The Trade Plater

A Short Horror Story #3

The Trade Plater:

Malcolm Withers was responsible, sensible, and lots of other words that end in ‘ible’. He was a church-going man, though in truth something of a sceptic. He braved the hard, narrow pews because his wife’s social circle was very much embedded in the church, but the band was excellent, the congregation were all good-natured, and the services were always a bit of a knees-up.

Car dealers usually preferred to ship their stock up and down the country on large multi-car transports. When a client needed a vehicle in a hurry or when one vehicle needed shipping to one destination, they sometimes called on Malcolm. Today it was a Jaguar. Not a vintage, they would always be shipped on transports. This was a 2008 XJR, in gunmetal grey with a cracked, but serviceable, cream leather interior. It was an enthusiast’s car. Traffic had been hell on the way down. He’d finally pulled into the dealer’s car park at 4:55pm. They’d thanked him and taken the keys, then apologised profusely before abruptly vanishing into the night. He’d asked them for a lift to the train station, but it seemed the two remaining members of staff locking up were in a hurry and didn’t have time. He’d thought about an Uber, but the dealership wasn’t far from the motorway, and in the past, a friendly truck driver would always be happy to at least take him up a few junctions. Now he was trudging up the dual-carriageway that led to the motorway junction. The traffic was heavy, trucks rumbling, horns blaring, the diesel and petrol fumes overpowering. He was wearing his suit and wax jacket and carrying the infamous red and white plates of the motor trade. He turned to face the traffic and held up the plates hopefully, trying to make eye contact with a driver, any driver. Yet somehow it appeared he was invisible. Every motorist from the young teenaged girl in her little hatchback to the burly, bearded trucker in his Class 2; they all seemed so focused on the road he might as well have not been there.

As he trudged, the clouds swirled overhead and a few spots of rain began to fall. This was good. A little rain might just be enough to garner some sympathy. He held up his plates and turned to face the traffic, smiling. Eerily, the traffic was dying down now. Unusual for this time of night. He caught a glimpse of a man driving a white van, but the gaunt driver’s expression was haunted and lost, and he was speeding. Driving as if the devil was snapping at his heels.

Malcolm picked up the pace. The sun was setting now, spreading a lazy orange glow over the horizon. The dual carriageway had fallen empty. Even the sound of the rushing traffic on the motorway had fallen silent. This was wrong. It was wrong on every level. He was close to the junction now; still no sight nor sound of a single vehicle. Even the distant town looked dead and formless, a shadow fading into the sunset. The air smelled strange, too. It smelt of ancient tombs and weathered decay. He looked at the empty road. It was wrong, it had to be wrong. He pulled out his phone to check maps, but there was no signal. He looked back towards the motorway junction. Nothing. Then he heard it. A distant, low burble. It was a vehicle, and it was drawing closer. He should have felt relieved, but every decibel the engine grew louder, he felt a greater and greater sense of dread. It was getting close now. He could have turned around and showed his plates, but he decided not to. He’d skip this one. It should have been busy. There’d be another vehicle soon.

The rain fell heavier, and the wind whipped up. The car passed him, but he only saw it properly once he’d wiped the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses with his sleeve. It was a black Lamborghini Diablo. The red brake lights lit up. It was stopping. He paused and stared. The only sound was the low growl of the V12 engine. It was as if it was the last car on earth. It was certainly the last car he wanted to get into. As he walked closer, he saw the number plate, ‘S666 LFR’. ‘Footballer,’ Malcolm thought to himself. He thought he’d overheard someone say Liverpool had a Dominik ‘Something beginning with an S’ wearing the number 6 shirt. Clearly, he’d not managed to get the plate ending LFC, so had been forced to compromise. Still, he seemed to recall the player was Hungarian or something, so probably didn’t speak much English. Maybe the conversation wouldn’t be too mind-numbing.

As he got close, the scissor door opened. He hated these cars. He hated the sound, the driving position, the handling, the harsh, unforgiving ride. He hated the way they screamed ‘look at me’. He’d delivered one once. That had been even worse, a bright yellow metallic monstrosity that had been stared and pointed at for the entire two-hour drive. He preferred his grey Vauxhall Vectra. He’d bought it new, garaged it every night and only used it on rare occasions, preferring the bus or the train for his commute. It was over thirty years old but had less than fifty-thousand miles on the clock. It was like him; lots of words that ended in ‘ible’. Of course, all the junior staff had been fighting over the keys, desperate to be the one to deliver the Diablo safely to its new home. The manager had gleefully appointed Malcolm to perform the duty. Not out of malice, knowing how much Malcolm hated cars like that. It had been pure risk management. He was the one driver that could be counted on to get the thing to the customer without exceeding the speed-limit once, and without so much as a stone-chip on the bodywork.

The car loomed closer now. At least it would be good to get out of the rain, and it wasn’t as if there were any other options. He leaned in, expecting to see a handsome, long-haired footballer with rippling biceps and a healthy tan smiling back at him. He stopped dead as the driver came into view. What greeted him was not what he’d expected. Instead, lounging in the blood-red leather interior, was a waif of a girl. A goth girl, if he was any judge. She was dressed provocatively: fishnet stockings, a dangerously short white and black tartan kilt, a satin boned corset with her ample cleavage almost spilling over the top and a see-through, lacy, black top. He counted the facial piercings, eyebrow times two, lip, nose, he guessed her tongue as well. Her face was covered in heavy makeup, making her skin look pale and her eyes dark and brooding. She was adorned with mountains of silver jewellery: bracelets, bangles, rings, necklaces, including a prominent upside-down crucifix and a pentagram. Her hands jangled when she reached over and patted the passenger seat, with a burning cigarette in her hand. ‘You getting in or what?’

Malcolm shook himself; he realised he’d been taken aback and stood staring. He stood up straight and felt the wind whipping the rain against him. He looked back down the empty road. Not a soul to be seen. He paused. This seemed off, but what was the harm? So, it wasn’t a footballer. Maybe it was a footballer’s girlfriend? She looked like she might be in the music industry. He hadn’t bought a record since the late nineties, so he wouldn’t know. He leaned back in. ‘Are you sure it’s okay?’

She tilted her head and smirked, then took a short drag on her cigarette. When she spoke, puffs of smoke punctuated her words. ‘How do I know you’re not going to rape me?’

Malcolm felt his cheeks flush instantly. He thought about walking away, but the wind was biting and the rain was getting heavier. He still hadn’t seen another vehicle. He fumbled in his jacket and spilled a handful of business cards onto her passenger seat. ‘Erm, you can call the office and let them know that you’re picking me—’

She shrugged and interrupted him. ‘Nah, just get in. You look innocent enough.’ She patted the passenger seat again. ‘Come on, you’re getting my car wet.’

Malcolm placed one foot in, slid down the seat and pulled the other foot in after, clutching his trade plates tight to his chest. He reached up to pull the scissor door closed. As it thunked shut, she was right in his face, her arm reaching around him, her breast pressing against him. He squirmed, desperately trying to minimize physical contact, then he heard the click of the seatbelt. She smiled at him, an inch from his face. ‘They go the other way in these. Better buckle up, I don’t want you running off on me.’

As she withdrew, he realised he’d been holding his breath. Through her cigarette smoke, he’d smelt her perfume, a sharp, bitter, intensely earthy aroma with notes of blackcurrants and oakmoss. He noticed a dusty vintage perfume bottle in the footwell. He could just make out ‘Magie Noire by Lancôme’ in the faded lettering on the bottle.

The girl was staring, smirking at him, now. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I won’t make you guess my name. It’s Lucy. Pleased to meet you.’

Malcolm reached towards her outstretched hand with its ridiculously long black nail-varnished nails and shook. ‘Malcolm.’

‘Where are you headed, Malcolm?’

‘M... Manch—’

‘Manchester! Great, me too. Let’s roll.’

Lucy pushed the clutch in and slammed the gated lever into first. She didn’t indicate; she simply dropped the clutch and planted her foot on the accelerator, violently. Malcolm gripped his trade-plates tighter as she left two black strips on the tarmac behind them. He glanced at her. She was grinning mischievously. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction; he bit his lip and watched the motorway loom closer. The smell of smoke and the perfume filled the cabin. She had the heating set on high, forcing Malcolm to loosen his tie and undo his top button. Panic gripped Malcolm now. She was powering towards the large, empty roundabout that was the junction, one hand on the gear lever, the other holding her cigarette and gripping the wheel. She let go of the wheel for a moment to suck on her cigarette, making the embers light up like the fires of hell. ‘Ahem, Lucy, you know what... Let me out, I’ll wait for—’

‘You’ll be waiting for a long time, buster. I don’t know why, but the police closed the road back there. I was the last car they let through.’

Malcolm stared at the empty motorway below them. It should have been busy. There must have been an accident, he mused. Once they were on the motorway, it’d be fine. It was a straight road. ‘You’re right. It’s fine. Thank you for—’

‘Good boy. Cigarette?’

Malcolm cringed at the subtle slight. He stared at the pack she was offering as she powered down the motorway slip road. ‘No thanks, I don’t—’

‘But you used to! You used to love that smoky goodness, that taste! Bet you thought you’d never give up.’

He stared at her. She chuckled and rolled her eyes, pushing it up a gear. ‘Pfft, everyone your age smoked. Go on, have one. I won’t tell.’

Malcolm instinctively reached for the pack, but he stopped himself. ‘No thank you, I’d better not.’

She shrugged and stubbed the butt-end of her cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. ‘Your loss. You don’t need to keep up the act with me, though.’

He looked out at the empty motorway. Both carriageways, not a single vehicle. The sun was low in the sky now, so low he couldn’t see it, but the horizon was a glowing red, silhouetting the treelines and distant buildings of the town. He loosened his tie further and undid another button. The heat was stifling, the smells overpowering. Lucy smirked at him again. ‘You stripping off for me, Malcolm? What would your wife say?’

Malcolm chuckled. ‘No, Lucy, it’s just so hot in here. Could we turn the heating down a little? Do you mind if I open a window?’

Lucy laughed and shook her head, as if hearing a joke Malcolm was oblivious to. ‘I like it hot.’ She thrust the open fag packet at him, ‘I’ll tell you what, if you stop being such a square and smoke a cigarette, you can open the window.’

He wavered. He did miss cigarettes. It’d taken him an age to give up. He reached his trembling fingers towards the packet and plucked a slender cylinder from the row. Lucy smiled satisfactorily and tucked the packet into the top of her corset. He noticed the brand, Marlboro Reds. Stronger than his old Silk Cut Blues. Still, it was one cigarette. What was the harm? He slid it between his lips and as he did, Lucy pulled a weathered zippo out of the top of her corset and held it out to him. He took it and noted the faded red pentagram on the face. It looked old. It looked older than her and the car. He held it up, opened the lid clumsily with two hands and struck a flame. As he held it to the tip and sucked, flaring the embers, he saw her smile broaden. He closed the lighter and handed it back. She dropped it onto the centre console by the window controls. The taste was strong and woody. The heat felt like a cut to the back of his throat, but strangely, it felt good. He coughed a little and adjusted his glasses, then took another drag. Strangely, he started to feel a little more relaxed. They were powering down the empty motorway now. He glanced at her speedometer. She was doing ninety, but who cared? If she got pulled over, he’d have to find another lift. If she got away with it, he’d be home all the quicker.

Lucy reached over and touched his thigh. ‘Oh, sorry. I was going to wind the window down for you.’

Malcolm cringed and tried to minimize contact, but her hand lingered. ‘Hey, this material is really nice. Where’d you buy your suits?’

‘S... Slaters, sorry do you mi—’

‘Oh, sorry.’ She moved her hand back, paused, gave his thigh a little pat, and pressed the switch to lower the window until it was just a couple of inches down, letting in a welcome stream of fresh air.

The cool breeze was refreshing, a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat. He pulled on the cigarette again, noticing Lucy smile and shake her head knowingly as he did. She nodded towards his trade plates. ‘Delivering cars? Something nice?’

He sucked on the cigarette, took it right down into his lungs and let it sit. Then he breathed slowly. ‘Not bad, actually. XJR. Always quite liked them. I’d have the diesel XJ myself though.’

‘Of course you would, Malcolm, something sensible. I could see you in an XJ, or maybe a Bentley?’

Malcolm dragged on his cigarette. ‘I was quite surprised to see you driving this. I thought you were a footballer.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Maybe I am.’

Malcolm chuckled now. ‘No, I thought you were a footballer, then I thought footballer’s wife. Now I’m thinking, you’re in the music industry. You have to be.’

Lucy grinned, and paused for a long time, then nodded slowly. ‘Something like that. I do a lot of deals, contracts, that sort of thing. So many of my clients have been musicians and singers.’

‘You work for a record label? Tell me then, do you give them a fair deal or do you just see the excitement in their eyes and rip them off before they have time to think about it?’

‘Oh, the latter. Always the latter. These kids? If they read the small print, they’d never sign. But business is business, and I’m pretty good at it. Hey, I’m thirsty. Could you pass me the flask from the glove box?’

Malcolm nodded and opened the glove box. He stopped when he saw a revolver, countless loose bullets, two pairs of steel handcuffs, a silver snuff box and a worn, brass hip flask. ‘Wake up Malcolm, pass me the flask.’

Her command snapped him into action and he reached in and grabbed the old brass flask and passed it to her. She unscrewed the cap then tilted her head back, chugging and chugging, then she offered it to him. ‘Drink?’

Malcolm wavered. He smelt strong alcohol. She was still driving and offering the flask. ‘What is it?’

‘Taste it, guess. Or I’ll make you smoke another cigarette.’

Malcolm chuckled and took the offered bottle. Her smile was disarming. It couldn’t hurt to taste. He sipped. It tasted herbal and burned his lips and tongue. Lucy chuckled and smiled, ‘Don’t be a wuss Malcolm, drink some!’

He tried again. It tasted herbal and bitter, with an almost dry, spicy, minty undertone and a smell of crushed pine needles. The front of his tongue noted a sweet liqorice flavour. The drink numbed his palate and lingered. ‘Well, it’s not scotch.’

‘Pffft, scotch is for accountants and lawyers. That’s just brown water with a pedigree. This, my friend, is pure, high-strength, max wormwood absinthe.’

Malcolm found himself taking another chug. Despite his unease, the tobacco and alcohol were making him relaxed. It’d been such a long time since he’d ridden in a car smoking and drinking. It took him back to his youth, a brief spell of decadence and excess, that crazy first year of university when there hadn’t been much work to do and there’d been a social expectation to indulge. He lowered the flask. ‘Have you been in the industry long?’

Lucy nodded sagely. ‘I’ve been signing contracts for a long, long year.’

‘You don’t look old enough.’

‘Oh, I’m older than you think. Here, pass the absinthe, Malcolm.’

Malcolm handed the flask over and watched her take it and chug. ‘Are you sure you should be drinking that while—’

‘I’m driving? Look around Malc, we have the road to ourselves. Don’t be such a nerd.’

Malcolm stared at the empty motorway and the crimson sky. Both carriageways were completely empty. It should have been rammed. He saw one of the blue motorway signs indicating the distance to the next service station. It looked ordinary, normal. A little old and weathered, perhaps. He loosened his tie more, then realised the futility and undid the knot, folding and slipping it into his inside coat pocket.

Lucy looked at him. ‘You can take your coat off, you know. It’s a long way to Manchester.’

He placed the trade plates in the footwell and wrestled with his coat. Lucy laughed, popped another cigarette in her mouth and lit it. ‘Take your seat belt off. Live dangerously.’

Malcolm stared. She’d fastened his belt for him, but she wasn’t wearing hers. He’d been so overwhelmed by the dissonance and surrealness of the entire situation that he’d not clocked it. ‘It’s illegal.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t. You need to chillax, dude. You’re so uptight.’

Malcolm reached down gingerly and clicked the seatbelt release. It felt like sticking his hand in the cookie jar. Once he’d pulled the belt clear, he suddenly felt naked and vulnerable. Lucy was still hammering along at ninety, flask of absinthe in one hand, cigarette in her other. She smiled as he wrestled his arms out of the wax jacket, folded it neatly and tucked it into the passenger footwell with his trade plates.

Lucy took a swig from the flask. ‘Take your jacket off, too. I wanna see your abs.’

Flushing, Malcolm shook his head and instinctively pulled his jacket closed. She rolled her eyes. ‘Dude, I can tell you’re hot. I’m not turning the heat down. Get it off.’

‘No, no I’d better—’

Lucy reached over, wound his window up, then flicked a switch on her side of the car. When he reached over to lower the window, the button did nothing. Lucy grinned and turned the heating control up even further. ‘Well, if you want to roast, I’m gonna roast you. Get it off Malc.’

His head was spinning. The nicotine and the alcohol were taking a real toll now. He sucked his cigarette again. It had burned down mostly now so he stubbed it out in the ashtray. He was hot. He awkwardly shuffled in his seat, pulling his arms out of the jacket with difficulty. He rolled it up neatly and shoved it in the footwell with his coat.

She nodded approvingly. ‘Good boy. Can you roll a joint, Malc?’

He froze and reached for his seatbelt. She reached across and stopped him with her hand. ‘Leave it off. Live a little. You’re too safe, man. Don’t you like a bit of danger? Something to get the adrenaline go—’

‘No.’

‘Liar, Here, cap the flask and put it in the glove box. Get the snuff box.’

‘Lucy, I don’t think—’

‘My car, my rules. Now be a good boy and get the snuff box out or I’ll pull over, put you over my knee and spank you.’

Malcolm flushed even more and squirmed in his seat. Part of him, a part he’d long thought buried, imagined, just for a split second, being spanked by this young woman. Her smile seemed to broaden as the thought invaded him. He fought the muzzy headiness and capped the flask. ‘Yes, Miss.’

She watched him place the flask back in the glove box and pull out the silver snuff box. It was old. It was ancient. The silver was blackened and tarnished; the engraving was worn smooth by decades of handling. The front of the box had the year 1833 engraved on the centre alongside some smaller, long-faded text. He opened the box. Inside were king size Rizlas, strips of card for roaches and rich green buds with brown strands and a coating of tiny white crystals covering every surface. The smell hit him as he saw the contents. A foul odour, pungent and sharp. It was heavy, dank, and had notes of damp soil or rotting wood. There was a subtle hint of sulphur, chemical and volatile, and it had an undertone of sweet fruit or citrus. Next to the weed were little bags of fine white powder, a mirror, a razor blade and a tiny pewter vacuum cleaner, that was clearly a tube with the handle shaped to fit inside a nostril.

‘Lucy—’

‘Roll me a blunted one, make it fat.’

Malcolm trembled as he stared at the drugs. His hands shook as he made to close the box.

‘My rules, Malc. Roll a joint.’

Malcolm watched Lucy plant her foot, hard. The engine roared, and the car surged forwards, faster. He watched the dial climb. Soon they were doing a hundred and twenty.

‘Lucy, can you—’

‘Slow down? Malc, if you’re going to be mister boring, I’m going to get my ass home as soon as possible. This’ll do two-hundred, want to experience that? Sit back and chill. Want me to ease up? Roll the joint.’

The needle was at 140mph now and climbing. ‘Fine, ease up. I’ll roll you a joint.’

He felt horrified as he heard himself saying it. But Lucy was easing off now. He could roll a joint. It’d been a long time, but he knew he could do it. Malcolm was the sort of person who, if he ever did anything, he did his best to get good at it. He laid out a paper and began crumbling cannabis into it while Lucy slowed down to ninety, while sucking on her cigarette.

He roached up, and began rolling the paper in his fingers, compressing and forming a tight cylinder, slightly coned so the roach end was little more than a pinhole, but the tip was at least pencil-thick. He twisted the end and held it up. She nodded approvingly. ‘Very nice, Malc. I knew you still had it.’

His expression froze, and he stared. She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, come on, everyone your age had a spliff. Fire it up, then pass it over.’

Malcolm’s fingers were shaking again. He’d had weed. But last time he’d been a teenager. His wife didn’t even know he’d tried it. It’d been that crazy first year at university. One toke wouldn’t hurt. He took her lighter, slipped the joint between his lips and struck a flame. For a split second, something inside him screamed. Everything was wrong. The girl, the car, the empty motorway. His hands trembled. ‘Jesus Malc, just light the fucker.’

He shuddered and found himself clumsily holding the tip in the flame and sucking. It tasted sharp and cutting, scorching the back of his throat. He felt an almost immediate brain-fizz that he’d completely forgotten about. He relaxed a little and held the joint out. She dropped her smouldering cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and took the spliff with a satisfied smile. She drew long, taking it deep into her lungs, then she passed it back. She actually slowed to eighty now. ‘You ever been in a Diablo before, Malc?’

He nodded. ‘Delivered one once. Hated it. They’re not the most practical or comfortable of cars, though.’

‘Hah! Comfort, schmumfort. Who wants that? I like it. Makes me feel alive.’

Malcolm’s head was swimming now. He took a drag without even thinking and handed it back. ‘Well, I like comfort, practicality, and safety.’

She dragged and passed it back. ‘You tell yourself you do. You weren’t always like that. You ever had sex in a Diablo?’

Malcolm flushed again, and instinctively squirmed away from her, suddenly feeling trapped in this literal oven of drink, drugs and perfume. ‘I don’t think it’s possible. I don’t think I’d like to try.’

Lucy laughed at this and shook her head. ‘Liar. God, you cling to this façade you built for yourself. That kid who used to hang out in student digs, knocking back the booze and burning through pot like it was going out of fashion? He’s still in there. Your nerdy squareness, though? It’s kind of cute.’

Malcolm shifted uneasily in his seat. He fought it, but he felt his eyes drifting to her ample breasts. She held a hand out. ‘You gonna smoke that or just stare at it? If it’s the latter, pass it back.’

His quivering hand slipped the joint between her fingers. Their fingers touched momentarily and lingered. Her touch was electric. It was like a connection he’d not felt for decades. A touch that promised pure, decadent lust. No mortgages, or pensions, or budgeting for a family holiday. No quiet missionary-position sex in the dark, hoping to father a child. Just pure, unbridled debauchery.

She sucked on the joint and passed it back. ‘I saw the look on your face when I said I’d spank you.’

‘Lucy—’

‘God, you’re so square, dude. You know, I don’t have to take you home. You could call Wendy, tell her the trains were cancelled and you couldn’t get a lift. I could take you back to my place and we could have some fun, some real fun.’

A sea of thoughts flooded his head now. Suddenly he wanted to touch her. He wanted her to touch him. He wanted to give himself to her and experience everything she was promising. She seemed to read his thoughts and gave a cheeky grin. ‘I knew you wouldn’t rape me Malc, but you’re so cute - I don’t know. Maybe I’ll rape you?’

For a moment, the vision invaded his head. He imagined himself in a bedroom of red satin and black lace, lying back on a sumptuous bed, her mounting him, holding his wrists and pinning him down while she thrust and thrust, moaning in ecstasy.

The smoke, the alcohol and the speeding car pulled him back, and he shivered, squirming away from her.

‘How about it, Malc? Back to my place?’

She was grinning evilly, but provocatively. For a moment, he wanted to, he wanted more than anything to agree. But he thought of Wendy. When had he told her his wife’s name? He couldn’t remember, but the tobacco, the drink and the weed were mashing his thoughts and frying his brain. She reached over and fondled his crotch, smirking. ‘You want to. I can tell.’

He felt himself getting erect. He opened his mouth to speak, feeling her hand gently, sensuously caressing his member. ‘Lucy, pull over. I want to get out.’

She suddenly looked hurt and withdrew her hand. ‘Hmph, you really are a boring asshole, Malcolm Withers.’

Malcolm realised he’d been holding his breath, and he relaxed with a long sigh. His head was still a mess. The trees on the side of the road were twisted and alien looking. The glowing sky looked almost like a sea of flames now. Was it the absinthe or the weed? It should have been dark by now. He squinted and peered at the motorway signs. Then a sudden tiredness overcame him, and he fought to stay awake.

He shook his head. He’d nodded off. The car had stopped. He looked out of the window. To his astonishment, she’d parked up outside his house. He looked at her; she was smoking a joint. She took a drag, then spoke. ‘Wakey, wakey, Malc. You’re home.’

He looked at her, then back at his welcoming porch light at the end of his gravel drive. ‘Th- Thank you, Lucy.’

She smiled and reached over to the radio, flicking it on. ‘Anytime. It’s been fun. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime? Maybe we can have some real fun then?’

Malcolm forced a smile and studied her face for what he thought might be the last time. ‘You look disappointed.’

She shrugged. ‘Have some sympathy for me. I thought we were going to have a fun night.’

He stared a second longer, seeing almost predatory hunger in her eyes. His smile faded, and he fumbled for the door catch.

As he opened the scissor door, gathering up his suit jacket, coat and trade plates, Mick Jagger’s crooning voice crackled out of the stereo. He knew the song. It was Sympathy for the Devil. He scrambled to get out of the car and slammed the scissor door shut. The engine roared, and she disappeared into the night, the number plate S666 LFR fading into the mist.

Malcolm shook his head. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He slowly limped down his gravel drive. As he wondered what had just happened, his memory of the encounter was already fading. It’d been odd. She’d clearly been in the music industry. Part of him was glad to finally be out of the claustrophobic oven of the cabin, but part of him lamented. He was going back to his wife, Sunday morning crossword puzzles, garden centres, and fresh coffee over the six o’clock news. He was glad to be home, but a small part of him, a part he’d thought he’d buried long ago, wished, wished he’d gone back to Lucy’s and hoped, hoped, maybe he might see her again someday.

~fin

This is the third in my recent series of short horror stories, written over two days. It’s actually a re-write of a story I wrote back in the early noughties of the same title, which I never published. That early version had the driver as a male, but I actually really enjoyed exploring the character ‘Lucy’ and felt she was much more compelling than the original. I will at some point be adding ‘The Trade Plater’ to my ‘Anatomy of’ series and writing about the creative process in putting this together.

I you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy the sequel:

The other stories in this series are:

#1 Nightmare Asylum: An urbexer heads into an abandoned Victorian Asylum and finds more than he’d bargained for.

#2 The Black: A dark inversion of the zombie horror trope, which deals with extreme body horror and a stark erasure of agency and identity. Not for the faint-hearted.

I also write about mental health, philosophy and the craft of writing.

If you’re interested in reading my self-published novels and short stories, you can click the image below:-