He had the heater in his cab of turned up full, the fans blasting air to clear the condensation. But the miles he’d covered today had coated the lorry with dirt. There were still fragments of straw from a farm trailer stuck in a greasy film that his wiper blades couldn’t shift. It was like driving blind through a storm of sludge.
There were no lights on this stretch of road, just the flick of a cat’s eye, the dark shadow of a tree, the wet reflection from the crash barrier in the central reservation. He was listening to Planet Rock on his DAB radio. It was the only kind of music that made sure the adrenalin was still pumping and kept him awake enough to drive the Iveco through the night, even after a daytime shift. He laughed to himself as a Stones track came on. Driving Too Fast. Except he wasn’t, of course. He knew better than to try in a rig like this, even without the speed limiter. He couldn’t afford the points if a camera caught him. If he lost his licence, he’d lose his job.
‘You’re close to the edge. Don’t push it one more inch.’
That was what people kept telling him. His boss, his wife, everyone who wanted to stick their interfering oars into his life.
Half a mile from the Macclesfield turn-off, his attention was distracted by a splash of white in the darkness overhead. It was just a car, parked on a bridge over the road. But its colour made it appear to float in midair, a ghostly apparition in the rain.
As his truck passed beneath the bridge, he glimpsed two people leaning over the rail. Just a pair of dark outlines, the pale ovals of their faces shrouded in hoods against the rain. It wasn’t a night to be out watching traffic, surely. They’d be far better at home in front of the telly, or sitting in the pub with a pint. But some people had nothing better to do, and nowhere else to go. He’d given up trying to understand what went on in other people’s minds. It was too difficult to figure out, even when it was someone you’d known for years.
His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. A text message from his wife. Right on cue.
Where r u? We need 2 talk. Urgent.
She was going on about the same old subject, of course. She would never let it alone. She had never learned that the more she nagged him to do something, the more he felt like doing the opposite. She’d been banging on and on about the same old thing, over and over. He’d tried to fob her off, to say exactly what she wanted to hear. But it still wasn’t enough for her. She was really starting to annoy him now.
What hv u done wth all th cash?
He sighed deeply. Today, it was the amount of money they’d got saved up in the bank. She wanted a new three-piece suite, and there ought to be enough cash to buy it by now. But some of the money had gone from the account. She had no doubt who was to blame. It was always his fault.
A red BMW coasted by in the outside lane, overtaking his truck and the Scania with ease, accelerating away until its tail lights vanished into the darkness. Grasping the steering wheel with one hand, he picked up his phone. He began to tap out a reply, awkwardly fumbling at the buttons, his words driven by a burst of anger and exhausted frustration.
The juddering took him by surprise. The vibration under his wheels was the only warning he had that his vehicle was straying off the carriageway. He fumbled at the steering, confused by the phone in his hand, not knowing what to do with it and failing to get a proper grip on the wheel, turning the Iveco further to the left instead of back into lane. Trees loomed dangerously close to his cab as he strayed over the white line and towards the verge. For that heart-stopping moment, his truck was out of control.
And then the layby appeared ahead, and for a second he thought he was safe.
“Oh, damnation. That was close,” he said.
He sucked in air to breathe a sigh of relief, and reached over to put his phone down on the passenger seat.
So he hadn’t even begun to brake when the front of his truck hit the car. The impact threw him forward onto the wheel and his phone dropped to the floor as the lorry ploughed onwards, driving the mangled car in front of it. Shards of metal bounced off the road, glass shattered to glittering fragments in the rain, a broken bumper cartwheeled past his windscreen and disappeared into the night.
Then the rear of another truck appeared in his headlights, and he finally jammed on the brakes. Too late, of course. Far too late. His wheels locked and his tyres screamed as he skidded on the slick surface. The rear of the parked truck lifted into the air and crashed back onto the road as the car was crushed into a shattered concertina between them.
His air bag deployed as his cab smashed into the other truck. He felt as though gravity had been suspended as the weight of the Iveco’s trailer swung it round behind him in a violent jack-knife and swept it into the traffic. Its impetus twisted the cab on its axis and bounced it away from the wreckage, until the tail end of the trailer crashed into the central barrier and shuddered to a halt.
Dazed, he tried to sit upright and push the limp remains of his air bag aside. A shocking pain ran up his leg as he moved, making him cry out loud and clench his fists. The stink of petrol leaked into his cab through a shattered window.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. He found himself staring into the undergrowth at the side of the road, his lights illuminating the trees and the fields beyond, steam billowing from his radiator like fog on the set of a horror film, awaiting the arrival of monster. His engine was still ticking over, his radio was still playing the Stones. Yet somewhere he could hear the sound of an appalling silence.
* * * * * * * * *
THE MURDER ROAD is published in the UK by Little, Brown under their Sphere imprint, and in the USA by Witness Impulse.
About the author:
Stephen Booth is an award winning UK crime writer. He is best known as the creator of two young Derbyshire police detectives, Ben Cooper and Diane Fry, who appear in 16 novels, all set in England's beautiful and atmospheric Peak District. Stephen has been a Gold Dagger finalist, an Anthony Award nominee, twice winner of a Barry Award for Best British Crime Novel, and twice shortlisted for the Theakston's Crime Novel of the Year. DC Cooper was a finalist for the Sherlock Award for the best detective created by a British author, and in 2003 the Crime Writers' Association presented Stephen with the Dagger in the Library Award for "the author whose books have given readers the most pleasure". The Cooper & Fry series is published all around the world, and has been translated into 16 languages. The latest titles are THE MURDER ROAD and SECRETS OF DEATH, published in the UK by Little, Brown and in the USA by Witness Impulse.
For the latest news, visit the author's website:
http://www.stephen-booth.com
or stay in touch on Twitter:
http://twitter.com/stephenbooth
on Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/stephenboothbooks
or the Stephen Booth Blog:
http://stephen-booth.blogspot.com
Chat to other readers on the Forum:
http://www.stephen-booth.com/Old forum/
or visit Stephen Booth's channel on YouTube
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ssD8g65LK8
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