Night Trip

by Peter Ackers

  "…LIVING IN THE DARK…"

  With a noise of rending metal that surely caused damage to the lorry, the driver coerced the gear system into first and the vehicle hauled itself away from the kerb. He spun the wheel, turning the machine towards the centre of the road. My eyes roamed the cab while he ate his late dinner, or early breakfast.

  A mug-holder, a mini-TV, a dog-eared book, a road atlas, a reeking nightshirt slung over the back of my seat, and a host of other accruements that made up the moving home of a long-distance lorry driver - oh, and a single-berth fold-out bed above my head. Accordingly, he was fat from roadside diner dishes from the farmyard menu, and breathed like a man snoring. I checked all this out from the corner of my eye, not wanting to draw his attention to the fact that I was staring at him. Already we'd left the police behind, but I wasn't about to be rude and ask the guy to stop and let me out so early. I thought I'd ride with him a while. If things turned funny, as was the norm for this strange night, I was sure I could open the door and bail before he could wrap meaty fingers around me.

  "So where you headed?" I asked. He pointed out his side window, and a few moments later tugged on the right side of the wheel, passing it through his hands like a man reeling in a long rope, and turned the lorry that way. It shuddered over a high kerb, bouncing us in our seats, and slipped neatly down a street so thin that the trees lining either side scraped at the vehicle's sides. Coat the leaves in soapy water and we'd have gotten a good clean. As the mammoth vehicle rumbled down this homely street, faces appeared at windows - most of them upper windows, given the late hour - and watched. I saw them but the driver didn't: he was concentrating on his steering, trying to make sure he didn't hit any of the cars parked here.

  The street reached a roundabout after a short time and continued onward as a vein compared to the capillary we'd just squeezed down. The extra space either side seemed to comfort the driver, for he ground metal, hit a higher gear, and increased speed.

  At the next junction we went straight ahead and onto a wider road. Vein to artery. Here the abodes were bigger and more luxurious, and afforded the privacy rich people often craved. A long wall of brick, some ten feet high and topped with barbed wire, ran along the back of each pavement, broken only infrequently by iron gates that bore not house numbers but plaques with names like Aristotle, Cuba Libre, Fantasia, and which displayed long driveways beyond. And some way past these gates and driveways were rough silhouettes of large houses where butlers and Perrier water resided.

  Soon the walls ended and once again I was out in open countryside with a strange man. It was a good ten minutes before we made any kind of contact with other drivers, and that only happened because we'd reached the motorway. The M1. It glistened in the wet night like a giant slug trail that crawled with mechanical ants. The guy hadn't spoken at all in those ten minutes, and I was glad of the extra company of other motorists out there on the road, albeit the company of people unable to communicate with me because of their own mobile metal housings.

  Actually the traffic was light this late - or early, if you think of it that way. Mostly trucks like this one, and truckers probably like this one: loners crossing the country. Obviously, these people needed communication with their fellow man while keeping up roaring speeds. All applaud the bright spark who invented -

  "CB," the driver said as he plucked his radio from its holder on his sun visor. "Link to the world." He looked at me. "You be quiet, friend, unless you got a handle. And stick to the jargon, no matter how annoying it is. Keeps the brother-feeling between us, and you need that when you can't see nought but road and you're living in the dark. Keeps the black dog away. When people in this world is at their worst. Mine's Coyote. Handle, that is. Pick one quick and be quiet while I rustle up some local souls. Don't be running through no list of words out loud like some gameshow contestant person tryna guess an answer. Cos I won't applaud it like them."

  He didn't even have time to rustle up his first soul. The first word - not name, but word - that popped in my head exited a moment later through my mouth as if my throat were a waterslide.

  "Avenger."

  "…GUYS AND GIRLS, GIVING THEIR BIT…"

  "No real point to having a big dick. It might help out in the bedroom, but how often do people really have sex? And when not in use, that big dick's just cumbersome, just a big piece of meat hanging there, getting in the way…"

  …

  "- Mr. James lacks respect for authority, it says. He underlined this in his written warning to me, you believe that? This guy was the worst manager I ever knew. And they all say that, don't they? Managers who come across staff who don't accept their titanium-fisted, Gestapo ways of running things - they always use that disrespect-for-authority card…"

  …

  "- but if the real number of Brady and Hindley killings was in fact nine, then that leaves a few more bodies out there on the moors. Personally, I wouldn't admit to them all straight away, because then you go out of the spotlight. Keep bringing one up every few years, get the media attention back. Well, no need to wait now. I am ready. I have a map of possible burial sites, which I drew -"

  …

  Coyote continued to change the channels rapidly, as if he were hoping to find either a voice he recognized or a conversational subject that had some merit.

  …

  " -so, girls, we're back on the trail and you know the frequency. Spot the Charm-Mobile, call us here on this frequency, and we'll give you a…ride!" Two males laughing, their giggling identical, one almost an echo of the other.

  Coyote snatched up the handset like a man who knew the answer to a radio phone-in competition.

  "Boys, I might just have to spank you for your crude behaviour. Fuggedaboudit!"

  "Coyote? The Coyote himself, back on the airwaves?"

  "Back? Nooo, always on the airwaves. Just back in your neck of the woods tonight."

  "So how you been, Coyote? Still pummeling rich businessmen who cut you up in their shiny German cars, eh? Where are you?"

  "Just cruising. Like you. Hey, anyone else out here who wants to chat? Show yourselves, don't hide. Name's Coyote. Got the Tim and Tom Twins here, and a passenger of my own. So, who's about?"

  "Dinosaur," crackled an old male voice. "From right here in Yorkshire. I'm eighty-six, listeners. But still a sharp tack. My son's idea for a name, that."

  "Cleopatra," drawled a female voice just husky enough to be captivating. "I'm not as old as my namesake, unlike our friend, but I'm no spring chicken, either."

  The quiet crackle of empty airwaves. It seemed no one else was listening, or at least no one else was willing to talk.

  "Bollocks," said a voice instantly recognizable as that of a kid. Some kid who'd busted the lock on his dad's attic and gone playing with the CB equipment, probably. He was quiet again.

  "You any close to the town of Hunhaven, Cleo?" asked one of the Twins.

  "You want me to be, love?"

  "Cunts."

  "You anywhere near Hunhaven, Coyote?"

  "Not quite. May be passing it semi-wide soon, though, and I got me a hitchhiker who might get dropped there."

  "What's your name, hitchhiker?"

  I took the handset from Coyote's outstretched hand. I tried to think of something to say. Only one thing was in my mind at the minute, so I said that. I told these faceless strangers about what my girl had done to me.

  The Twins roared with laughter, then apologized and said what a shitty hand I'd been dealt.

  "Women are werewolves, Hitchhiker. Don't fall for their sweet faces, because those faces change soon as you let them into your life. What's your name?"

  "He means your handle," Coyote said. "Never give your real name, Avenger."

  "Avenger," I said.

  "Risky for a girl to cheat on someone calling himself Avenger. You love this girl? She love you? Was it an official bonding? Sometimes a girl just wants to break free, you know? And holding her back in such a time is like not letting a ba
by hawk spread its wings as it gets older."

  "Go Cleo, go Cleo, go yeah, yeah, yeah," a Twin chanted. Their voices were so similar and they never spoke over each other, and I wondered if it was a gimmick - some guy pretending to be two people. The airwaves were a place you could hide the real you and adopt a persona. I felt the urge to do so myself, right now. It was like being able to talk or shout at someone from behind a forcefield - you were untouchable and no one could prove your lies. And playing a character held a sense of daring and secrecy that just felt gooooood.

  "Wanking."

  "Cleo talks like one who knows. But I draw attention to her choice of words. Hawk, for one. A hunter, a creature that takes what it wants, no questions. A savage predator. A Freudian slip on her part there, I think."

  "Go Dino, go Dino, go yeah, yeah, yeah."

  "Men call us birds. We pick up worms. Do you hate women, Dinosaur? And by the way, women are predators just like hawks, true. We're the stronger sex. I'm sure if I wanted, I could get the Twins there to do anything I wanted. I just have to promise them entrance into a secret chamber. A woman's power."

  Laughter and whooping from the Twins, or the lone guy pretending to be two people. Even the dual-laughter didn't sound right.

  "I was married for thirty-three years before my own wife left me."

  "Fuggedaboudit."

  "Betrayed after so long. You must be sour about women in general, then?"

  This was turning into a radio-talk show, and I was enthralled by it. Real people who were out there somewhere, and they were talking right into my head, they were right in my head. It was like a sort of technological telepathy. I started to picture how these people looked and knew I wouldn't be satisfied until I had really seen them. A visual image based on hearing a voice is never quite like the real product. I wanted to see how this Cleopatra differed from the tall, slim woman I had pictured in my head. In there, she was a Joan Collins-type, a socially deprived power woman, cruising the airwaves from a big, rich bedroom in a house lost in the Yorkshire moors. And I couldn't stop trying to edit that image to suit what I wanted. She wasn't a werewolf on my canvas. Suddenly she wore a choker, then her hair was brown, then her bedroom walls were papered in blue, then -

  "I have a daughter. She's forty-five. She's been married to this guy for about six years now. Recently - or she only admitted it recently - he's been smacking her around. Bastard. But she won't do anything about it. She passes the cuts and bruises off as nothing - won't deny it was him or anything - and claims that it's her own fault. After a long day at work, he needs his dinner on the table, and if it isn't there…. When they got married, she signed a contract to be faithful and loyal to him, so if he suspects she's cheating…"

  "She's writing his excuses for him. And you hate that. You blame her for being weak?"

  "No. I don't know. Maybe. Look, I just think women are far more powerful than they let on. Woman scorned, and all that. I knew a guy who went on a working holiday to Brussels and phoned his wife, and because she could hear a female voice in the background, she wanted to know what was going on -"

  "What female wouldn't? That's a tad of jealousy. People do that. Women do that. Men even do that."

  "Right, right. Only this woman didn't just moan down the phone, she wanted to catch him out. So she got on a plane and came over, went all the way over to Brussels. I was with him on that holiday, and I was a witness to this. She came to his hotel, knocked on his door, searched the room when he let her in with shock all over his face, and when she didn't find another woman there, she gave him some clean socks and some shaving foam and a kiss and left and went home. After that, I think I was always a bit dubious about women."

  "Sounds like you're saying that you blame women who suffer because you think we don't have to? That deep down we're strong and powerful but just hide it away?"

  "Hard willy."

  "We love women. Women are sweet and scented and cute. I love them all."

  "Sounds like you want a woman for a pet. But according to our friend Dinosaur here, she'd turn around and bite your hand off one day."

  "She can bite so long as she sucks a bit first."

  "How old are you boys?"

  "Nineteen." Another voice next, or the same one disguised: "Twenty."

  "As I thought. Old enough to feel the stirring of things in both heads, but too naïve to really know what to do with either in such a situation."

  "I've had plenty of girls. They call me Cruise of the Shoes, because I'm like Tom Cruise and I work in a shoe sh-" A crackle of static, then silence. After a second or two, the Twins were back.: "Not supposed to say where I work, sorry. Been told off. But just so you know, me and my pal here know all about women, and we know exactly what to do with them. And we'll prove it any time you want, Cleo. We'll tag-team you."

  "And what about you, Avenger? Do you know exactly what to do with a woman? With a woman who cheated on you, that is?"

  Just then I felt the spotlight on me. I could sense the listeners' eyes on their radios, much as you might look at a speaker if you wanted to hear a song's lyrics more clearly. It was a habit we all shared. I felt that pressure now as if I were really being stared at. But more than that, I realized that this was an opportunity I could exploit. Coyote wasn't in a talkative frame of mind, but his air guests were. I was here for votes and I could get a vote off these guys. There were a few of them, but I could employ a voting system within a voting system, asking each person to cast their vote and counting the majority decision as one strike for or against. The disembodied people inside Coyote's CB would constitute Coyote's vote.

  So, I got on the radio and told my listeners that I was headed home now to my girl to have it out with her, and asked what action I should take. The method or manner of forgiveness or punishment would of course be mine to decide later - for now all I wanted was an answer to that simple question:

  Forgive or punish?

  If I had expected a simple, professional hearing here, I was being silly. At this hour, only the insincere and the lonely are not just awake but awake and bored enough to trawl the airwaves. Asking that question into the air - do I forgive or punish my girl for cheating on me with a friend? - was akin to taking out handfuls of coins and tossing them into the street. People appeared from nowhere, wanting in on the action. I had thought my audience consisted of Coyote, Cleopatra, Dinosaur, the Twins and the Vulgar Kid, but it seemed many others had been listening, and they now wanted to give their advice. Five, ten, fifteen voices, all talking together amidst the crackle of static as each clicked on and off to await my response - but all they got was someone else's opinion. Guys and girls, giving their bit. What thing did the mind get up to this early in the morning? I wondered this after hearing some of their opinions. The females generally took the side of forgiveness, but not all. One young-sounding girl suggested I give her what she called the Punishment of Ten Thousand Cuts. This, she said, was an ancient technique involving tiny paper cuts all over the body, ten thousand of them to be exact. There's something almost mystical about ancient techniques, I reckon. We put a lot of stock in them. Medicine packaging loves to promote that shit - made using herbs grown for a million years in China, that sort of thing. But I think technology today can surpass all that shit. Give me a syringe of fluid rather than a fucking herbal face pack any day. You prefer movies over still-image cartoons, don't you? Prefer your car over a pushbike, don't you? When did you last decide to flame-grill a microwave meal, or send a messenger pigeon instead of texting someone on a mobile phone? Ten thousand cuts? Give me an electrical shock to the nipples any day.

  "Avenger, baby, do you know your Roman numerals? New channel. Ex-see-vee-eye-eye. See you there." Gone.

  I didn't even have time to be puzzled by her cryptic message. Coyote started fiddling with the channels. When he snatched up the headset, I saw the readout on the CB said 97.

  "The Avenger and his driver are back," Coyote said.

  "Hello again. Let's give it a moment an
d see if we have some peace. Dinosaur, you there?"

  Nothing for a few seconds, then: "Hello? I went to one-oh-seven first. Forgot the ex. Anyone here?"

  "We're here, Dino. How about the Twins?"

  "Bollocks."

  Coyote laughed.

  "I guess that children are more intelligent these days." A low, beautiful giggle from her. It was to this dark night what birdsong is to a sunny new morning. I forgot where I was for a second.

  "We can't run all over the channels to escape. What are we here for, to help this chap decide what to do about his girlfriend? How would I know? He sounds young, so maybe it's a new relationship. I was with my wife for over thirty years, until just two years ago. But I married her when I was over fifty years of age. We didn't need to get married and since we had no honeymoon, I don't know why we even did. And I'm too old now to give advice to anyone, especially when I couldn't give myself any advice. I say he should play it by ear."

  "Too many cooks spoil the broth, I say. Avenger, do you have a mobile number?"

  I did, but I didn't have my phone. And since it sounded as if Cleopatra wanted to talk to me via phone, one on one, I decided I had better get one. Quick. I asked Coyote if he had one and was surprised to see him nod.

  Coyote flicked on the overhead light, then bent forward and felt about in the footwell. He did it without looking away from the road, so the light was useless. He sat back with a mobile in his hand, which he tossed into my lap. He flicked off the light again.

  "What's the number?"

  Coyote shrugged. "Check the phonebook or something. Think you're wasting your time, though. She's moving too quick. Either she's leading you on or after money or something, or she's gonna blow you out soon because she's proved that you're no better'n your girl because you took the bait. Some slimey plan or other, that's for sure."

  "Tits and cocks, bastards."

  Good idea - about the phonebook, that was. I ignored the other part. I accessed the phone's contacts' menu, found MY PHONE and got the number. I read it out on air for Cleo.

  I got distracted for a moment as the truck lurched. I looked up from the phone to see that we'd just left the motorway. A sign flashed by just before I had chance to read it and see where we were. We came to a small roundabout and took the second exit, only to travel down another empty road that was nought but a scar in miles of nothingness. Hard to think of it, but you could get lost and die in places in this country. No place in Britain is more than 70 miles from a coastline, surprisingly, yet out here I almost felt like someone on vast foreign soil, days and days from civilization.

  My guests had been talking amongst themselves. I came back to hear Cleo calling for me.

  "I'm here, Cleo," I said, liking the taste of her name on my tongue. I also liked the idea that she might be sitting in her bedroom, alone except for my voice.

  "That's good, baby. I have your number now. I'll call you. I'd like to help you. Are you up early or up late? Sorry, I won't call you Avenger any more. What's your real name?"

  "Wrap it up now, Avenger, time's pressing," Coyote said. He was staring hard out the windscreen, maybe trying to discern his destination or a road sign or something. "And no names."

  "I have to go now, Cleo. Will you phone me?" I know I sounded like a teenaged-boy, but I couldn't help it. I was getting fascinated by this woman.

  "Are you up late or up early, nameless boy? If you're up late, I may call you tomorrow at a respectable hour. So go sleep. If you're up early, however, I may vibrate your trousers sooner than you think."

  I spoke too quickly, without thinking ahead. "I'm not going to bed for a long time yet. I have my ex-girl to see. But I'm free after that for long chatting." And I was aware of Coyote talking beside me, trying to sincerely explain that his phone didn't have a vibrate function.

  "Bollocks."

  "Then maybe you have the time to make a detour…"

  Just as my heart started racing, Coyote snatched the headset away from me and took control of the airwaves.

  "The man here has business tonight so it's time for him to go. He wanted advice. Anyone got any? Quickly now."

  "Yo, yo, Coyote?"

  Coyote took the headset. "Guys, finally. Your Roman a bit rusty?"

  "Hey, at last. Fuggedaboudit, Coyote, man! We thought you'd all died. What was that ex-see crap? We just had to go scoping all the channels. Just found you."

  "Sorry, guys, but you're just gonna lose us. Got business on. But before we go, give my hitchiker some advice. One broken heart, one cheating woman. One question mark. Go."

  "Hey, who'd she come home to? Cheating's bad, but…ain't the end of the world. Just tell the lass she has to atone with a one hour blowjob every morning and night for a month. I'd settle for that." "Me too."

  "Women have that deceptive, beguiling power. Like a fly-trap, sweetly scented to draw you in. Like psirens at sea, calling to sailors. Always get their man in the end and sink in those claws."

  "Old dude has been short of a wiener-sucking for many moons now, it seems." Dual laughter.

  Coyote pressed for others to add their say. I hoped for Cleo to respond, because I didn't care for the opinions of either an old man burned by his wife or a pair of young, dumb, full-o'-cum teenaged brothers. Besides, only two opinions had been gathered, which put the sub-score at 1-1. I needed a deciding vote.

  "Well, there we go. This is Coyote, who will see you all later. Out."

  And he hung up. Cleo was gone. They were all gone. That left me alone again with Coyote, the big-bellied, big-bearded truck driver. He was the only person in my life at the minute. He, it seemed, would be casting the deciding vote after all.

  He took the mobile phone from my hand and threw it back under the seat. That was when I realized that if I was to ever speak to Cleo again, it would probably have to be before I parted company with Coyote. It was his phone number she had. My phone was back at the cottage, along with everything else.

  I would have to spend quite a bit of time with this man. Or I would have to steal his phone. I fancied neither option, to be honest.

  He seemed to have entered another silent phase, so I left him to it and stared out the window, trying to enjoy the night ride.