘I didn’t have to judge it,’ he said. ‘I arranged it.’

‘Now, come on, Bill!’

‘I’m the copper around here,’ he said, ‘aren’t I? I know what goes on. I know old Sam works night shifts—on duty ten o’clock. I know he calls in at The Pig on his way to work. I know what time he leaves to get to the job.’

‘You couldn’t know he’d have a stranger with him?’

‘
I
knew all right, don’t you worry. I arranged it.’

‘All right, old clever chops,’ she said with mock resignation. ‘You arranged for old Sam to come out of the pub just at the minute that Jellinks would reel out in front of your car, bringing a stranger with him for—what do they call it?’

‘Unbiased witness.’

‘You arranged it?’

‘This is my manor,’ he said again. ‘I know what goes on. I knew that Sam’s mate, Jamie, was off duty for a week—’

‘You arranged that too, I daresay?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Poor old Jamie—brought him in at last for poaching.’

‘Bill, you never!’

‘He had it coming to him. Lucky to get away with it for so long.’

‘Till you needed him.’

‘Till I
didn’t
need him on the night shift with Sam. They’d have to bring in a temporary. And like I say, I know. I knew he was being sent in from the other factory, I knew he was coming in by the eight forty, stopping outside The Pig. I knew Jim was meeting him there and having a pint with him before they went off to work. It was just a matter of waiting till the time coincided exactly, them following Jellinks out immediately. And that night it did, as I knew very soon it must. That wasn’t chance, Gran, that wasn’t luck. That was good judgment.’

‘Yes, good judgment.’ But wasn’t that for God, really? Was it for mere man to hand out judgment—to hold trial, to find guilty, to sentence, to execute? She said, following her own line of thought, ‘After all, Bill, this was not murder. He didn’t intend to kill them.’

‘He didn’t care whether he did or not,’ said Bill. ‘That was good enough for me.’

‘Well…’ she said doubtfully. ‘But you’re not God, are you, love? The Hand of God, they’re calling it.’ She mused over it. ‘The Hand of God. Mind you, I’ll say not another word about it, not even to you. But… wouldn’t some people say you should have left it, Bill? Just left it to Him, put your hand into the Hand of God?’

‘And so I did, my old dear,’ he said, leaning across to unwrap the warm rug from about her ancient legs and then lead her into the cottage. ‘So I did. But just to make certain, I gave it a bit of a tug.’

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN 978-1-4532-9049-1

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