Tobacco doesn't lie

Iris pushes the accelerator to its limit. She can't see a thing and she drives on a random chance over the bumpy road, straight through the forest. She bounces back and forth in her age-old Peugeot, the only thing she could take with her after her marriage ended. She won't be able to get rid of the smell of her ex smoking heavy tobacco in the car. But that doesn't matter. She's on her way to her parents' country house. She'll be staying there for the time being.

She turns the windscreen wipers up to maximum. Outside, it's storming and branches are flying against her car. She bounces on, as hard as she can. The image of the country house with the fireplace makes her warm inside.

Then the car stops moving. The wheels keep rolling a bit, but she doesn't get any further. For a moment she thinks she's waking up from a nightmare. But she doesn't wake up. She's not asleep.

She shouts a few curse words, followed by swearing. She hits the steering wheel hard and accidentally honks her horn. The sound is just as loud in the storm as the branches and leaves.

She curses again. But no one comes to her aid.

She grabs her cell phone from the passenger seat. No signal, and she gets out. A branch flies against the back of her head, which hurts viciously. She waves her hand, but the branch has long since disappeared.

Sick with pain, she sinks to her knees in a freezing mud puddle, ready to meet her lonely end here. She lifts her head for a final prayer. Then, through the swaying branches, she sees a light burning in the distance. With her last bit of strength, she straightens up and focuses on the light. “Not dead today,” she keeps repeating out loud in time with her footsteps, like a mantra. “Not dead today.”

After 20 minutes, she reaches the house. The door gives way. A rush of adrenaline stops her relief. Four meters in front of her sits Donald, her ex, his shotgun at the ready.

Her commando training has given her razor-sharp reflexes. She jumps to the side and hears the bullet whizzing through the doorway. Donald needs a second to cock his gun. She turns quickly and runs outside, around the house.

There is a pile of firewood under a lean-to. She slings a sturdy piece of wood onto the lean-to and climbs up herself with deft skill. At that moment Donald appears, his gun at the ready.

She jumps down and slams the piece of wood on top of Donald's head. She grabs his head and gives an expert yank. The dry crack of his neck makes her shiver. But she has no time to lose. She finds his car key in his trouser pocket, drags him to his Land Rover and, with her utmost effort, lashes him into the passenger seat. She closes the door of the house, throws the gun in the trunk and starts the engine. Two kilometres further on is a cliff above the lake. The place to clean up the mess.

Arriving at the cliff, she needs all her strength again to move the body to the driver's seat. Then she starts the car, puts the gear in DRIVE, plants Donald's right foot on the accelerator, releases the handbrake and jumps out of the accelerating Land Rover just in time as it dives into the depths.

In the bedroom she finds a few T-shirts and several shorts. Now some sleep first, is her last thought before she collapses on the bed.

That morning, she wakes up to impatient knocking. Not entirely unexpected. She lets the police inspector in. No, she hasn't seen or heard anything. Yes, she's been here all night. She still has to go back for her Peugeot. Could the inspector perhaps...

"Do you smoke?" he interrupts her.

"No, why?"

"I smell heavy tobacco."