Henry Morgan - The drivers

The whole scene became too much for Peter to bear and he decided to leave Wettle and head for home. Hopefully he would have another chance for Susan at the passover the following week. The only problem with leaving, was that those who were going had gone and the others looked like they were here for the night.

If he headed for the gate now, he would look conspicuous. The only other option would be to make it to the edge of the field and work his way around, sticking to the side of the drainage ditch. He did that, finding the going difficult in the pitch darkness, stumbling often over the uneven ground. Before he had got even half way his clothes were both muddy and wet where the soft drainage banks had given way underfoot, sending him into the mire.

Going back in that state would look even more suspicious, so Peter opted to stay at the back of the various caravans and trailers. That would keep him far enough away from the revealing lights of the fair, yet within the dim glow of the few lights inside some of the vans.

He travelled from vehicle to vehicle embroiled in his thoughts, occasionally stopping to rest and contemplate the Wettle horse fair. Near one large van he noticed a door ajar and several people shuffling inside. Wondering what new shock this innocuous little village could offer, he crept closer, keeping to the shadows.

Inside a number of men were discussing the day's business, Peter recognising the broad Irish lilt of Michael, the man who sold the red haired sisters. Then came another Irish voice, this time a harsh, gravelly one.

"The best one in years," he croaked gruffly. "I've taken my cut."

Peter took a chance and peered in through the crack of the door, seeing the man behind the desk hand Michael a fat wad of notes.

"It's all there," said the man with the gruff voice.

Michael took it with a smile then dropped the bundle on the desk.

"Still," he said, counting the money. "Better safe than sorry."

The other man wasn't offended. He would have been surprised if the money hadn't been checked. Before he had confirmed all was there, another man stepped up for his money. It was Lincoln.

"A good sale tonight," said the one who was obviously the organiser of the sale. "You got a good price for her?"

Lincoln took the money and grunted. "I wanted to keep her a lot longer," he moaned, "but it wouldn't be safe."

Outside Peter strained to see who the others in the room were. He recognised Dan, grinning as usual, but couldn't make out the ones who stayed near the back of the room.

"Why's that, then?"

Lincoln stuffed his money into the pocket of his jeans and stabbed his thumb towards the corner of the room.

"Because her old bloody man was on to me!" he growled. "If I had my way, she'd be six foot under by now." He moved menacingly in the direction which he had aimed his anger, Peter following the action through the strip of light between door and jamb. Moving out of the shadows to block his path stepped a tall black man, his face split by a wide smile. Peter's heart skipped a beat.

It had to be Hell Raiser! Susan might be with him!

The atmosphere in the office had turned suddenly cold as the two men squared up for a confrontation.

"You ain't doing nothing to Groovy, unless I give the say so."

The black man loomed over Lincoln, intimidating him enough to force a back down, making him seethe with the humiliation. Pressing home his point, Hell Raiser reached back into the shadows and pulled out – Susan!

The last time Peter had seen her, she was a demure young lady in pleated skirt and blouse. Now she was wearing a black rubber cat suit with her breasts exposed and a silver nail studded collar. Her blonde bob hair style had been transformed into a shock of back combing, and her eyes were circled with black eye liner that matched the lip stick.

Hell Raiser pulled Susan in front of him.

"She's my bitch now," he sneered. "At least until next week's passover. If you want her back, bring me something better. Or I just might keep her again." He ran his huge black hands over Susans breasts, kneading them firmly. "The exchange better be good, 'cos no-one sucks cock better than Groovy. Ain't that so?"

Peter was almost sick as he watched his wife smile at her tormentor.

"I'm the best cock sucker on the circuit," she told him. "And I'm yours."

Peter leant heavily against the van, his chest pumping hard, his breathing fast.

What had they done to her? What could they have done to make his Susan say such a thing!

How could Peter possibly know about the sting of a hauliers strap, or the almost unbearable ache of joints bound together by the inner tubes from truck wheels. He had no way of knowing that on The Drivers circuit self preservation was the number one priority. All he felt was a sickening doubt. That he had been right all along, that his wife had tired of her older husband and had gone in search of adventure, finding it in the back of a Foden, or a DAF, or a Volvo, wherever a Driver existed to satisfy her needs.

Reluctantly he peered again into the room. An uneasy truce prevailed and the distribution of the money continued in a heavy silence. The person to break it was Dan. In an effort to relieve the strain he started up a conversation with Hell Raiser.

"Met a friend of yours tonight," he told him. "The new Driver you introduced. I had a drink with him in the Forge and brought him over."

The black man's look half said shut the fuck up, while the other half didn't have a clue what the hell Dan was on about.

"I haven't asked anyone into the group," he snarled, angry at the showdown and now this lie. Dan coughed out a nervous little laugh then turned to Jack who had kept a low profile at the back of the room.

"He knows you too, Jack. He said you told him about the job with Lincoln. He's been down there at Felix Ferries."

Jack shook his head. "What the fuck are you on about? I haven't told anyone anything."

Dan was frightened now, only too aware that it was dangerous to betray the organisation. He found himself stepping backwards towards the door as the group began closing in around him.

"You know him Lincoln!" Dan's voice was crackling and broken with nerves. "He pulled some trailers for you last week, an oldish bloke, well spoken."

Lincoln stepped forward, fully involved now.

"I know him! The bastard tried to run me off the road. That's why I had to dump the Chink tonight, I thought he was something to do with her. Colin reckons it's her old man."

He stabbed his thumb once more at Susan, and this time Jack entered the conversation.

"How old do you reckon he was?"

Dan gave it some thought. "Late forties, maybe fifties."

Jack ground his teeth and turned to Susan then back to the group.

"It's him!" he snarled.

A moment of silence fell and then, as if by some hidden signal, the whole group moved towards Dan, Lincoln in front.

"And you brought him here to the horse fair?" he said, almost with disbelief. "Some bloke tells you he's one of us and you believe him, just like that. You don't think he might be after something, trying to pry?"

Dan was backing towards the door. "But he knew your names!" he cried. "Yours, Jack's, the Hell Raiser."

"What about the passover?" Lincoln put in. "Did you tell him anything about that? Anything about Jimmy's, the date, the place?"

Dan held up his arms, seeing an opportunity to redeem himself.

"Of course I didn't," he lied.

But it was too late. Nothing could save him. The impact of a chromium spanner on the back of his head cleaved his skull in two, the gap in the bone sending blood in a scarlet crescent upon the wooden floor.

No one inside the room panicked, although outside Peter was unable to prevent a ball of vomit leaving his mouth. The Hell Raiser leant over Dan, searching his pockets as the dead man's legs kicked their last before his nerves finally died too. He pulled out the money Dan had made from the sale of his girl and threw it over to the man at the desk.