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Coarse blades of wet grass poked into his face, the
tiny serrations on their edges making a virtually imperceptible rasp
on the skin of his cheek. On rainy lights like this the moisture seemed
to free the acrid deposits from exhausts trapped in the greenery around
his face. Even though the smell made his nostrils itch and smart, he
resisted the temptation to wipe his sleeve across his nose because he
knew it would remove the carefully applied camouflage cream coating
his face. Barely twelve feet from his head a car raced past, wet tyres
hissing on the tarmac, headlights flickering between the crash barrier’s
struts like an ancient cinema projector. He wondered if the grass could
have drawn blood.
Pushing his left forearm out he bent the clump backwards, and keeping
himself perfectly flat, wriggled over the top. Beyond, a dip in the
ground offered some improved cover and he pushed his body forward into
the depression. As he did so his elbow knocked into a can. He stopped
moving at the hollow metallic noise. Fingers probed the vegetation until
the object was located. Holding it in front of his face, he used his
other hand to twist the pencil torch gripped in his teeth. Insulation
tape over its end reduced the beam to laser-like proportions. Using
his tongue he played the pinpoint of light over the metal surface: a
standard coke can, not even from outside the EU. He discarded it, turned
the torch off and then lay motionless for a while with his eyes shut,
waiting for his night vision to return.
He relished these visits more than any thing else in his life. This
was his territory, free from any other humans through their very proximity
within hurtling metal cages. He imagined the unkempt stretches of grass
to be islands and the motorway lanes surrounding them an impenetrable
grey moat. It was his little kingdom, shared only with the vermin, scavengers
and foraging creatures of the night. He knew they also came here because
he’d find their pathetically smeared remains where they’d
tried to cross back over the hard expanse and into the normal countryside
beyond. Field-mice, door-mice, voles, shrews, hedgehogs, weasels, rats
and stoats – he’d collected all manner of corpses, or what
was left after the cars had crushed them and
the crows had taken their pick.
Another vehicle shot past, this time on his right hand side, going in
the opposite direction. By now the rain had begun to soak through his
army surplus all-in-one suit. He wondered how much searching he had
left before it started getting light. Opening his eyes he craned
his head back, looking for any sign of the full moon. He couldn’t
see the unbroken cloud covering the sky, just sense its weight in the
blackness above. Reluctantly he undid the velcro clasp on his cuff and
glanced at the luminous tipped arms of his watch: they read 3:21 a.m.
*
* * * * * *
The driver’s window suddenly hummed into life,
destroying the peace that had slowly settled over the two occupants.
As glass slid into door, cold air and spatters of rain immediately began
blowing in. He looked questioningly at the man slouched before the steering
wheel, hands resting on his paunch.
‘I’d lower yours too – I’ve just dropped one.’
‘Jesus,’ he replied, scrabbling in the dark before the first
whiffs hit him.
‘This,’ the driver announced, ‘is going to be a right
shag of a night. Pissing rain and stinking wind – I wouldn’t
be in your shoes on this shift.’ He popped the last two tablets
from a blister pack and tossed the empty sheet of plastic through the
open window. ‘Bloody indigestion,’ he said, swallowing the
two pills. ‘Do you know, I have to sleep sitting up in bed? It’s
the only way of stopping the acid from burning the back of my throat.’
The passenger grimaced in sympathy and poked his nose into the cold
stream of air coming through the gap in his window. The man in the driver’s
seat stared out of the motionless car’s windscreen and drummed
his fat fingers on the steering wheel.
Suddenly the radio spat static and a buzzing voice said, ‘Base
to 1820F4, RTA involving two vehicles reported off the slip road at
Junction 8, northbound. Please attend.’
The response sounded almost immediately, ‘1820 to base, will be
at the scene in about 6 minutes.’
‘Roger 1820. Be advised a member of the public has already called
for an ambulance.’
The younger man listened intently. Four days into his attachment and
he still couldn’t make out half of what was being said over the
car radio.
‘Well, that’s bog all to do with us – and it’s
too far to go just to give you a bit of roadside experience son,’
said the driver closing his window. ‘I reckon we go and get a
coffee at the services. I could do with a dump and all.’
‘Aren’t we meant to be checking on all breakdowns at the
moment?’ asked the passenger.
The driver looked disdainfully across at the car marooned on the opposite
hard shoulder. ‘Yeah – but we’ll check on him later.
I can’t be shagged driving to the next exit and coming all the
way back now.’ Not waiting for his passenger to respond he started
the engine and turned on the lights. The patrol car rolled slowly down
the concealed ramp onto the hard shoulder and pulled away. As they moved
off the younger man watched the flash of hazard lights from the car
on the other side of the motorway slowly disappearing. When the Services
8 Miles sign drifted lazily past he glanced at the dashboard clock:
3:26 am.
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