Henry Morgan - The drivers

"Can you sort this out?" he asked, not expecting a negative reply.

The man folded the notes calmly into his wallet. "It looks," he said, "as if someone's going to take a swim from the ferry on the way home."

There was little traffic on the road as Peter drove south towards the coast and his last chance of rescuing Susan.

This was Tuesday and Saturday would be The Drivers passover. Hell Raiser would give Susan to any Driver who brought him some other female in exchange. If that happened it could mean losing track of her for another month.

The other scenario was too unbearable to contemplate. If Lincoln managed to take another woman off the road and exchanged her for Susan, he might well carry out his threat to put her six foot under.

After fleeing the scene of Dan's murder at the fair Peter felt inadequate and humiliated, frightened too, frightened to the bone. He cringed at the memory, the way he had run and stumbled his way across the dark fields to the safety of his car and home. He had thought of telling the police but if they didn't really believe him and sent someone over to ask a few questions, it could only cause more trouble.

No, it was up to him.

But was he up to it?

He floored the accelerator in self disgust. When Saturday came he mustn't be found wanting again.

It looked very ominous from the outset.

The Chinese meal which had stained the pavement for so long had finally turned to dust and been blown away by the wind. In its place were several bottles of milk, a few minus their tops where thirsty tits had managed to break through the foil to get at the cream.

Peter rang the bell but heard no sound. When he lifted the iron knocker, he felt the shabby paint-peeled door move under his actions. He pushed it and called for Melanie. There was no reply. He called half way up the stairs, and again at the top, receiving the same answer. The remains of the door chimes lay in broken pieces on the worn nylon mat.

He made his way nervously across the small landing that led to the flat, aware of a faint buzzing sound coming from inside. The sound turned out to be flies that were feasting on the meal he and Melanie had eaten the night he'd left. The white cloth they had made love on now moved to the pulsating bodies of newborn maggots crawling everywhere. Peter waved away numerous bluebottles that landed on his skin.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it cowboy fashion around his face. The place was deserted. He passed into the bedroom and saw the sad remains of Barnie scattered about. He picked up the furry head and carried it across to the body impaled on the mirror. As he vainly tried to re-attach the two parts he caught a glimpse of someone standing in the doorway behind.

"What the Hell's going on here, mister?" The figure stepped further into the room. "The dirty cow never keeps the place clean, but this -" He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Melanie's torn underwear in shreds on the floor. Suddenly he realised something sinister had taken place and his anger was suddenly replaced with uncertainty.

When he spoke there was fear in his voice.

"Where's Melanie?"

Peter's voice was also strained. It was obvious to him how everything must look.

"I've no idea."

"I've come for the rent," the man said. "But who are you?"

It was no time to explain. Peter lunged for the door and his only way of escape, knocking over the other man who tried to block his path. Before he had a chance to recover Peter had fled from the building and was in his car and away.

He had been in town less than half an hour before finding himself back on the road and heading for home. Near Peterborough he found a quiet roadside cafe and stopped for a cup of tea and a bite to eat while collecting his thoughts and planning his next move. By the time he reached home the day would be gone and Saturday a day nearer.

He finished his tea, and resigned himself to the idea that Colin had tortured Melanie to get her to talk and then murdered her. He left his cup on the table next to the standard culinary issue of a transport stop, one red sauce, one brown and an empty salt-cellar.

It was Wednesday already.

The bedside alarm failed to waken the exhausted Peter, who slept in almost to midday. Unsteadily he found his way across the landing into the bathroom and took a long hard look at himself in the vanity mirror. He was not a pretty sight. Several days growth of beard cast a dirty shadow across his face and his eyes had that morning after look that usually accompanies a night of too much alcohol.

He scraped away the stubble and stepped in to a hot shower that did much to revive his flagging body. In his kitchen he made eggs on toast and sat at the breakfast counter to eat and watch the lunchtime news on TV. It was the same round of death, royalty and Mrs Miggins' cat up a tree for some light relief at the end. When it finally finished he switched channels to some children's programme that involved tiny creatures that lived on the moon, communicated by whistles, and got their food from a soup dragon who lived in a cave. Peter hit the off button and went back to his eggs.

On Thursday he went to beg help from Claire, Susan's sister

Nothing doing.

Total disbelief.

A big flea in the ear from Jeff, her new lover.

His last plan lay in shreds.

Back home, waiting outside his house, he found the wagon he had asked to borrow from his friend Kevin. The keys, as they had agreed, were hidden in the exhaust. He took them inside and cleaned himself up.

He would take the wagon back in the morning. He wouldn't be needing it now.

It was Friday night.

Claire finished off her drink when the landlord called time, said goodbye to her friend, and left for the walk home.

It was a cold bright night and her way was well lit by a full moon. Passing Saint Bartholomew's cemetery she stepped up her pace. The old Victorian railings and the angelic statues beyond always gave her the shivers, but it was the shortest route home. Tonight, in the bright moonlight, the marble angels looked even more eerie as they cast their long shadows across broken headstones.

Once past the gates Claire was able to relax and slow down. Her breathing, though clearly visible in the chill night air as brief puffs of mist, returned to normal.

She turned into her road, relieved as always to be near home. A few yards from her garden she began the customary search for the door key and began rummaging through her handbag, finding it as she reached the gate. She started down the path, allowing the gate to swing shut behind her. The clang of the rusting iron hitting the gate-post masked the noise of leaves rustling in the bushes.

Almost at the door her eyes rested on the house number as she raised the key to the lock. For some reason the silver numbers became fuzzy and appeared to be floating away. They started spinning around each other and were suddenly joined by dozens of other numbers. Claire blinked hard, trying to impose some order on the wayward figures…

They responded by fading into blackness and Claire followed suit.

Peter Warburton's breath broke in short violent gasps as he struggled with the large parcel over his shoulder and the stubborn garage doors.

Finally, when the lock gave way, he managed to stagger inside, dumping the tarpaulin wrapped bundle on the ground before returning to lock the doors and switch on the light.

There were no windows to the garage, which remained empty apart for a few bits and pieces, a chest freezer and an old armchair Peter had intended to throw out years ago. He carried the bundle across to the chair and laid it across the arms, then he carefully pulled back the canvas to reveal his captive.

She was still unconscious from the chloroform soaked cloth he had held over her mouth. He was surprised at how little she had struggled, and how simple it had been to creep up behind her and take her off the street without a sound.