The Road to Crosslands

Chapter 7

I was back in Afghanistan, changing the air filters on a Warrior armoured personnel carrier. My head was inside the engine compartment when some joker pressed the starter button. The huge Perkins V8 diesel roared into life and I banged my noggin on the steel engine cover. Opening my eyes, I realised I'd jerked awake and bashed the top of my head, not on the engine cover of a Warrior, but against Sharon's low ceiling. The comforting sound of the rain beating down had been eclipsed when the driver of the truck parked next to us revved his engine in the middle of my dream.

A glimmer of daylight filtered through Sharon's thin curtains and I thought it must be the dawn. Then I glanced at my watch and saw it was already after nine. We should have been back on the road, and Flinty and Spud were both still snoring loudly.

Squirming around, I was able to look out of the small window in the pigeon loft. The front grille of the artic a few yards away was just visible. There was a pea-souper of a fog outside.

***

I climbed down from my nest and shook the sleeping beauties awake. They both emerged, bleary-eyed, from under a mound of quilts and blankets. Now I knew why Flinty had such a huge collection of duvets. Sharon had about as much insulation as a tent, and her badly fitting doors let in more draughts than a Dutch barn.

We stumbled about for the next ten minutes, clearing away our bedding and reconstructing the dinette. Then we sat and stared out of the window at the fog.

'I don't think we'll be going anywhere for a while,' Spud said. 'Why don't we go and get some breakfast until it clears?'

That seemed like a good idea so we all grabbed our wash kits and toothbrushes and dashed through the rain to the cafeteria.

***

The parking area had filled up with lorries and vans that must have come off the motorway in the early hours when the fog descended. A few private cars were lined up outside the entrance to the services, probably early-morning commuters caught out by the conditions. Under a canopy over the entrance doors, a large group of stranded travellers stood smoking cigarettes and lamenting about the fog. There was no smoking inside the building.

'Anyone heard a weather forecast?' Spud asked as we made our way through the gathering.

'Aye,' someone answered. 'It'll nae be clearin' afore the forenicht.'

'Thanks, mate,' Spud said, as if he'd understood, then he led us into the cafeteria where a couple of dozen lorry drivers were lounging around, munching bacon sarnies and slurping tea.

Somehow, Spud and Flinty both got in front of me in the queue at the breakfast buffet and I saw them shovelling bacon, eggs and sausages onto their plates. I followed suit and when I reached the checkout, the lady asked me for £24. I recoiled, wondering if I'd accidentally helped myself to caviar or truffles. She must have noticed the shocked look on my face.

'Those other two said you were paying, love,' she shrugged, 'and three hot breakfasts with tea at eight pounds each is 24 pounds please.'

I paid up from my dwindling reserves and went to join the others, slamming my tray down on the table with a crash and fixing them both with a dagger-like stare.

'Before you say anything,' Flinty said through a mouthful of fried egg, 'I took care of the diesel, didn't I?'

'And I'll pay you back as soon as I can get to a hole in the wall,' Spud promised. 'I spent the last of my cash in the Donkey.'

I couldn't really argue with Flinty's reasoning.

'I saw a cash machine near the entrance,' I told Spud.