Leap Year

One Hour.

Outside the car the snow had started again for the third time in as
many hours. It drifted lazily downwards from a sky frozen into an
unyielding darkness by the age of the day and the youth of the year;
dancing on the rising wind which seemed to be doing its best to push
the car from the road.

Fifty-nine minutes.

Janet glanced at the speedometer and cringed. Her husband was
shattering the speed-limit and her nerves in equal measure. She had
spent a long time preparing for this day and it had not gone well. In
fact, if she was being brutally honest with herself, it had been a
disaster. It was almost as if Richard had not wanted to enjoy himself,
had gone out of his way to make her feel bad about the party. Now,
seeing his face set hard against the cold February night, bathed in the
pale green glow from the instrument panel, she felt hurt and betrayed
both by Richard and by fate. The fate that had led her to marry him
three short years ago. She did not want to mention his excessive speed
- did not want or need the argument that would doubtless ensue - but
the snow was thickening and it was making her nervous.

Fifty-eight minutes.

"Richard?" she said in a small voice.

No response. If he had heard he was choosing not to respond. His way of
registering his annoyance, she supposed. His mood had been as
changeable as the weather over the last few days but tonight - of all
nights - had been the worse. He was now as cold and unfriendly as the
snow that was accumulating by the side of the motorway.

"Richard?" she tried again, louder this time.

"What?" The single syllable hung in the air like an accusation. It was
not encouraging.

"Could you slow down a little, please?"

"I want to get home. Don't you?" A smile of grim sarcasm settled on his
face. "No, I forgot. You want to be with all your friends don't you?
Anything rather than be with me."

Fifty-seven minutes.

"That's not fair, Richard. They're your friends too." Mostly yours, she
thought but did not say. Marriage to Richard had bought her a new
surname and a one-way ticket to London. Three years and two hundred
miles later and many of Janet's previously close friendships had been
reduced to an habitual exchange of Christmas cards. Not many of her
friends from Manchester had made it down for The Party.

Oh yes, The Party. Six months in the planning and always with implicit
capital letters. A hundred surreptitious phone calls and dozens of
secret rendezvous with Richard's colleagues and friends. All to one
goal - to throw the best surprise birthday party any man had ever
received. After all, it wasn't every day your husband turned forty.
This was going to be one party they were never going to forget.

Well, that wish had come true. Worse luck.

Fifty-six minutes.

She glanced at the speedometer. She couldn't see exactly what it was
reading but the needle was perilously near the end of the dial. She
averted her eyes quickly, saw Richard's face still set in a Mount
Rushmore gaze of unflinching granite, saw him indicate to overtake
another car which was only breaking the speed-limit by twenty miles per
hour, saw the winking tell-tale on the instrument panel paint his face
lighter and darker like a hotel sign in a Hollywood B-movie. "Why are
you in such a rush to get home?" she asked.

The car they had overtaken slid into the darkness behind them, its
headlights two brilliant eyes chasing them through the night. "You
really don't want to know," he said.

"I think I've a right to know," she heard herself say. She was shocked
at her own boldness. She rarely questioned or contradicted Richard -
her own insecurities had seen to that - but her disappointment at the
evening's events was blossoming into something stronger that she could
not quite identify. If she was hoping - even subconsciously - for a
reaction, she was to be disappointed. It was becoming apparent that
even if she did have a right to know it was incidental to Richard's
right to maintain a stony silence.

Fifty-five minutes.

With an unspoken sigh for the early death of another conversation she
shifted her view out of the window and tried to convince herself that
the Christmas-card scenery was not shifting as fast as it evidently
was. She had known from the start that marriage was never going to be
an easy option. Her mother had drummed that into her and her mother had
always been right. Even so she had expected a few more "richers" and
rather less "poorers" than she had experienced in the three-and-a-bit
years that Richard and her had been man and wife. "Marriage is all
about sacrifice," her mother had said. The implication had been that
sacrifices would take place on both sides. In her more frustrated
moments, Janet found herself believing that the sacrifices had been
pretty bloody one-sided, thank you very much. She would not say
anything though. That was not in her nature. Never had been. Take
whatever life throws at you and grit your teeth. That had been her
mother's attitude as well.

Fifty-four minutes.

Poor mother. Perhaps she could have told Janet about Richard. Perhaps
she could have lowered her expectations of the marriage even more.
Perhaps if she had not died then Janet would not have been in such a
rush to walk up the aisle with a man whom she had found herself loving
despite being unable to give a single reason for doing so.

No, she was being unfair. She could hardly criticise Richard for asking
her to marry him - she could have refused, after all. She had loved
Richard then and she loved him now, despite his occasional moods of
dark depression. The same moods that were increasing in frequency as
the new year dragged its weary way through the winter months. The same
mood he was in now. The party had been a mistake - she knew that now.
Why hadn't she seen that in the six months it had taken to plan? She
had pushed him into one of his moods. It was all her fault. She
shouldn't blame him. She suddenly found herself with no one on which to
pin her frustration which only served to increase both it and the sense
of impotence with which it was inevitably partnered.

Fifty-three minutes.

A click broke her reverie. Richard had switched the wipers from
intermittent to full. The snow was tumbling faster than ever. It struck
the windscreen, instantly metamorphosing into slug-trails of water
which almost seemed to be possessed with a vindictive malevolence.
Janet watched the wiper blades push them away only to see them
crawl-creep-slide back across the windscreen. It looked like they were
trying to find the edge; trying to find a way past the invisible
barrier that frustrated them. Shuddering, Janet turned away; knowing
that her fear was not of the snow but of Richard's excessive speed.
There was no comfort in this fact and the look on Richard's face was
not designed to give it.

Just the opposite.

Fifty-two minutes.

"Please, slow down, Richard. It's getting worse."

"It's only a bit of snow, woman. What's bugging you?"

Janet decided that it would be diplomatic not to say. Instead, she
returned her gaze to the monochromatic world beyond the window - a
world moving too fast for comfort. The slugs on the windscreen
continued their attack, foot-soldier droplets retreated across the side
windows and Janet was suddenly convinced that she could see something
moving behind the frozen, skeletal bushes that lined the embankment
beside the hard shoulder. An occasional glimpse, caught by the
periphery of the headlights' beam, keeping pace with the car, following
them.

Don't be ridiculous, she thought furiously, cursing her racing heart
for its certainty. Nothing could move that fast. Until tonight she
didn't even think that their car could. It was the alcohol feeding her
imagination, that was all; making her see shapes in the shadowy,
snow-speckled bushes. Beside which, why would anything be following
them? No, it was a horse or something in the dissected fields; the
darkness and the snow combining to ruin her sense of perspective giving
her the impression of it moving at great speed.

A horse it might have been, but she averted her gaze anyway. No point
in giving her imagination any more rope with which to hang
itself.

Fifty-one minutes.

She glanced at Richard's face. The pale green light eradicated detail
leaving an artist's impression that gazed furiously through the
windscreen at the speeding landscape. The night seemed to have
substance - parting to let their headlights through, closing eagerly
behind them, pressing itself against the windows. Janet wanted to shy
away from the glass - away from the night and whatever horrors it
contained - but to do so would have placed her closer to Richard. She
was not sure which of the two was the colder and so she sat rigid in
her seat; staring at the racing night.

Fifty minutes.

Why was he going so fast? She dared not risk another comment - one look
at his face told her that. His moods were never violent - thank God -
but pushing him whilst he was in this state of mind would only serve to
lengthen its duration. She wanted him to be back to his old self again
- back to the same indifferent state in which he seemed to spend the
majority of his life. If asking him to slow down would irritate him
then she would just have to grit her teeth.

Forty-nine minutes.

There was a light up ahead in the far distance. Amber, winking slowly.
At first she thought it was a car broken down in the centre of the
motorway and she wondered why Richard was not even slowing. Then she
saw it was a speed-limit sign, warning lights flashing around the
display at its centre. The sign loomed suddenly, flashed past creating
a subliminal advertisement for the car's interior and was lost in the
night behind them. But Janet had seen it and it was all the incentive
she needed.

"50" it had said.

Richard was still not slowing.

Forty-eight minutes.

"Richard, did you see the sign?"

She sounded like an American Evangelist and Richard stiffened as though
he thought she might be. He didn't move his eyes from the illuminated
scrap of road ahead of the car. "Of course I saw it. I'm not blind, am
I?"

"It said fifty."

The silence that greeted this remark was more expressive than anything
Richard could have said because it served to emphasize the howling of
the engine and, by implication, their speed. She returned her gaze to
the windscreen, bracing herself for something, anything, to attack from
the cover of the swirling snow. Wipers swept back and forth like
admonishing fingers. Richard was not slowing; if anything he was
pushing the car faster as though he was making some sort of point. The
snow was beginning to build up at the base of the windscreen, she
noticed dully. It felt as though the car was submerging.

Forty-seven minutes.

Another amber light meant another sign ahead. It seemed a dismayingly
short time to Janet before it grew larger and shot past the car;
chasing its brother up the central reservation in a futile game of
tag.

As though in a gesture of solidarity, it too had said "50".

"Richard?"

"I saw it."

"Don't you think it means trouble?"

"No. It's the dead of night, for God's sake. There's not going to be
anything ahead. Even if there was we could soon avoid it. We're the
only bloody car on the road."

Janet could think of no argument that would even be remotely
persuasive. The speed seemed illogical but so did Richard's entire
attitude. He had been in this same fearsome mood all day; it had taken
every ounce of her persuasive ability to convince him to venture out of
the house on the pretext of visiting a few of his close friends. She
had driven - taking him far beyond the local pub where she had told him
they were meeting John, Mary, Dave and Sophie, far out into the
countryside. During the drive his mood had grown more ominous than the
clouds that were massing overhead in preparation for the cold February
night. He'd known, of course. He'd worked out her plan as soon as she'd
driven past the Black Swan. They'd arrived at the country hotel for the
party and he had not even attempted a smile of gratitude. Not for her,
not for any of the guests. Instead he had taken the car keys and had
spent the entire evening looking pointedly at his watch and sipping at
a single glass of increasingly-flat lemonade. Abandoning her plans to
drive him home, Janet had taken solace in alcohol. Hers had been the
only voice not to complain when, at quarter to eleven, he had finally
won his half-hour argument and had insisted on driving home.

Forty-six minutes.

Another sign up ahead and Janet knew that she could predict its
contents. It raced up to the car - its cold amber eyes winking at them
as though sharing a private joke - and she gained a sense of grim
satisfaction both by being proved right and by sensing her husband
bristle beside her. And was it her imagination or was the car beginning
to slow?

"30" it had said.

"They must have left the signs switched on," Richard said but he
sounded defensive now, less sure of himself. There was something else
in his voice as well, something that Janet thought she recognized but
that was obviously nonsense - what on Earth was there for him to be
afraid of?

He was definitely slowing, she could hear the engine note changing. The
snow began to fall lower against the screen. For a second she thought
she could see someone standing high up against the icing sugar
embankment, watching them as they shot past. She turned to see,
straining against her seat belt but the figure - if indeed it had been
a figure - was lost in the night behind them. It must have been a trick
of the shadows like before. That was all. Maybe a tree or
something.

Then she saw the traffic jam.

Forty-five minutes.

It stretched across all three lanes of the road, a sea of tail lights
and hazard-warnings washing towards them through an intervening wall of
tumbling snow. Richard gave a low curse and hit the brake, the car
decelerating rapidly, the nose dipping. Accumulations of water,
previously invisible, slid off the roof and coated the screen, blinding
them until the wipers pushed it aside. Richard hit the hazard switch
setting all four indicators blinking. The car began to dance, the tail
snaking as if confused by the indicators, unsure of where to turn.
Janet braced herself as they continued to slide towards the wall of
metal in front of them; knowing that the impact would destroy their car
and any lingering chance of a happy end to the evening. And then,
finally, they stopped, some six feet from the tailgate of the car in
front; the tut-tut-tutting of the hazard lights sounding like a
mother's reprimand. She let go of a breath she could not remember
holding and sat back in her seat.

"Shit!" Richard thumped the steering wheel in frustration, his voice
rising an octave. "Where did this lot come from?"

His mood was so illogical that she almost believed that he was accusing
her for creating the hold up. Now that the car was stationary, the true
nature of the snow shower became apparent. White flecks fell from the
sky in impossible densities, swirling and dancing around each other as
tiny, unseen breezes thwarted their chosen paths; tumbling; falling;
masking anything that lay beyond the edge of the hard shoulder;
covering the bare patches of tarmac between the cars in a mottled
dandruff. She turned in her seat to look behind - almost convinced that
she would see the figure again, walking slowly through the snow towards
their car. She saw nothing save for a pair of headlights belonging to
another car which was pulling to a smooth halt two feet behind them,
hemming them in. As if in response, Richard killed the hazard lights
and hid his face in his hands.

Janet looked at her husband, bewildered now. She was beginning to think
that her earlier suspicion was correct - Richard was frightened of
something. The fact that she could imagine nothing that would scare him
only served to increase her own fear. The slugs were back on the
windscreen again, fighting with each other to find a way through; steam
rose from the hot bonnet like battleground smoke. "Do you want to tell
me about it?" she asked softly.

Forty-four minutes.

"I've got to get home, don't you see?" he said into his hands and Janet
would not have taken much convincing that he was weeping.

"We will, love. It's only a traffic jam, it'll clear."

"When?" He raised his eyes to meet hers for the first time in hours and
she was shocked to see the red rings that surrounded them; the emotions
that lay behind them. "I need to be home before midnight. Before he
comes."

"Who, love?"

"Him. The other one."

Janet did not understand what her husband was talking about but her
natural subservience prevented her from telling him so. The wipers
swept back and forth, the engine hummed quietly to itself but Janet
only heard the crushing silence that had once again descended between
herself and her husband. It was a familiar silence - not merely an
absence of speech but an absence of will; neither party wanting or able
to break it. It felt like the aftermath of an argument that she could
not remember having.

"Do you know what date it is today?"

Richard's voice was so soft that she barely caught it behind the hum of
the engine. At first she couldn't be sure she'd heard him correctly -
if he was leading to an explanation he was picking a tortuous route.
"Of course, its the twenty-eighth of February."

Forty-three minutes.

"Yes, but what's the significance of that date?"

"It's your birthday, Richard. You know it is. What are you getting
at?"

Richard gave a hollow laugh. "That's just it, you see. It isn't. My
birthday's tomorrow."

Janet frowned, unsure of what he was telling her. "It's the first of
March, tomorrow."

"Most years, yes. Not this year."

Understanding flared. "It's a leap year, isn't it? Tomorrow's the
twenty-ninth of February." Her face broke into a smile despite herself.
"Are you saying you were born on the twenty-ninth of February?"

"That's what I'm saying, yes."

"So you're not forty until tomorrow. That means you'll be forty in..."
She glanced at the dashboard clock watched as it flicked over from
23:17 to 23:18. "...Forty-two minutes."

Forty-two minutes.

"I suppose so, yes."

"We can have another party tomorrow, if you like," she said. This
revelation seemed to be just what she needed - another chance; a
smaller party this time, just close friends; a party he would enjoy.
"We can just invite John and Mary..."

"Good God stop being such a stupid bitch. Will you shut up about this
fucking party and let me tell you what's happening here?" His voice was
colder than the swirling snow that was battering the car. Janet left
her jaw hanging as it was in mid-syllable and then shut it. Hard. For a
second it looked as though Richard had regretted his outburst - looked
as though he were about to reach out and touch her hand; reassure her.
Then he seemed to think better of it and returned his gaze outside the
window. Another car pulled up beside them in the centre lane, the sole
occupant a shadowy hint within its interior.

"I always thought that I'd been born on the twenty-eighth of February.
I was eight years old before my mother told me the truth. She wouldn't
even have bothered then except that it had become obvious."

He stopped as though waiting for permission to continue. His eyes
seemed to be focused on anything except his wife, darting around the
snow-covered landscape as though he was looking for someone out there -
someone brave or stupid enough to endure the frost that was gluing the
snow to the tarmac. Someone or something, she thought and shivered. She
remembered the creature she thought had been following the car beyond
the edge of the road; the man she thought she'd seen watching them from
the embankment. But that was her imagination. Why would Richard share
those fears?

Forty-one minutes.

"Why the hell aren't we moving?" he yelled and leant on the horn. Its
blast was as loud as it was unexpected. It ricocheted around the
surrounding cars like the distress call of a great, wounded beast. The
driver beside them made a gesture at Richard that was mostly obscured
by the smattering of crystals that were forming an icy Braille message
on his passenger window.

"I don't think anyone's moved for a bit," Janet whispered, not trusting
herself to raise her voice in case it cracked and betrayed her. "Look
at the car in front."

Richard saw what she meant immediately and a soft whimper escaped him.
The rear window of the vehicle was invisible underneath a blanket of
snow; more of the stuff was building up on the rear bumper and
beginning to obscure the rear light clusters. The exhaust was cold,
silent; the engine still. Snow accumulating on the exhaust told its own
story - the engine feeding it had been switched off for a long
time.

"He's caused this," Richard whispered under his breath, so quietly that
Janet wondered if she'd heard him correctly. "This is his doing. All of
it."

"Who, Richard? Who are you talking about?"

It was if he hadn't heard. He twisted in his seat, glaring through the
snow-covered rear window at the car that had pulled up behind them. "If
that idiot hadn't pulled up so close we could have backed up."

"What for?"

He waved his arm in a loose gesture that seemed to encompass the bonnet
of their car and the rear of the car in front. "So I could turn
round."

"Turn round? And go where?" She'd known Richard to be illogical but
never like this - this was bordering on insanity. "This is a motorway,
Richard. You can't just..."

"I can't just stay here! That's what I can't just!"

Forty minutes.

"Richard, why don't you tell me what's wrong? You look scared."

"Who says I'm scared? You? You don't know the meaning of the word. You
lived under your mother's wing for thirty-four years and now you're
living under mine. Well wake up, girly. You don't know the half of
what's going on here."

"So tell me."

"You'll think me mad. Even more than you do now. Oh yes," he continued
to her shocked face, "I've seen you giving me looks from the corner of
your eye, wondering if running the company has driven me off the rails.
Wondering if my lack of enthusiasm for your oh-so-wonderful party means
that I've lost it. Well I haven't. I've never been so sane. Right now I
wish I were insane. At least I wouldn't know what's coming."

But Janet didn't know either and she could have told him that she
didn't feel any the better for her ignorance. It was obvious that her
husband was drinking deep from a well of self-pity from which he could
not be dragged. Asking him for clarification only made things worse. It
was best to ignore him. Basic psychology her mother would have called
it.

Thirty-nine minutes.

"Perhaps it'll shift in a minute. Like you said, there's not much on
the road tonight." He'd actually claimed that they had been the only
car on the road but seeing the volume of traffic backed up in front of
them made Janet think he might appreciate a bit of selective memory.
The change of subject did not seem to have mollified her husband.

"You just don't get it, do you? He's organised this. He's making sure
I'm easy pickings. Well, I'm not going to just sit here and wait. No
way." He released his seat-belt and pulled at the door handle. The door
swung open, the wind whipped inside eagerly and it felt as cold as
Richard's anger. A few snow flakes ventured inside the car and
vaporised as they touched the interior plastics; the remaining snow
swirled around the door frame as though egging their braver comrades
onwards. Then he was gone, the slamming of the driver's door sending
the car rocking on its springs.

"Wait!" she cried before realising the futility of shouting within the
confines of the vehicle's interior. She released her seat-belt and
groped for the door. "Wait for me!"

Thirty-eight minutes.

The cold night air hit her hard after the warmth of the car. Richard
had crossed in front of the bonnet and was climbing the frosted glass
of the embankment. The snow was tumbling faster than ever as though it
were trying to hide him from her gaze. "Richard, wait!" she yelled but
the wind threw her voice back in her face. With a muffled curse she
began to climb the embankment after him.

She could not quite hear the voices that were raised in protest behind
her but she was sure that they were there. She did not dare risk a
backwards glance for then guilt would force her into returning to their
abandoned car and she knew she would have lost Richard forever.
Besides, the other drivers were only complaining because they hadn't
yet realised the nature of the jam in which they were caught. Despite
her earlier assurances to Richard she was convinced that nothing would
be moving for several minutes.

Thirty-seven minutes.

As the embankment got steeper she began to lose her footing. She was
wearing high-heeled shoes and the thin cotton dress seemed to be taking
pride in its inept weather protection despite the heavy coat beneath
which it was worn. Two steps, three and she felt the heel of her left
shoe give way with a sound whose very quietness seemed in stark
contrast to the expense it implied. She reached down and snatched off
the shoes leaving herself in her stockings. Immediately the snow
penetrated the thin material, teasing the soles of her feet. She looked
up and discovered she couldn't see her husband anywhere. "Richard!" she
yelled, feeling foolish as the wind ripped both syllables away and she
took a hesitant step up the embankment. "Wait for me for God's sake. I
can't see you. Please!"

Unless one counted the howling of the wind there was no response. She
forced herself to take another step up the embankment putting another
three feet between herself and the warmth of the car. She was nearly at
the top now - she could see a thin wooden fence separating the
embankment from whatever lay beyond. Snow lined the top of each wooden
slat, the wind amusing itself by moulding it into intricate shapes. Of
her husband there was no sign. Had she taken a different route up the
embankment? Suddenly, that seemed the likeliest option, particularly as
she could not see any footprints other than her own; trailing behind
her like mute ducklings. She glanced left and right along the fence,
desperate now, and saw an area where the snow was disturbed on the
middle slat of the fence.

Thirty-six minutes.

Richard must have pushed himself through the fence at that point. How
could he move so fast? The wind was doing its best to force her to the
icy ground, eyes watering. She was right - she could see Richard's
footprints near the fence but even as she watched the snow was doing
its best to bury them. In another few minutes there would have been no
sign that he had ever been here. With silent gratitude she squeezed
herself between the slats in the fence, feeling the snow's dead hands
caress her neck, hearing its brittle bones crunch as she placed one
foot and then the other on the ground beyond.

The wind howled as if in fury at her progress but it wasn't just its
icy fingers that sent a shiver down her spine. The falling snow was
taking delight in mischief, swirling and dancing around her; meagre
light creating a thousand insubstantial Richards, each moving in a
different direction. She squinted into the wind and tried to find the
real one. There he was, a dark bulk in the distance, barely visible. He
was hurrying, she saw, leaning into the wind. Running both from his
perceived horror of whatever was waiting for him on the motorway and
from his wife. He was so far ahead - at least a hundred yards - that
she had no idea of who or what would reach him first. "Richard!" she
screamed but the figure did not turn nor did she expect it to. With a
curse she began to follow.

Thirty-five minutes.

For the first time she wondered why she was following him. What did she
hope to achieve? To convince him to return to the car? Some hope of
that. Anybody who would willingly leave the warm sanctuary of a motor
vehicle to venture outside on a night like this had to have a damn good
reason for doing so. What then? Was she now so insecure that she had to
be by somebody's side even when what they were doing was clearly
insane? That was a disquieting thought and she attempted to push it
aside. Even as she did so the wind pushed icy needles into her face,
reminding her of her own foolishness.

Thirty-four minutes.

Was she gaining on him? It was impossible to be sure. The wind and snow
were making a mockery of distance - stretching and shrinking constants
in a ballet of illusion. She could still see him; still see his
struggle against the wind; still see his surprisingly rapid progress.
No, she wasn't gaining on him at all - just the opposite. Two minutes
had passed since she had climbed through the fence but his increasing
distance and her own chilled blood conspired to make it feel like two
hours.

Thirty-three minutes.

"Richard!" she yelled again. Same name, same result. The wind seemed to
want her to fall; wanted her to lie on the ground like an exclamation
mark at the end of the message it was scrawling in the snow. She fought
against it, pushing herself closer to her errant husband, not sure why
she was fighting to reach him or what she would say to him when she
did. All she knew was that the only thing she was not fighting was the
compunction that drove her onwards.

She saw Richard - or the shape she thought was Richard - stop and
glance around as though taking stock of his position. It was the
incentive she needed. She staggered forward, doubling her efforts.
There were two gaps between them - literal and figurative - and she was
beginning to hope that closing one would close the other.

Thirty-two minutes.

She was practically running now - the wind was directing its attentions
elsewhere as though admitting defeat. The snow no longer seemed to be
dancing around her but its near-vertical path seemed to be increase its
density. The Richard-Shape ahead of her seemed to be getting closer but
then he began moving again, a different route this time - still away
from her but at a shallower angle. She changed her own direction - her
stockinged feet now numb from cold - trying to close the distance
faster. The shape seemed to have speeded up as though it too had an
incentive. What that incentive might be, Janet could only guess
at.

Thirty-one minutes.

The distance was closing rapidly now. The shape was no longer just a
shape - it was Richard. His clothes, his hair, his face were speckled
with snow. "Richard!" she called again and this time he did react - his
face turning towards her. "Hurry!" he yelled and she was not sure if
she was encouraging her or himself. In any case she pushed herself
forward, into the wind that was now forcing her backwards as though in
a last-ditch attempt to keep them apart. It would not succeed - of that
she was determined.

Richard might have wanted her to hurry but he was in no mood to make
the trip easier for her. He carried on moving away from her and it was
all she could do to stagger to his side. The wind was a silent thief,
stealing the breath from her lungs and she was gasping as she reached
him.

Thirty minutes.

"There!" he said and pointed. Janet followed his outstretched finger to
an illuminated single-storey building in the distance. It lay about
three or four hundred yards away at the edge of a tiny road that snaked
away from the motorway behind them. A sign on the roof - familiar even
through the snow - told them it was a Darcy's Restaurant.

"There!" Richard repeated, "It's a Darcy's." He sounded excited as
though he was mimicking a child in a television advertisement. "You
know what's there?"

Hamburgers? she wanted to say. Where was he going with this? She shook
her head.

"People," he said, "There's always people. He couldn't do anything
surrounded by people, could he?" Without waiting for a response he
moved away from her, crunching his way through the virgin snow towards
the restaurant. Still unsure why, she followed.

"Richard?" she said as she regained his side.

"What?"

"Wouldn't it be better if we went back to the car?"

He glanced at her as though he thought she was mad "Back to
the....?"

"We can't just leave it there and go to Darcy's."

Twenty-nine minutes.

"Watch me."

"But Richard..."

"Forget it. If you want to go back to the car, fine. You go. Just don't
expect me to go with you."

"But...."

"No, Janet. I need to be at home. If I can't have that I need to be
with people. Constantly. I don't expect you to understand but I do
expect you to help me."

She grasped a frozen hand with her own. "Of course I'll help, anyway I
can."

At first she thought he was pulling his hand away, that she had said
the wrong thing yet again. Then she realised that he was pulling her
towards Darcy's - putting an even greater distance between themselves
and their car. "Come on then," he said and she found herself
following.

As though on cue the wind began to howl its disapproval. It whipped
around Janet, pushing her first into Richard and then away from him
like a potted history of their three-year marriage. She glanced at her
husband - wondering if he would repeat the same paranoid mantra that he
had said in the car. What was it? This is his doing, all of it. What
was that supposed to mean?

Twenty-eight minutes.

She tried to focus on Darcy's, at the neon cow that made up its logo.
For an animal that was about to be cut into small chunks and
char-grilled it seemed remarkably happy. Underneath the smiling bovine
features was another illuminated sign that read "Open 24 Hours". Then
the wind picked up another handful of snow and hurled it into her face,
forcing her head downwards. She watched her stockinged feet staggering
across the frozen ground. She couldn't feel her toes anymore, she
realised. The numbness was spreading from them like a lethargic
anaesthetic drug. She wanted to stop, to nurse her frozen feet and her
husband's frozen heart but the pulling at her left hand was unremitting
and she knew that Richard would leave her to freeze rather than stop
his insane and illogical progress to the restaurant.

Twenty-seven minutes.

Her feet seemed to belong to someone else. She couldn't feel them, nor
was she aware of commanding them to move. They seemed to be
self-animated in a mute caricature of the pair next to them. The wind
was fooling with the sound they made, creating another pair of feet
following behind them. For a second, Janet was reminded of the
creature? man? she had seen from the car but then she decided that she
was been as illogical and paranoid as Richard and pushed the memory
aside.

But wasn't she? What was she doing here? She found herself asking the
same question she had asked herself earlier - was her desire to be by
Richard's side as illogical as his desire to abandon the car? This time
the thought would not be placated so easily. She was about to pull on
Richard's hand - to stop him and ask him to reconsider - when she
realised that the ground beneath her feet had changed - they were
walking on tarmac.

Twenty-six minutes.

She looked up. The restaurant was about fifty yards ahead on the right,
the electric cow smiling at them through the tumbling, swirling snow as
if in welcome. They had evidently made good progress. Richard was
pulling anew at her hand and she was vaguely aware of a distant pain as
her other-person-feet flapped reluctantly after him on the snow-covered
pavement. Then she was aware of something else - she had heard
something. Only in the gap the wind had left when it paused for breath
but she had definitely heard something. Then the wind, renewed by its
brief rest, started with fresh vigour and the sound became present only
in Janet's memory. The cold was slowing her down, making it difficult
to think. It took several seconds to place the sound.

It was a truck engine.

Richard was tugging her into the road, wanting to cross. She pulled
back, not sure where the truck was, not wanting to venture into the
road until they were sure of its location. Her husband, however, seemed
to be misinterpreting her reluctance. He gave a yank that threatened to
pull her arm off at the shoulder, pulling her after him into the
road.

Almost immediately, headlights appeared. Each falling snowflake seemed
to grasp a piece of the light and run with it, scattering the beams,
making it impossible to judge speed or distance, but Janet knew
instinctively that it was close. So did Richard because he pulled all
the stronger and Janet's hand fell away from his grasp. She stumbled,
hearing the noise of the engine rise above the banshee wind, its roar
coming from everywhere and nowhere and she flung herself forward into
Richard's arms as the truck passed behind her, two red eyes retreating
into the night.

For a moment Janet was content to lie in Richard's arms. Then he pushed
her away from him. "Come on," he said and started to walk towards the
restaurant. Trying to calm her shattered nerves, Janet followed.

Twenty-five minutes.

As they walked through the deserted car-park to the restaurant door,
Janet had a twinge of guilt. Supposing the traffic jam on the motorway
had cleared? Their car would be sat in the middle of the road,
abandoned. It would be causing a dangerous obstruction. Had Richard
turned the lights off along with the engine? She could not be sure -
her memory of her husband's illogical fears in the car was too clear
for her to remember such details. It didn't matter - with the engine
switched off, the lights would not last long anyway. A darkened car on
an unlit motorway seemed like a bad idea. So did mentioning this fact
to Richard but did she have a choice? She was about to bite the
conversational bullet and mention that they shouldn't stay at Darcy's
long when Richard pushed open the door and her jaw dropped.

Twenty-four minutes.

The restaurant was packed with people. Every table seemed to be
occupied. This wouldn't be unusual at dinner time but at - she glanced
at her watch - twenty-five to midnight? And where had they all come
from? The car park was deserted. It had to be a private party. She was
about to mention this to Richard but his face seemed filled with an
almost childish delight. "Perfect," he whispered and smiled at her.
"This is perfect."

Richard obviously has a different definition of perfect than his wife.
She could feel water trickling from her hair and down her back. Her
coat was soaked, her thin cotton dress clung to her legs as though it
were painted on them. Her feet were bloodied ruins; her stockings -
long since torn apart by her journey through the snow - hung in
tattered folds from her ankles. She wanted to sit down, preferably next
to a radiator, get warm and wait for the pain to start in her feet.
Instead she was standing next to a one-legged sign that implored her
Please Wait To Be Seated with her back to a yellow telephone which
seemed in imminent danger of ringing its last. No, perfect was many
things but it wasn't this and she was about to swallow her insecurities
and tell him when the waitress arrived.

"Table for two is it?" She wore a corporate uniform and a corporate
smile and neither seemed to fit her comfortably. She seemed about
eighteen. A tiny badge showing the same blissfully-ignorant cow was
pinned to her blouse. Hello, it said on the first line, My Name Is. The
last line said It's My Pleasure To Serve You. In between the two
someone had written "Susan" in black ink.

Richard nodded.

"Smoking or non-smoking?"

Richard indicated the packed restaurant that lay behind her. "I think
we'll just sit where you can put us, don't you?"

The waitress called Susan looked around and giggled nervously at this
unexpected departure from the training video's script. "Of course,
yeah. Sorry. Big accident. Coach, you know?"

Twenty-three minutes.

Janet didn't know what the younger girl was talking about, nor did she
care. She just wanted to sit down with Richard and sort things out -
convince him to return to the car before the police found it. Her
confidence at being able to do so was not particularly high but she had
to try.

"Susan" led the way through the packed restaurant, Richard and Janet
following closely. Nobody seemed particularly startled by their
appearance. Janet found this a little disconcerting. There were no
mirrors nearby but after chasing her husband for over a mile in
freezing snow and stockinged feet she doubted she was looking her best.
In any case Richard's suit was torn and his hair was plastered in
rat's-tails to his head. Why was not one person staring? Typical
British Reserve she thought and pushed it to the back of her
mind.

They reached a small table at the back of the restaurant. "This okay
for you?" asked "Susan", clearly grateful that she could deliver her
lines again. It would have to be - there was no other table in the
place that wasn't occupied. Such restaurants were not Richard's natural
domain and for a moment Janet thought he might object. The table was
small and barely suitable for one although this hadn't prevented
Darcy's from laying it for two. Richard, however, did not seem
concerned and he sat down. Janet sat opposite, their knees
touching.

Twenty-two minutes.

Richard snatched a plastic-covered menu from its holder and buried his
head in it, obviously unwilling to speak. More for something to do than
because she was hungry, Janet did the same. The menu showed dozens of
combinations all of which - despite a myriad of grand-sounding titles -
seemed to be based around a beef-burger. A notice in the top left-hand
corner proclaimed the quality of Darcy's beef - evidently the Smiley
Cow was Argentinean these days. Reading the menu only made Janet
realise just how little desire she had for food in general and burgers
in particular. She scanned it for as long as seemed appropriate and
dropped it back into its holder.

Twenty-one minutes.

"What do you fancy?" asked Richard, his eyes still focused on the menu
in front of him.

"I don't want anything."

"We're going to be here for a while, might as well eat
something."

Janet frowned. "How long are you planning on staying here?"

"A day should do it."

At first Janet could not be sure that she'd heard him correctly. "A
day?"

Richard looked up. "It'll be okay then. Everything will be okay
then."

"Richard, what are you talking about? We can't stay here a day. What
about the car?"

"To hell with the car. This is more important than the damn car. This
is my life we're talking about."

"Will you please tell me what's going on?"

"And if I do? Then what? What are you going to do? You can't help, you
can't stop it. Only he can do that. And he's not going to. So I've got
to make it difficult for him. I had it all planned, had it all figured
out. That was until this damned party of yours. Now it's all turned to
shit and I'm left to fix it. So don't talk to me about the car, don't
talk to me about anything."

Twenty minutes.

"Tell me why you hated the party, Richard. Please. I think I've a right
to know that. I only set it up because I love you."

A collage of emotions crossed Richard's face but the one that took up
permanent residence was of steely determination. He dropped the menu
card to the table and, for one horrible moment, Janet thought he was
about to hit her. Then a waiter appeared at the table. His lapel badge
proclaimed: Hello, My Name is DAVE It's My Pleasure To Serve You.

"Are you ready to order yet?" he asked.

"No, give us five minutes," said Richard. Janet had been about to order
a coffee, tea, anything that would keep the waiter around for a few
more minutes. Long enough to defuse Richard's temper. She had never
seen him as bad as this, had never seen him come so close to hitting
her. The waiter was looking at her now and his questioning look felt
like unspoken communication. Was he asking her if she wanted to order
or was he asking something else? Please, she felt like saying, get me
out of here, save me from this. But instead she smiled, shook her head
and "Dave" melted back into the noise of the restaurant.

Nineteen minutes.

The restaurant was noisy, filled with people, but Janet felt crushed by
silence. She did not dare look at Richard in case that pushed his
irritation into the physical. Then she found herself wondering if her
ignoring him would do the same. She was momentarily caught in an agony
of indecision when Richard said: "When was your first vivid memory,
Janet?"

She started, unsure of what he had asked, his voice had been so quiet.
"My what?"

"Your first memory. How far back can you remember?"

"I'm not sure. My tenth birthday I think." She was hesitant, unsure. It
was as if a single word out of place would push him back into a sullen
silence or something worse. "I was so happy to be in double figures at
last and worried at the same time because I was going to go to the big
school later that year." She looked steadily at him, wondering if her
next question would be the trigger. "Why?"

"My earliest memory was when I was four. That was when I first saw the
ghost."

Was it just another trickle of water running down her spine or
something deeper within her? "Ghost?"

"Of my dead brother."

The background noise of the restaurant seemed to be dying away. She
could hear the chink of cutlery, the rattle of cups, chairs scraping on
the tiled floor - everything other than conversation. It sounded like
the other diners were listening in.

"Satisfied now?" Richard asked, returning to the menu. "Now you know
I'm mad?"

"What happened? What did you see?"

He lowered the menu and his voice. "I only remember vaguely. I can't be
specific. It was thirty-six years ago. But I do remember I screamed the
place down. Mother told me later that I'd told her there was a ghost in
my room. We moved shortly afterwards and that was that."

Eighteen minutes.

"You said that was when you first saw the ghost. You've seen it
since?"

Richard gave a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Oh, yes. I've seen
it since all right. The first night I saw it was on my birthday - my
proper birthday. It was midnight, the first few seconds of the
twenty-ninth of February. And I've seen it at midnight on the
twenty-ninth of February ever since. Every four years. Now I don't want
to talk about it any more." And with that, he placed his face behind
the menu again.

Janet didn't know what to say. She had obviously been given more
information than he would have liked. Hell, she'd been given more
information than she would have liked. What was she supposed to make of
this? Was he teasing her? But something in his eyes and told her he
wasn't. Something inside Richard was hurting. Part of him, most of him
was trying to keep it inside, bottled up. But the pressure was
building. The genie was about to leave the lamp.

Seventeen minutes.

Another waiter appeared by the table. They seemed to be conspiring to
pick the most dramatic moments to do so. He was a different waiter to
before, older. Hello, My Name is --------- It's My Pleasure To Serve
You said his badge. Either he objected to the increasing
Americanisation of British restaurants or the badge had accidentally
been through the wash. In any respect his name remained a
mystery.

"Are you ready to order Sir? Madam?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'll have...." Richard traced his finger with some distaste
through the pictures of the dubious delights on offer. "...I'll have a
Darcy's Special. With fries please. And a coke."

The waiter made some ticking motions on the pad he carried. "And for
madam?"

It seemed a little incongruous to be called "Madam" whilst been asked
to choose a burger. "Just a coffee please. With milk and sugar."

More ticking motions. "Nothing to eat?" A hint of reprimand?

"No thank you."

"Certainly, it won't be long." And then he was gone.

Janet took the opportunity of Richard's lowered menu to ask him more.
Rub a little harder, force the genie to leave. "So you saw the ghost
again when you were eight?"

Richard nodded. "Yeah. The same thing happened. Midnight he appeared in
my bedroom, woke me up. Like I told you in the car - that was when he
told me the truth, that I'd been born on the twenty-ninth. I challenged
my mother the following day. She was a bit shocked that I knew but she
admitted it. I didn't mention my brother that time - I didn't want her
knowing that I knew."

"Knew what?"

Sixteen minutes.

"Knew that I was a twin."

"A twin?"

"Don't you see? That was who the ghost was. My twin brother."

The restaurant seemed to have lost some of its previous warmth. Janet
glanced out of the window at the icy landscape that lay outside. Snow
continued to fall, battering the windows, trying to find a way in. She
was remembering the impression she had gained that someone or something
had been watching them from the side of the motorway. She had dismissed
the thought at the time as her own over-active imagination. Now, she
was not so sure.

"So there it is," said Richard, "That's all there is to know. Every
four years I see my dead twin brother. Satisfied now? Think me mad? I
don't care if you do or don't. But if you breathe a word of this to
anyone else, I'll kill you. You understand?"

Janet found herself wondering if he meant it literally. The edge in his
voice was enough to give her doubts. "There's more to it than this,"
she heard herself say. "You've gone to too much trouble tonight.
There's got to be more to it than this."

Fifteen minutes.

"Okay, you want to know the rest? Think you can handle it? Okay, have
the lot. Welcome to my nightmare - all forty years of it. On my twelfth
birthday he arrives again - stroke of midnight. I'd stayed up late -
the first time I'd been allowed to. My mother was out of the room, my
father had run off with some cheap tart a few years previously. So I'm
there, on my own and he turns up. Only this time I can see him clearly.
And I can see the death in his eyes. And he tells me that my time is
borrowed, that I have stolen the life that was rightfully his. And he
tells me that he will remind me of this for ten of our birthday's - ten
twenty-ninth's of February. And on his last visit he will take me with
him. This is visit number three, he says, only seven more to go. And
then he's gone."

Fourteen minutes.

Panic had grabbed Janet's heart and was squeezing for all it was worth.
The restaurant seemed too small, the people in it seemed to be huddled
in conspiracy. "So you're saying...."

"I'm saying that tonight is his tenth and final visit."

The wind roared in fury, rattling the window in its frame. She was not
sure what was making her more fearful - Richard's story or the fact
that he clearly believed it. This was Richard, this was the calm and
rational business man who had built his own company from the ground
upwards. This was her husband for God's sake. And yet, this was also
the man who was telling her that he was being haunted by his dead twin
brother?

"So why did you want to go home? Surely if he can turn up
there...."

"He wouldn't turn up at our house. He couldn't"

"Why not?"

Thirteen minutes.

"Because I had it blessed."

"You had it what?"

"I had it blessed. I rang the local priest, give him some spiel about
how I thought the house was possessed. He probably thought I was mad
but he turned up anyway."

"You think that'll stop the haunting?"

"How do I know? He can turn up anywhere - anywhere at all. I spent my
sixteenth birthday at a friend's house - he turned up. When I was
twenty I was in halls of residence at University - he turned up. Every
time the same, every time gloating of my demise. That was why I had the
house blessed - I was determined to beat him. That was why I didn't
want to go to the damned party."

Twelve minutes.

"But you could have said..."

"Oh sure. You don't believe me now, do you? What chance would there
have been earlier on? I didn't mind going to the pub to meet John and
the others - I knew I could get home by midnight. But where we ended
up? No way."

"So why are we here? What does this place offer?"

Richard shrugged. "People. It's got people. Look at them all. What did
that waitress say? Coach crash? That must be what's caused the hold-up
- that's why everyone's here. That jam won't shift for hours. We can
stay here. Every time he's come to me before, I've been alone. Even if
I'd have stayed at the party - when would it have finished? One? Two?
This place is open twenty-four hours a day. If we can stay here for
twenty-four hours we're safe."

Ever since Richard had started this tale, Janet had been aware that he
was starting to include her in the situation. Half an hour ago she
would have wanted it. Now, his casual use of the first-person plural
was disconcerting. "We're safe? Are you implying I'm in danger as
well?"

Eleven minutes.

Richard shrugged but it was clear he thought she might be. It was
equally clear that he didn't really give a damn. "Who knows? I've never
been married before. Don't blame me - if you hadn't have organised that
bloody party, none of this would have happened."

"I can't believe you're blaming me."

"Who said I was blaming you? I'm just saying. Anyway, you don't believe
a word of it do you? Midnight will come and go, nothing will happen and
you'll just carry on thinking I'm mad."

"I don't think you're mad, Richard."

"So you believe me?"

"Of course."

He gave her a smile that was as convincing as a Darcy's waitress.
"You're a lousy liar Janet. Don't worry, I wouldn't believe me
either."

This seemed to Janet to be a conversational cul-de-sac so she returned
her gaze outside the window. The snow was not easing at all - she had
never seen a night like it in her life. She could almost hear the
building groaning under the pressure of the wind, could feel the weight
of the snow accumulating on the roof. She glanced around the room. Most
of the customers in the restaurant were elderly. This seemed a bit
surprising - Darcy's was not exactly known as an old person's haunt.
Most were just sipping unidentifiable brown liquid from tiny cups but a
few were tucking into burgers with unseemly enthusiasm. Eating them
with relish, she thought and resisted the urge to giggle.

Ten minutes.

An elderly couple sitting beneath the window returned Janet's gaze.
"Terrible night," she said.

"I'll say." This from the old man. He waved his hand outside the
window. "Coach crash."

"I know, the waitress said." She glanced around but the waitress called
Susan appeared to have vanished. "Is that causing the hold up on the
motorway do you know?"

"I wouldn't know. Terrible business though. Our daughter is waiting for
us, you know. What a mess."

"Can't you phone? You might be here a while if they've closed the
motorway."

The old woman shook her head with a wry smile, "No phone here,
love."

"Oh, there's one over by the..." she looked over at the entrance door
but there was no phone there. "Damn, I could have sworn...."

The old woman smiled. "Don't worry, we all get confused sometimes,
don't we?"

"But I was sure...." she trailed off. Perhaps she had imagined it. It
had been a long night after all, and she'd had quite a bit to
drink.

Nine minutes.

The old woman returned her gaze outside the window, at the swirling
chaotic snow dancing beyond. "I wonder how long they'll keep us here?"
she asked, more to herself than her husband.

Janet thought this a curious thing to say but decided not to enquire.
She turned back to Richard but his head was buried in the menu again.
Janet found herself becoming annoyed. He'd already ordered from the
nameless waiter - this was obviously a tactic he was employing to avoid
speaking to his wife. Perhaps he thought that he'd said too much
already. In any respect, she saw no reason to stay where she was to be
ignored. "I'm going to the toilet," she announced to the smiling cow
and stood up.

She threaded her way though the packed restaurant towards the toilet
door, wincing as the feeling returned to her bare feet and with it the
pain. The eyes that surrounded her continued to be focused at menus,
tables, partners. Never her. Again, she thought this surprising. The
pain in her feet must have been visible in her face. Why was no one
showing any interest?

Eight minutes.

She pushed open the toilet door and went immediately to the sink. She
groaned as she saw herself in the mirror - the snow had smeared makeup
across her face, mascara ran from her eyes like a clown's painted
tears. She ran the water as hot as she dared and began to wash her
face, the water stinging after the freezing snow.

As she washed she considered the number of people in the restaurant.
Coach crash or no, how had they all got here? There were no vehicles in
the car park. Leaving that consideration aside - why here? There was no
easy route between the jammed-up motorway and here - her own ruined
makeup and clothing were testimony to that. None of it made any
sense.

Seven minutes.

She looked around for a towel but there wasn't one - only a hot-air
hand drier that boasted of its advantages whilst singularly failing to
mention that it was incapable of drying faces. She thumped the button
and held her tingling hands under its hot stream, periodically rubbing
them across her face and through her birds-nest hair.

And then there was the disappearing telephone. She was convinced that
there had been a telephone by the entrance door - a dilapidated old
thing quite of place in the plastic paradise that was a Darcy's
restaurant. That was why she'd noticed it. But when she'd pointed it
out to the old woman it hadn't been there. Had she really noticed it or
had a waiter removed it without her noticing?

Another thought occurred to her - and this one made perfect sense.
Richard had married her for insurance. "Every time he's come to me
before, I've been alone," he'd said. Had he married her to ensure that
he wouldn't be alone on his birthday, his real birthday? She didn't
want to believe it but it did have a kind of twisted logic.

No. She wouldn't allow herself to think that way. If that were the
case, why object to the party?

Because he's not convinced you'll protect him, said her inner voice.
'I've never been married before' was what he said. Remember?

Yes, she remembered. But there was nothing to be gained by thinking
that way.

The hand drier clicked off. Her hands were still damp but they were
warm and she could feel her finger-tips again. It was not an unpleasant
sensation. She glanced round to see herself in the mirror. Her face was
pink and naked but it looked a lot better than it had before. Even
though no one in the restaurant had seemed bothered about her
appearance she certainly was. She would feel a lot better about
returning to her seat than she had about leaving it.

Six minutes.

She pulled open the door and re-entered the restaurant. The scent of
Darcy's perfume was in the air - a heady mix of cooking fat, beef and
vinegar. Despite everything, Janet felt herself salivating. Perhaps she
would eat something after all. Then she would suggest to Richard that
she return to the car. With any luck, the snow would have eased off by
then.

A glance outside killed that plan - the snow, impossibly, was falling
harder than ever. It battered the windows, vaporising; fresh snow
taking its place; constant, unrelenting. She could not face the walk
for another hour at least. In that time wouldn't the motorway have
reopened?

It was impossible to say - but then this whole situation was
impossible. Even if she returned to the car she was still far too drunk
to attempt to move it. The police would be with the car - they'd
probably have moved it by now. No, it would be better if she stayed
with Richard - even if she didn't know what to make either of his story
or his fears. One of them she could believe in - she'd seen the
evidence. But the other?

She turned away from the window and started to walk back to the tiny
table. A rack of newspapers caught her eye and she snatched one up. At
least now she had something a little more substantial to read than
Richard. But he had dropped the menu back in its holder, she saw. Now
he was staring into space, seeing nothing. She suddenly felt
irrationally guilty for leaving him and she quickened her steps.

Five minutes.

She sat down opposite her husband. He glanced briefly at her; through
her and then back into space. There was a look in his eyes that could
not be easily described. It no longer seemed to be just fear. "It was
snowing that night, you know," he said.

"Which night?" What was he talking about now?

The night I was born. The night my brother was born. My mother told me.
It was the worst snow she'd ever seen, she said. It had been snowing
for a few hours when she went into labour. My father decided to take
her to the hospital himself. Bad decision. They lived in the Dales, in
the middle of the countryside. The hospital was thirty miles away. He
lost the car on a bend, crashed into the kerb, buckled the wheel. They
weren't hurt but they were in the middle of nowhere in the freezing
snow. I was born in the back of a Morris Minor, my brother shortly
afterwards. It was the snow. If it hadn't been for the snow, we would
have been okay."

Four minutes.

Janet held her hand out to Richard but he seemed unwilling - or unable
- to take it. "My brother was smaller than I was," he continued. "He
was born five minutes after I was. There was either no heater in the
car or it didn't work. The cold was crippling. I survived - he didn't.
At least, that was my mother's story. That was what she told me."

"You don't believe her?"

"I did. But my brother told me differently."

The freezing night seemed to be doing its best to penetrate the room.
Janet found herself shivering. "What did he tell you?"

There was a pause before Richard answered. "According to him, my father
was horrified when he was born. He hadn't been expecting twins. My
mother had suspected all along but she hadn't told my father. He had a
tendency to knock her about a bit and she knew that he didn't want one
kid let alone two - money was tight for them and he thought they
wouldn't be able to survive."

Three minutes.

Janet could see where this was leading and she didn't want it to.
"You're not saying..."

"I'm saying that my father named me 'heads' and my brother 'tails'.
Then he tossed a coin. It came down 'heads', Janet. That's why I
survived. That's why my brother didn't. The car wasn't damaged like my
mother said - it only had a flat tyre. My father changed it and drove
me and my mother back home. They left my brother in the snow. Left him
to die cold and alone. He lived for less than twenty minutes."

She looked into her husband's face and finally identified the other
emotion that was hiding behind his eyes. It was pain. A pain so
deep-rooted that she wondered why she'd never seen it before. Whether
Richard's story was true or not, the pain was real, the fear was real.
"Why does he blame you?" she asked gently.

"Jealousy, I suppose. I had the life that was denied him. He didn't
even have the pretence of a life. Nobody found the body. I suppose if
they had they might have caught my parents - made them pay. But a wild
dog found his body and took it away. Do you know they never even named
him? That was what he found so hard to bear. They never even bothered
to give him a name."

Two minutes.

The restaurant seemed to be listening in again. Background noise seemed
to be fading. Richard was no longer looking at her - he was staring
down at the table, head in hands. Once more she tried to reach out to
him, once more she failed and withdrew her hand. It brushed against the
newspaper she had picked up. She had taken it because she'd thought
that Richard would not have talked to her. She'd been wrong about that
but right earlier - right when she'd thought that he wanted to tell
someone. Well he had, the genie was now well and truly out of the
bottle. But if it would grant her only one wish it would be that it had
never appeared in the first place.

She lifted the paper, intending to return it to the stand. Instead she
stared dumbly at the photograph on the front page, fear trickling cold
water down her spine.

It was that morning's paper. Beneath the headline "Girl Waits In Vain
at Coach Station" was a photograph of the girl's mother. The old woman
had been killed along with forty other old-age pensioners when their
coach had left the motorway.

It was the same old woman Janet had spoken to a few minutes ago.

One minute.

She turned her eyes slowly. The woman was still sitting beneath the
window, still staring through the glass at the tumbling snow. Richard
had commented about how busy the restaurant was. What had the waitress
said? "Sorry. Big accident. Coach, you know?"

Fifty seconds.

More memories. What had the woman said? "I wonder how long they'll keep
us here?" Who?

Forty seconds.

She glanced around the restaurant. Most of the occupants were old.
She'd noticed that before and thought it odd. Were they all from the
coach?

What is this place?

Thirty seconds.

Her nerveless fingers relaxed on the paper and it slithered to the
floor in a waterfall of newsprint. Richard looked up, as if in slow
motion and she saw the kitchen door at the far end of the restaurant
open.

Twenty seconds.

It was the waiter, carrying Richard's food. But she did not notice his
face, only his name badge. At the blank space in the middle where his
name should be. My Name is -------------- It's My Pleasure To Serve You
it said.

"Janet?" asked Richard, "What's up?"

"...They never even bothered to give him a name."

Walking towards them now. With burger and fries in one hand.

My Name is --------------------

And a knife in the other.

Ten seconds.

"Richard, this place...."

"What about it?"

Nine seconds.

"Don't you see what it is?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

Eight seconds.

"It's a waiting room, Richard."

"A what?"

Seven seconds.

"A waiting room. These people...."

His voice was rising now, "What about them? What are you talking
about?"

Six seconds.

"They're dead Richard. Don't you see? Everyone in here."

Five seconds.

Panic in the voice, "No, we're safe here, we've got to be."

Four seconds.

"The waiter, Richard. The one who took our order....."

Three seconds.

Screaming now, deafening. Still nobody reacts. "What? What about
him?"

Two seconds.

"He has no name, Richard. He has no name!"

He twists in his seat, sees the waiter. Sees the badge.
Understands.

One second.

The waiter speaks, fingering the knife. "Hello, Richard," he
says.

Zero.

* * *

And she's running, tumbling, falling; hitting the snow, climbing back
to her feet, running again; no direction; no plan; just running; away
from the restaurant; away from the madness and the memories and the
death.

The police find her, of course. Several hours later. Footsore,
bleeding, incoherent. A blanket wrapped round her in the back of a
patrol car, she tells them her story. When she tells them of their
abandoned car one of them nods wisely and uses the radio. She is not
sure why they find this so important. She tells them of the restaurant
- of the waiter who wasn't and the customers who weren't. They don't
believe her so she offers to show them. Then they, too, will
believe.

But this isn't right. There is no restaurant here, only a burnt-out
shell of a barn nestling beside a farm-track. At first she insists that
she has the wrong road - that this could not have been the restaurant.
But two pairs of footprints approach it and only one pair leaves. The
policemen exchange glances and go in.

Inside the crumbling, derelict building they find Richard's body. It
lies on snow that has fallen through the shattered roof. The throat is
cut and a dark pool stains the snow, reflecting the star-light that has
replaced the storm-clouds. His face is different now, at peace.

They lead her outside. There will be many questions to come. "Did you
see who did this?" one of them asks.

She nods, impatient. She is staring heavenward, at the stars that
spot-weld the night sky, holding it in place.

"Can you describe him?"

She stares at the young man, not seeing, only hoping. Hoping that
Richard and his brother are now one with each other. The policemen look
at each other, wondering if she will reply.

"Richard," she says finally, "He looked a lot like Richard."

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