The Return, a short story by R.C. Morgan at Spillwords.com

The Return

written by: R.C. Morgan

The river level drops. On the mudflats, a skull peers out from a torn black plastic bag. Along further, a silver badge sparkles in the sunlight. My nightmare has returned to the surface.
Perched in the branches of a river red gum, a crow views the feast with hungry eyes.
In winter, food is scarce.
I watch. I wonder will the bones identify the killer as the badge identifies the bones.
I stand on the lawn with other bystanders. Around us, men in suits, others in overalls, mud covers their boots. The crime scene process begins. They set up camp, a tent, and carefully remove from the riverbed what remains.
They show respect to the dead. Where in life he showed none.
A flash of anger burns bright.
I bury my hands in deep pockets. The leather jacket I wear is little protection against the icy wind blowing off the water. I shiver. Again, the memory floods back. Again, I feel fear. Again, I am alone.
She was my friend. I heard her beg. I saw him choose. I watched her die, his face bright under the streetlight. A man with a badge sworn to protect the innocent. A man gone bad.
I have told the police what I know.
For that, he will kill me too.
It is night. I head home.
He appears from the gloom.
It is an ambush.
Light reflects on the blade of the knife he carries. His fingers tighten on the hilt. His laughter chills the summer air. It is full of relish for what is to come. My muscles tremble. A warm stream of liquid runs down my leg to fill my shoe.
I do not beg.
My mouth is dry, my heart pounds. I cannot move.
From behind him, a sound. A voice. ‘Drop it. Freeze,’ the order. No need to shout. The words carry authority. He obeys.
I shut my eyes. Two men argue. Shouts, anger, disbelief – betrayal. A decision made.
A bright flash burns through my lids. The sound of a shot. I am deafened.
He melts. A shapeless heap in a pool of red. The arrogance fades from his open eyes.
I remember the blood.
I remember the smell.
‘Go home,’ my knight in shining armour tells me. He has no need to warn me to choose silence.
I do not look at his face. I walk away without turning back.
I cannot stop shaking.
I slump, lean against a tree, and sob. I hear a splash, then another.
When calm returns, I do as instructed.
Summer has gone.
Autumn too.
The river level drops.
Sandbanks and mudflats appear.
I watch the weir removed for repair. I walk the path, the riverbank.
I stand on the lawn. A spectator at his re-emergence.
I hear a voice. It is familiar.
My saviour.
Our eyes meet. On this brief non-verbal exchange, lives hang.
In silence, safety.
In speech death.
I stop breathing.
Will I speak?
Will he?
‘We are safe. Go home.’ He says, turns, walks away.
The sun comes out.
The black cloud lifts.

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R.C. Morgan

I've been writing since childhood. I love short stories, and longer works. My preference is crime with a twist in the tail. My first collection of short stories - 'The Whitworth Mysteries' was published in 2021.