The Car

The Car

I'd been driving for some time before I came across the small caf? come
petrol station situated in a layby of the country road. Although
reluctant to break my journey, nature was calling and my mind had
flashed up images of 'Tiredness Kills' signs for the last 60 miles. I
slowed my silver-blue Mondeo (the company car for middle managers),
signalled and pulled into the layby. I made sure to keep my car away
from the tatty lorry drivers who wouldn't think twice about rubbing
past the mirrors and leaving dirty black smudges along the wings.

Getting out of the car, I unselfconsciously licked my fingers and
slicked back my hair, adjusting my sunglasses so as to take a snapshot
of the world in true colour before hiding my eyes from the bright light
once more. I checked down to assess the creases caused by the seatbelt
on my shirt - and to make sure that my tie was straight. Satisfied, I
walked purposefully towards the streaked glass door of the grimy
caf?.

As I reached for the door handle, I was aware of a figure on the other
side of the glass. The door was so cloudy it was difficult to tell that
it wasn't my reflection, but the smiling visage assured me that it was
not. I let go of the handle, as did she. Then reached for it with the
intention of gallantly sweeping the door open for her to walk through -
a smile fixed on my face to demonstrate that my old-fashioned
gentlemanly gesture was accentuated through my deliberate, albeit
momentary, loss of power. Unfortunately, she had the same idea and, as
the door opened inward and not outward as I expected, I was caught off
guard. Stumbling, I was jerked in through the open doorway and, in my
predicament, ended up grabbing hold of her jacket as I fell, pulling
her down onto me. Horrified, I struggled to regain my feet without
imposing myself on any part of her person but she just laughed -
laughed too girlishly for me to resist and I felt myself joining
in.

'Shall I get you a coffee?' she said, between giggles. 'And perhaps a
napkin to wipe that lovely suit?'

I looked at her properly then. She was young, perhaps in her early 20s
and, although not of traditional good looks, she was not unattractive.
Her hair was almost red - certainly not ginger, but much stronger than
auburn and definitely natural. She shone with the clean, unspoilt look
of someone who has been well brought up.

'Thank you,' I said. And then added, 'to both suggestions.'

**********

We spoke for some time and, despite her youth, I found her to hold a
healthy respect for those her senior, such as myself. She allowed
herself to be both daring and charming - hinting just a touch at
flirtatiousness without giving the impression that she was cheap or
tarnished. As time went on, more and more I lost the will to return to
the warmth and safety of my car and the need to continue with my
journey.

Presently, the conversation came around to her. I asked her where she
was from, where she was going.

'I was brought up in London,' she smiled, knowing that I knew. 'I'm at
university now - doing some research.'

I enquired further, and found out that she was writing a thesis on
phenomenology. She shyly explained that she was investigating all
manner of rumours said to have originated from the very place in which
we sat. However, she had been coming here every day for weeks now, and
nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She explained that had it not
been for my timely entrance (at which point she dissolved into giggling
near-hysteria again) she would have left for the last time.

Of course, I was not surprised that she hadn't seen anything out of the
ordinary. After all, one rarely does, but I felt strangely compelled to
indulge her and inquired further about what she was expecting to
find.

'There's a story about a mystery driver,' she began. 'His car had been
the love of his life, he polished it every day - almost, some said, to
the neglect of everything else, including his wife and family.

No one can quite agree on the type and model, but it is said that it
was a gleaming white convertible. Very expensive, finest leather
interior and all that. Anyway, one day, whilst driving down the very
road that passes out the front there, he was overtaken by one of those
boy-racers, you know, baseball cap on backwards, alloy wheels, thumping
stereo. This boy didn't just overtake, but cut in right in front of
him, then turned and gave him the finger.

The guy, the sports car driver I mean, was absolutely incensed. Not
only did he share the typical male competitive instinct but the thought
of damage to his car made his blood boil and he put his foot down,
determined to wreak revenge - although what he was going to do I don't
know. The chase went on for some time - every time he got up close to
the boy, the boy would pull away, and in the end they were both doing
about 80 or 90 down that windy little road. Then, as they came around
the bend you can just see up there, the boy swung off the road and into
the layby outside. The story goes he came in so fast that as he braked
he sprayed gravel right over the roof of this very caf?!

Well, the guy saw him leave the road, but, as he turned to come in, a
refuse truck pulled out - and you can guess what
happened&;#8230;.the car was a complete wreck, he hit the truck so
hard that the engine ended up in the back seat. They said he died
instantly with a look of horror still etched on his face!'

She looked up and straight into my eyes, unflinching.

'You know what?' she continued.

I shook my head.

'Every year, about this time, a gleaming white sports car pulls into
the layby outside, and, just as the driver's furious face becomes
visible, people hear a dreadful moan - the moan that the man's meant to
have made the split second he saw the truck, and then the car
disappears. People say the moan is the sound of a man who has seen the
purpose he lives for disappear before his very eyes&;#8230;'

She paused dramatically. A bit too dramatically for such an absurd
story, but I somehow wanted to humour her so I allowed a trace of
interest to spread across my brow.

'You've not seen this yourself though?'

'No,' she replied, amateurishly fluttering her eyelashes. 'But maybe
with your help&;#8230;'

She took my arm and led me outside. Almost immediately I began to feel
strangely uncomfortable and, without thinking, checked myself for
creases. I noticed that my tie was still dishevelled from our fall in
the doorway but her hand on my arm prevented me from straightening it.
I saw that there were flecks of dirt from the filthy caf? floor
remaining on my trousers, and that my shoes were muddy from the spray
of the cars passing by. I wanted to leave then. I wanted to get back
into my shiny, clean car and get back on the godforsaken road. I wanted
to go back home. She looked up at me bewitchingly and then down the
road, to the tight hairpin bend. I followed her stare.

As if in slow motion, an immaculate white sports car emerged from the
corner. First the long, sleek bonnet, then the curved body and shapely
boot. The lights bore into me as the car continued down the road. Even
in the distance I could see the plush, soft leather interior and the
smooth, polished steering wheel. The car glided elegantly, barely
touching the road, shimmering through the heat haze towards me. I stood
transfixed, powerless to speak. Closer, and closer still, until I could
feel the hot metal and hear the pulsating, piston heart of the powerful
engine thudding louder and louder. Only yards away now, I looked up and
met the eyes of the driver and, for a split second, a glimmer of
recognition passed between us, before I broke from her grasp and ran
for my car. I hit the remote for the locks as I ran, making the lights
blink at me, confused. Yanking open the door, I jumped in, and slammed
it before the familiar hideous moaning could reach my ears. I threw the
car into gear, and screeched off, tyres squealing, without looking
back.

**********

'Who the hell was that weirdo?' the young man asked his
girlfriend.

'Oh just some guy,' she said. 'I didn't have a thing to say to him.
Besides, where the hell have you been? I've been waiting for you for
over an hour.'

Julian Martin
? March 2001

Revised January 2002