The Night of All Nights

The music shifts down a gear as I drop to third. Cindy -- my scarlet Capri -- and I bite into the steepening incline of the hill accompanied by the horn-blowing tones of Tom Jones, serenading us, in his robust way, with Delilah. Okay, it’s hardly the latest hit, but I love it. “My, my, my De-li-lah” I croon along with Tom, caressing the words with my tongue as if singing to the most sultry goddess.
It’s damn foggy up here, as usual, and combined with the density of the night at this post-pub hour, it’s like driving through chocolate milkshake: whorling slurries of brown, black and white caught by the headlights. That stuff is heaven; love it almost as much as lager and black. Zilch. That’s what you see up here. The visibility is zeroed this October midnight.
But I don’t slow my speed. I know this road, every twist and turn it makes to the brow of the hill and down again. From the town to my village. Every yard, back to front. Lamp post, park bench, tree stump. I could do it during my sleep. So, onwards and upwards. I put my foot to the floor to maintain the pace through this peasouper, letting rip with an “aaaieeeeee” in between refrains.
And then the headlights catch the hint of a figure, just the thumb clear and emerging from a cloak of fog. I screech to a halt, slip Cindy into reverse and hurtle backwards. A chick steps in front of the headlights, disappears back into the night momentarily, then climbs into the passenger seat.
“Guess you’re going my way then,” I say. “Hold on tight, lady. I’m kind of proud of this mean machine’s performance. Just had her three weeks. Three litres. One honking good ride.”
I chuckle, beam at her and wink. But she doesn’t respond. I turn to look at her several more times. There are no streetlamps up here and I can hardly see, but I piece together glimpses of feathery fair hair, a fine nose, a long red dress and a floaty shawl fringed with tassles. Like a beggarwoman from olden times. She’s kooky but cute. A doll, I’m sure. A cute doll. And in my motor. Maybe some fancy wheels are going to bring me everything I hoped for – and more.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Delilah.”
“No way. Hot dog, but I’ve just been…” I bluster.
“Playing that song. There’s a surprise.”
Freaky. I look towards her again, but she’s staring straight ahead, and I think I see a bemused smile.
We power up the hill, clocking 63mph at one point. There’s impressive pulling power for you. Good girl, Cind. We’re going to pull together. And this baby’s already here with me in my pleasure-mobile. I’ll give her the ride of her life. I play my tongue slowly across my top teeth. I’m aware she’s peeking at me. Yeah, she’s a-looking.
“Way to go,” I shout, and slap the steering wheel, but Delilah just turns away and lets out a snort. Blow me – and there’s a thought – she must be playing hard to get.
The fog becomes thicker and more impenetrable. It encases us like candyfloss twisted tight round a stick. We could be anywhere, going any place, any time, but I handle my baby into every bend and curve of the road, and the engine purrs back. She’s a dream.
“Put on a cassette,” I urge Delilah, but she fingers through, peers at and discards tape after tape.
“Have any Melanie?” she asks in a hoity and sneering voice, not at all like a beggarwoman’s, but I have to shake my head. She’s so pale -- even in this light, the car’s instrument panel throwing out the tiniest glimmer -- I can tell she didn’t spend much time in the sun this summer. She glows whiteness.
“There are ghosts up here, stalking around the hill and its woods. Did you know?” I try. Delilah doesn’t take the bait, just stares forwards, transfixed by the night. “Donkeys back some wealthy types were held up by highwaymen and slaughtered. But most encounters have been with some folks killed recently in a car smash. All involved were killed outright. On a night like this. They haunt the hill and appear to people on the road. I can tell you the full story, if you like?”
But she just shakes her head, and gives me a condescending sideways look. She’s a cold one. An ice maiden. I give up. Allrighty, she’ll just have to tell me her story, then. We have a few more miles to go. I’m giving her a lift. She should be more appreciative of my company. She owes me.
“Grow up around these parts?” I venture first.
Then: “What do you do?”
And: “What are you doing out here on a night like this?”
Growing desperate: “Have you go the time?”
As a final shot: “Whereabouts do you live? I’ll take you right to your door.”
She speaks at last. “No. Just drop me by the telephone box in the village.”
“Why? Look, I can drive you all the way. No problem. Unless, you don’t want me to see the place. Like it doesn’t exist and you’re a ghost, or something.”
I chortle. But she’s gone silent on me again.
“Hey,” I urge. “Take another look through the tapes. Must be something there you like. I need noise when I drive.” And I hit the horn and shout, “Noise.”
She picks up the cassettes. “Here,” I say. “Have the light on, so you can get a better look.”
I have a clearer view of her wispy fair hair. It’s long, loose, and hanging down the sides of her face, which I realise I haven’t seen full on.
“You’re driving very fast,” she says all of a sudden. “ I’m feeling sick and I’m going to open a window. If you don’t mind.”
Once the window goes down, fog floods into the Capri. “Delilah,” I say, turning to her. But she’s not there. Holy Mother. All the light illuminates is billowing white. Yee gods. I stare, but there’s no sign of her.
I become aware of a persistent hooting. I turn back and have a moment to realise that we’re heading straight for a Morris Minor.

****

What kind of a purgatory is this? Stuck with a hick in his boy racer. He even refers to it as his mean machine. Give me strength. I just want to get back. How much more of this do I have to take?
I’d had a row with Peter. He was supposed to give me a lift to my house, but we’d got on to the subject of why I wouldn’t marry him. Again. And our temperatures had quickly risen.
“It’s Thomas, isn’t it? You’re in love with him.”
Thomas was one of our mutual friends from teacher-training college. “Get real, Peter.” I’d shaken my head in disbelief and exasperation. Then I’d spat it out, “It’s nothing to do with him. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s your moods. Your temper.”
He’d slammed on the brakes, brought his Triumph TR6 to an abrupt halt and defied me to get out. I’d always been able to equal his pig-headedness, so, of course, I’d got out.
“Harlot,” he’d screamed after me before roaring off.
And there I was miles from nowhere in freezing fog. I couldn’t see a thing, and how could I trudge home in these platforms? I stuck out my thumb and up came the souped-up Matchbox car. How I wished a few minutes afterwards that I’d told Peter I’d marry him. I could have called it off a few days later after all.
But, no. I was stuck in a car with a boy from the sticks. Maybe a year or two older than me, but the mental age of a child. I think for a moment he considered trying it on, poking out his tongue, thrusting his crotch and slobbering. It was a grotesque performance. I made it clear that was no go.
Then he tried to engage me in conversation. Some tripe or other, but I was seething, and in no mood for trivia, so I sat there sullen and unresponsive, just willing myself home. Oh, and his taste in music. The pits.
And then it was all over. And then it was just beginning. I don’t know what caused him to take his eyes off the road for so long. I don’t wish to know. He was pretty drunk, and full of himself. And I never asked his name, but I don’t want to know that either. Ever. For all eternity.
So, here we are. Destined to go nowhere fast. Over and over again. What did I do wrong in my life to be ensnared in this hell?
I wonder what year it is? I see the shadowy impressions of different cars and people in different styles of clothes. But we’re stuck together in 1978, stuck cruising the same stretch of road.
And all psycho wants to do is re-live – or should that be re-die? – the same moments over and over again. We do try spooking people every now and then. But any night when it’s foggy – and there are plenty of them up here – it’s back to our drive.
Boy, am I mad with him. But nowhere near as mad as the poor souls in the Morris Minor we smash into night after night.