The Scapegoat

Image credit: Self-Portrait 1949 by Cecil Collins ruthborchard.org.uk

The old man was restless, walking back and forth in the kitchen.

‘Somebody has killed a roe-deer,’ he said. ‘Did you see the carcase at the side of the road?’

I didn’t say a word.

‘Somebody who was driving too fast!’  

He stopped walking and looked out the window.

‘They’re all in too much of a hurry these days,’ he said bitterly. ‘Everybody wants to get home as soon as possible. Why? Heaven alone knows! I hope, now, they think it was worth the life of the deer.’

He was getting angrier by the minute.

‘Or maybe it was some young hero, full of testosterone, that killed the deer, while he was showing us what a good driver he is …’

‘Or maybe the driver was half-cut with the drink. ‘Sorry I knocked down the deer. But I’d had a wee dram – don’t be too hard on me!’’

He was in a real state. I was afraid that he was losing the plot.

‘Of course, maybe the driver wasn’t to blame. Maybe some rotten swine went into the wood, somebody whose conscience was torturing him … somebody whose conscience was whispering in his ear, ‘You’ve done wrong and you’ll have to pay for it!’ And somehow or other he thrust his own guilt, his shadow, onto the deer then drove the poor beast out onto the road as a scapegoat, to pay his dues for him!’

Tears were running down my cheeks.

The old man left the room in a fury. He slammed the door behind him and went out to put his car back into the garage.

He looked at the front of the car. It was badly damaged, the headlight smashed to smithereens. This was going to cost a lot of money to repair.

Quickly, he locked the garage door. He was in hurry to wash his hands.