The pitch-black night sky highlighted the Southern Cross Constellation. John drove with great care toward the darkness cast as a backdrop. Only a few scattered stars, subtle and illuminated, showed the way. They looked like a few white fluorescent paint splatters on black canvas.
John was travelling alone in the middle of the night. He anticipated the rest he was going to take once he parked his van in safety. He needed to veer off the rural road he had driven down. Weariness felt like a weighted blanket as fatigue set in. A public rest area came into focus near a tourist viewing point. John slowed down, stopped, then stepped out to take solace in the back of his vehicle. The distant melody of flowing waters caressed the dead still night. Their rhythm had a soothing, yet drowsy effect on the jaded sojourner, desperate to sleep. With thoughts raging, John’s pricked conscience gave him some feedback.
“Can you believe that the only mother you’ve ever known and loved! waits until she is on her deathbed to confess that you are adopted? Oh, but she raised you and loved you as if you were her own flesh and blood. Some great consolation prize. Nine months of love-hate since she’s been gone; Aargh!
And there’s the doppelgänger. For all you know, he could be your identical twin. How nuts is that? You’ve always had tendencies to err on the wrong side of the law. Stalking him for six months.
Jealous much?
You seized the chance to get inside Daniel’s world. You know it’s the grief right? Buying his van. But it’s not about the van, is it?
You wanted something of Daniel’s. Be like Daniel. Become Daniel. Replace Daniel.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I’m done. Bloody shuuuut uuuup.”
John reminds himself that McLaren’s Falls was a favourite childhood memory. His mother took him to visit every Summer. He had only been there in the daytime though.
John exhaled a few long breaths. On a rug of gradual calm, John settled down. He made himself comfortable enough to lie with his tired flesh-encased bones.
Secure, entombed in the four-wheeled coffin, droopy eyelids faded to black….
***
Peter and Shelley Fletcher were freedom camping in the same area near McLaren’s Falls. They had parked in close proximity to John’s van. The tail lights had flared red rays into their campervan, stirring them from sleep. In the still blackness of the late evening, silence broke. Sudden booms of crashing, grinding metal battling nature. In an instant, startled, Shelley and Pete were wide awake. They scrambled for the door to see what the commotion was at such a late hour.
Constable Anderson was on duty when he received the emergency call-out. He drove to the area where the witnesses reported the accident. Constable Wayne Anderson introduced himself and then wrote the statement of their account.
“So, let me refer to my notes. You were both freedom camping when you heard cracking branches that woke you?”
“Yes Officer,” said Shelley.
“Pete and I saw a van rolling over the edge of the lookout. We yelled out, but we were too late.”
Wayne, torch in hand, walked over to the tourist viewing point. He got a glimpse of what was either going to be a rescue or a recovery mission. He alerted emergency services to the site.
“The occupant in a white Toyota mini van has gone over the… (delayed pauses from the sporadic area coverage)… freedom camping on the old, rural back road near McLaren’s Falls… (static) not by the….”
***
The van, winched and hauled up the side of the gully. By careful increments, a metre at a time. The huge loader used, has felled logs from the local forestry businesses in the same area as the Falls.
The mini van wreckage, retrieved with slow, quiet ease.
***
The trance-like state of John’s liminal space took a minute to jolt from a deep sleep. Then transitioned awake. He heard yelling, screaming, and branches crackling like the sound of lightning bolts. A sudden halt jammed John behind the driver’s seat, suspending him in mid-air, landing vertical.
“Where the bloody hell am I? Where’s my phone?”
John remembered he’s the only one sleeping in the back of Tessa. She was his tried-and-true, new Toyota. Groping in the dark for his mobile, John phoned emergency services, 111. He’s relieved to hear the voice asking what his emergency was. John, gripped with fear, still felt drunk-like from sleep deprivation.
“Hi,” John said in a nervous tone.
“I’m trapped in my white Toyota mini van, plate ZSH313. I’m at McLaren’s Falls. I fell asleep…
I’m trapped.
My vehicle has plunged down a gully.”
John panicked. Tessa torpedoed downward. Whiplashed branches gave way to the forced pressure of her metal girth crushing them. Buried alive, wounded nature cast, underneath her chassis. In that moment, John’s fate to enter the wrong side of eternity prompted him to press record on his phone.
“I’m John and I’m about to die. I’ve really messed up this time.
I’m a lost soul.
It’s too late. I can’t change anything now.
It’s too late…”.
Paramedics and an ambulance had arrived within forty minutes of the emergency call. Experts and specialists rallied to gauge critical responses at the crash site. They investigated the interior of the wreckage.
The gruesome find was unfortunate indeed. A recovery, not a rescue.
***
Lovers engaged in park ups at the Falls, also known as Lovers Point. Soon, a small crowd gathered. Social media buzzed to the breaking news of the crash nearby. Whether fatal or a survival, the verdict was unknown to the viewers at this juncture.
Privacy was a priority as law enforcement and the rescue team met. Their strategy for safe retrieval in seclusion. Even strangers can be mistaken for next of kin by people invested in the drama. The trauma. And placing themselves in the tragic setting for their own purposes. Where are the personal boundaries and decent human respect? Ignored when the hype fuels the adrenaline rush.
“Who’s the John Doe?”
Chinese whispers echo through the crowd. The stillness now replaced by the hustle-bustle of rubber-neckers.
***
Constable Wayne:
Informed that the handbrake was off and the likely cause of the fatality.
The scene cleared for his inner detective to gather evidence, find clues, connect the dots.
The deceased checked for identification. No wallet.
Wayne phoned the 111 call centre for insight into the recording left by John Doe. He found the phone, and it was still on record.
An obvious place to look for answers was the glove compartment. It did not disappoint.
“Who is this John Doe?”
Wayne replied his supervisor with the same baffled train of thought.
“Exactly! Who IS this unknown stranger?
Anderson asked himself this question many times. All throughout his fifteen year tenure in the police force. Thoughts and memories of familar strangers. Wayne went on to tell his boss,
“What are the chances this guy is a John? And now he’s our latest John Doe. A somebody, and a nobody, at the same time.”
Only DNA at this point would expose the truth…
Constable Anderson found two fake driver licenses. Photos of his look-alike, and the van ownership papers still in the name of the previous owner. Daniel Bremerton. Invited to meet with him at the police station. for two reasons: Daniel owned the wreckage. And to expose the stalky vibes from the posthumous John Doe, identity thief.
***
Daniel and Wayne met at the police station fourteen hours after the midnight ordeal. Forensics had released photos of John Doe, now on file with Wayne. The forged driver’s licences. John had stashed them, intended for his eyes only; Surname: Doe, First Name: John… The licence photo was a likeness to Daniel at a careful, focussed glance.
Daniel states,
“I’m astounded that such creepy shit has been right in my face without me knowing. Not a clue. Theres no way I could have had this psycho as a relation. This went on for six months? And he bought my van? Faked my license. To become me? Talk about stranger danger. This is way too sinister. Tessa, the Toyota? Seriously? What a joke. Tessa did not deserve this. And now I have to sort this wreck? I’m a wreck!”
Constable Anderson answered,
“I’m astounded that a real life familiar stranger and a doppelgänger is standing right in front of me. I can’t believe a guy would deliberately fake his ID by calling himself John Doe, and end up being a John Doe.”
Wayne continued.
“It’s A lot to process. I don’t know if I will ever get used to identifying the someones who are the no ones, and being toe tagged John Doe or Jane Doe.
The call out to the old, rural back road leading to McLaren’s Falls had me thinking. How still and dark the night was.”
Almost haunting.
And the pitch-black night sky highlighted the Southern Cross Constellation.