The winner of this year's Short Story Competition

1st Prize – Hilary Austin with:

Sackcloth and Ashes

The great black bird launches into the air, wings outstretched, a ghostly silhouette etched against the winter sunset. It glides over the fence and touches down in the stubble field beyond the motorway. As it lands, it transforms into a car. A small black car. The shriek of twisting metal shatters the stillness of the bleak landscape.

Roy runs towards the car on legs that feel like they are buried in treacle. The white faces of the occupants, their hands outstretched in hopeless defence, flash, strobe-like, in front of his eyes. When he reaches the car it is on its roof, doors hanging open, innards spilling out onto the cold, unforgiving earth. A little girl is standing some yards away; her outline blurred in the rapidly fading light. She appears to be unhurt, but he cannot be sure.

A man is sprawled half in, half out of the driver's side. One leg is at a crazy angle, his head twisted to one side. He reminds Roy of a puppet, carelessly discarded at the bottom of a toy box. He is motionless. Blood runs in thick rivers down his face and spreads a dark stain over his clothing. Roy reaches out with trembling fingers, searching for a pulse. His skin is cold, so cold. 'Oh God, what've I done? What have I done?' Roy sinks to his knees on the hard ground. His breath roars in his ears, and he fights rising nausea. He is blinded by tears, by guilt, by the sheer horror of the scene before him. He looks up; the girl is closer now and he can see her more clearly. She is about nine or ten, with long blonde hair floating in the darkness behind her. Her voice drifts towards him, disembodied, indistinct. 'My ... daddy. My ... poor daddy.'

Roy is sobbing wildly now. 'It was an accident!' he wails. 'It was an accident!'

He is still shouting as the radio alarm beside his bed beeps into life. It is 7.00 am. His eyes snap open and he takes in dark brown curtains, coffee and cream walls, a full-length mirror reflecting tidiness and solitude. It is another nightmare; the same, reoccurring nightmare he's had during the past four months.

Except it isn't just a nightmare. Nightmares twist fears, distort reality, test the boundaries. This is fact, playing over and over again, on Roy's tortured conscience.

The familiar panic attack rises through his body and he braces himself for the onslaught, eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, body rigid. The shaking is severe this time and he concentrates on his breathing, chanting 'calm', his chosen mantra, on each laboured out breath. Eventually his heart settles into an uncomfortable thud and the sweat cools on his skin, leaving him cold and wretched. He groans, a guttural, primitive sound and drags himself out of bed. Today he is due in court for sentencing. He wonders if the victims will be there, or the victim's family, who have had their lives ripped apart, shattered, ruined by his careless actions. Guilt is his constant companion. It stalks him at night; it walks in his shadow and some days it weighs so heavily he can hardly stand. He prays in church, every Sunday, kneeling beneath the unflinching gaze of the Virgin Mary, begging for forgiveness. He asks if she considers flagellation suitable, but her silence leaves him desolate. So he takes the coward's way out and feels more ashamed than ever.

It is now 7.30 am; time to get ready.

He removes striped pyjamas and showers meticulously. When he is done, he lines up the bottles of shampoo and conditioner on the shelf; descriptions and instructions facing outwards, like little soldiers in his ordered regiment of life. He knows he will check them again later, before he leaves, but doing it now soothes him.

Back in his bedroom, he surveys his nakedness in the full-length mirror with disgust and embarrassment. He can still hear his mother's sharp voice cutting through the awkwardness of adolescence. 'For goodness sake Roy, cover yourself up!' He sees himself as she saw him, an overweight youth, with skin the colour of uncooked pastry. Even now, at forty-three, he has a roll of flabby flesh round his waist that no amount of fasting can shift. He is glad she is dead; he could not bear the disgust that would have emanated from her scathing eyes at his recent terrible demeanour.

He dresses with care, pulling on clothes laid out the night before. Black trousers fresh from the dry cleaners, navy shirt carefully pressed, black shoes shined to perfection. He has already gelled his short, black hair into smoothness, but runs critical fingers over it again to press any errant strands back into place.

It is now 8.15 am. Just enough time for coffee before John arrives to take him to court. Breakfast is unthinkable. His stomach is already lurching at the prospect of the day ahead. His hearing is scheduled for 10.00 am. He has already pleaded guilty by post, but today he has to attend for sentencing. Time to face his accusers and pay his penance. He is glad that John is going with him. John Murray, fellow churchgoer and solid rock in the stormy sea that has been Roy's life since the accident.

'Roy my friend, we all make mistakes,' John had said during a brief lull in one of Roy's outpourings of self-hatred. 'You didn't do it on purpose. There are many who mean to commit their crimes, as you well know. We pray for them often enough. And nobody died, Roy. Nobody died. Yes, the man was injured, but the little girl was unhurt. You have to hold onto that.' Roy had stared into John's kind face, taking small comfort from his wise words. 'You are a good man, Roy,' John had continued. 'You just made a mistake. And you have to find a way to come to terms with that mistake and move on.'

Roy knows John is right. But forgiving yourself isn't that easy.

The doorbell signals John's arrival and Roy greets him with a mixture of apprehension and relief. Aside from the very real possibility that he may be disqualified from driving, he knows that John's solid presence will help him through the day.

'Morning Roy,' John's smile is warm. 'Ready to face the demons?'

Roy attempts a smile but his face is stiff. 'As I'll ever be,' he says. 'I won't be a moment.' And he sets off to check that everything is in order, in its rightful place.

Once in the car, Roy finds it impossible to relax. Had he been a drinker, he would've resorted to a stiff whisky despite the early hour, but unfortunately, he never allows self-indulgence. So instead he occupies himself by checking and re-checking his appearance in the passenger mirror and brushing non-existent specks of dust from his trousers.

'Do you think they will be there?' he asks, voicing the fear that has been stabbing at him all morning.

John's answer is careful but honest. 'Well, anyone is allowed in court. The man may be there, if he's fit enough and it's reasonable to assume that his family would want to support him, so...'

Roy clasps fleshy fingers together. 'What do I say to them...?'

'Take is as it comes, my friend. That's all you can do.'

Roy nods and concentrates on his breathing. Another panic attack curls the yellow bile in the pit of his stomach and he starts to sweat. The stickiness glues his armpits together and he feels the stain soaking through his shirt. The unpleasantness overwhelms him and he wants to bolt home, head for the shower and cleanse his body.

They find the courthouse easily enough, with time to spare. It has a small waiting area; red plastic chairs clashing with a mottled blue carpet. The lack of colour co-ordination sets Roy's teeth on edge. There is only one courtroom and anxiety pleats Roy's chalky face as he eyes the door nervously. His fate lies behind that door.

A woman is standing beside the Reception desk, talking to a court usher. A physical pain jolts through him. Instinctively, he knows it's her. The wife; the mother, the person whose loved ones have been damaged by him. He swallows the dryness in his throat and tries not to gag. She turns towards him and he is suddenly facing his real judge and jury.

'I'm so sorry, for everything,' he gabbles. 'I didn't mean to... You must hate me... I hate myself...' He is desperate to tell her how bad he feels for the pain he's inflicted on her world. But there is no time. The usher is calling his name...

He stands in the dock. The usher hands him the Bible and he grasps it with both hands, swearing to tell the truth. He wishes he could hold onto it throughout. He glances at the public gallery and sees John, who gives him a nod of support. The woman is sitting across the walkway. She appears calm, composed. She watches him intently.

Three magistrates, a man and two women, sit high above him. A court official asks him in clipped tones to introduce himself and confirm his full name, address and date of birth.

'Roy Anthony Simmons, 26 Park View, Cambridge. 15th January 1965.'

'Occupation?'

'IT Consultant.' He doesn't elaborate that since the accident he has been unable to face going to work, hiding behind a doctor's note that accurately states 'post traumatic stress'.

'Mr. Simmons, you have already pleaded guilty to the offence of careless driving. Do you have anything else to add before the court adjourns to consider the sentence?'

'I... I want to say sorry to the family. I wasn't drunk and I don't use drugs. I... I think I just lost concentration.' He couldn't face telling them that he had become distracted because one of his wing mirrors needed adjusting. It would sound so lame.

The adjournment is short. They reappear to deliver the sentence. He is to be disqualified from driving for six months and fined £400 plus court costs. They add that he is a person of good character with no previous convictions. It doesn't help.

Outside in the waiting area, he catches up with the woman, seeing her properly for the first time. She is slim, attractive, with shoulder length blonde hair. He tries to remember her husband and daughter, but they are buried under a layer of guilt. He will see them again though, in his nightmares. Always in his nightmares.

'I really am sorry,' he repeats. 'Is the outcome what you expected?'

She shakes her head. 'I'm not really interested in the outcome.' She says, 'I just wanted to hear you say you were sorry. I'm not going to waste any more time hating you.' She looks right into his soul then, into his faded blue eyes, searching, probing. She seems satisfied with what she sees. 'I'd hate to be in your shoes, knowing you've caused so much pain and suffering.' She half smiles, before delivering her final blow. 'You have to live with that.' She turns then and walks away.

Roy feels himself coming undone, his insides collapsing inwards. John takes hold of his arm and guides him out of the courtroom. Her words echo in his head. He doesn't believe he will ever forget them.

Later, alone in his bedroom, stripped to the waist, he stares at his reflection again. He weighs the belt in his hand, a brand new belt with the heaviest of buckles. Could physical pain ease the misery of his guilt? There is only one way to find out. He wraps the cool leather around his hand and swings the buckle high into the air.

Critique by Competition Adjudicator - Iain Pattison

It may sound odd, but as a judge I often look for stories - not that entertain and amuse me - but that make me feel uncomfortable; that challenge my attitudes and prejudices; taking my cosy view of the world and turning it upside down. I'm looking for a troubling tale that makes me think and affects me on an emotional level - that haunts me for days after I've read it.

Yes, many competition entries are beautifully written, tell moving stories, featuring clever twists and introduce intriguing characters and exotic locations, but they rarely leave that indelible image burned on the imagination. They just don't come alive. They don't connect! They don't leave me shaken and dazed.

To do that a yarn must be incredibly powerful and have a huge emotional punch, daring to delve into the darker side of human nature, tap into the sometimes awful truth of who we are and what we're capable of and take the reader into an unsettling world of pain, confusion, fear and maybe even madness.

Sackcloth and Ashes is just such a story - and it does it with a stunning quietness and precision. This appears at first an ordinary, everyday, almost mundane tale of Roy - a man torn apart with guilt because he has, in a moment of lost concentration, caused a road accident where others have been badly injured.

He is naturally troubled, dreading the coming court-case, but Roy's anxieties are not that he will be punished. He doesn't care about that. He doesn't want to duck his responsibilities or avoid the inevitable consequences of his actions. His fears are that the punishment won't be severe enough to banish the all-devouring sense of guilt and self loathing he feels.

And as the tale grows darker and more unsettling he plans ways to use his unshaking faith and deep sense of moral rightness to make himself pay in ways more brutal than even the family of his crash victims would have dreamt of.

I loved Sackcloth and Ashes because I didn't see the unnerving and heart-breaking ending coming. It was a real shock - amazing and repelling me in equal measure as I realised this seeming "small everyday tale" had become a deeper, more chilling, bleaker, old testament-style narrative. It had woven a brooding and disturbing spell around me without me being aware.

The story has a tremendous sense of authenticity - every word is believable. Every moment of Roy's pain and his struggles with his twisted conscience and inner demons, ring incredibly true.

And the narrative poses fundamental questions about moral responsibility, the dangers of blind and unquestioning faith and the nature of justice, asking who will ever judge us more harshly than we judge ourselves?

For all of these reasons, Sackcloth and Ashes is a worthy winner.

Ian Pattison

2nd Prize – Anna Freeman with:

Living Together

3rd Prize – Cally Taylor with:

My Daughter the Deep Sea Diver

4th Prize – Bruce Harris with:

Appetites