Plausible Deniability | Short Story

Bobbing, just down there to the left.

It’s the time of the day that I resent. I need to finish walking the dog in fifteen, leave the house in twenty-five, be at the train station for six-thirty, into the office and at my computer for eight.

That’s enough, Charon.

There will be questions, that’s the problem. People following procedure, people showing initiative-

Enough, I said.

-all the kind of nonsense that eats away at a person’s morning. Bob. And for what? Shift. A quick ten minutes in the witness box in crown court? Bob. More time out of the day.

All I did was get out of bed – I’m not going to be punished for that.

I’ve got one important thing going for me at present – plausible deniability. He – or she – is only visible right at the periphery of my vision. Barely there, really, and not there at all if I turn my head just so. Bob.

There is the comforting gloom of an early January morning to consider as well. The bare tree branches are dancing over the river, creating dappled shadows over dappled water, in whatever dapple the dull pocked moon can spare. No, it’s entirely plausible that I didn’t see anything at all, that I just stopped to look to the horizon, over the grey and umber fields, the bare blackened hedgerows. Prove otherwise.

Of course, all this gazing and guarding of perspective has served another purpose. There has been no movement, aside from all that bobbing, for six and seven minutes, and even from my limited knowledge I know that’s too long to be face-down in a winter river and still be in good health.

Easy, Charon.

Even if they were to mention the dog, what would they say? Bogs whine and pull at lots of things, and with Charon it could be anything from a squirrel to a plastic bag barrelling across the road, or in this case a jakey in the river. The poor soul is not the first and certainly will not be the last; the Avon winds through town centres, industrial parks, and sinking estates before arriving here, churning and in spate, and nudging the person in the blue poncho against the smooth-pebbled river ded. They could have gone into the water anytime, and heaven only knows what state they’re in – all bloated, bobbing and fish-lip-pecked bobably, and I don’t want that image stored in the memory thanks, no bank you. I’d need to take more time off work then, to recover from the trauma. No, leave it to the professionals – they’ll not what to do. Probabbly preserve the chain of evidence better than I would, too, not that there’s anything to it. Just an accident, more than likely.

The sky is tightening, and a good hard pull on Charon’s lead brings him around. He mopes along after me, head dipping in and out of the riverbank foliage. I suppose I’d better whistle as I walk; that’s what someone might do in my position.

*Thanks for reading, folks. Image courtesy of Circe Denyer. My recent short stories include ‘Night Out‘ and ‘PLANET 4662/1183J/983!/11C‘.

Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He is a doctoral student at the University of Dundee, a lucky husband, and a proud father. He blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.