1. Trouble on the Road
   

Barry Hobbs was driving his lorry slowly – carefully – the six-cylinder, four-ton vehicle comfortably eating up the miles, its twin headlights lighting up the tarmac road ahead.

Emblazoned on the side were the words of the company he worked for: Excelsior Radios. And inside, as he knew only too well, securely stacked in wooden crates, his precious and delicate cargo.

Eight Windsor radio phonographs. Top of the Excelsior range. Walnut finish. Built-in speaker. Valve radio.

The very best of British engineering. And each one worth every penny of its fifty-guinea price tag.

If you had money to burn, of course.

Which Barry certainly didn’t. Not on his wages.

The lorry could usually manage a faster speed, especially on a main road like this, but – though Barry would have preferred to do this delivery run to Manchester as fast as possible – this time he was staying alert.

Looking for signs of anything wrong, anything that should cause him alarm, his hands tightly gripped on the large steering wheel.

He looked across the cab, out of the passenger window. To the west, the sun had gone down, but there was still light in the sky. Clear blue sky, making the daylight linger.

Good, he thought. Might catch up a few miles before it’s dark.

Though he had yelled at his mates on the loading bay to please hurry it up, it had still taken hours for them to get the giant radio phonographs out of the warehouse, all boxed up carefully for the journey.

Mustn’t have a nick or a scratch anywhere.

Customers paid plenty for them. And those customers wanted perfection.

But the loading-bay team had moved slowly, what with it being a Monday and so many lorries heading out, and there’d been nothing Barry could do to get on the road early.

Early, well – at least before dark.

And now, like it or not, he had a good number of hours ahead of him on the road – at night. He’d only just passed Oxford – hardly half way there.

Absolutely nothing he could do about that.

And while, oh yes, there were a few shortcuts he knew – narrow Cotswold lanes that went up towards Cherringham, clipped a few minutes before they came back to the main roads – he had decided, after what happened just over a month ago…

It’s strictly the main road for me.

Those shortcuts, so twisty, hedges scraping the side of the big lorry, barely fit for a car.

But in truth – it wasn’t the width of those roads that gave him pause.

He took a breath, trying not to think about it.

Instead he thought of getting to Manchester. Unloading. Then, to the Bricklayer’s Arms, hopefully in time for one of their greasy meat pies and a pint.

Not exactly the life, Barry thought.

But – like it or not – it was his life.

*

This main road seemed emptier and emptier as he snaked his way north – the occasional car, or another lorry, passing – his own headlights now properly cutting the gloom.

He had a thought, with these long drives, delivering the expensive radio sets… wouldn’t it be great if the damn lorry had a wireless radio!

Wouldn’t be so bored.

Barry was thinking the same thoughts over and over.

But always, in the back of his mind, that bit of fear.

And when he had that worrisome thought, he told himself, Cor, what are the odds?

There’s no odds. Lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice.

Even if it wasn’t exactly “lightning” he was thinking about.

He thought of his wife, Molly. Their two little ’uns, Sam and Ellie, whom he loved to bits.

Thinking of them, always gave him an added boost when he was midway on his trip.

Midway. Halfway.

Sometimes Barry Hobbs spoke out loud to himself, saying, “Almost there! I’ve got this covered, I have.”

Even as he passed little side roads that he knew were shortcuts.

Shortcuts he didn’t take.

*

After another thirty minutes had passed, he saw something ahead, barely picked up by his headlights.

Something blocking the road. And as Barry slowed (while his heart picked up its pace), he saw it was a tree trunk.

He could see a car, headlights on, on the other side of the felled tree. Someone standing beside the trunk. Black car, man in a hat. A fedora.

Barry slowed even more, until he brought his lorry to a full stop a few yards short of the tree.

And now he could see the man, still just a shape, looking at the tree limb barring his way, heading in the other direction.

For a second, Barry thought about getting out of the cab, jumping down, having a quick chat with the other driver, as you do in such situations.

But he stopped himself. Thought twice about it. Given the circumstances.

With a shake of the head, the man got into his car, and began making a three-point turn that actually needed an additional back and forth, before he turned around, rear lights glowing like eyes, until they and the car disappeared in the distance.

Barry looked down at the seat next to him. The Motorist’s Road Atlas of Great Britain. Latest edition, but still not totally reliable, Hobbs knew.

This tree wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He was going to have to find another route. He remembered seeing a few small roads, a half mile or so back. No question. He’d have to use one of them.

The atlas popped open to the page covering this part of the Midlands.

He grabbed his torch from the small compartment to his left. Flashed it up and down.

Yeah, he thought. Couple of minor roads – should work. And he used his finger, the torch’s light trailing, to trace a route.

One – not too far back – looking nice and straight for a bit, a Roman road for sure.

Them Romans did a good job when they invaded!

But then he could see it turned twisty before it joined what looked like another main road that Barry knew would get him to Birmingham and then Manchester.

He checked his side mirrors and slammed the gear into reverse.

Licked his lips.

No one behind him. That was a good thing. For a lot of reasons.

He now had to do so many back-and-forths with the big lorry, gears crunching, to finally get it facing in the other direction.

Lost some valuable time here, he thought, finally ready to move on. And that Roman road was going to be a sizeable diversion.

Already he was seeing that meat pie and pint, fading away.

And that’s not all I’ve got to worry about, he thought.

*

The straight section of Roman road was firm and true, but then it ended in the usual series of twists and turns that made up most of England’s roads.

Barry had to drop down through the gears and go slowly, the Excelsior lorry not really fit for such a snakelike path around fields and streams and woods.

All the while, not a single car came the other way. Which was a blessing.

But also – perhaps puzzling? Had nobody else been forced to come through this way?

Nobody at all?

“Blimey,” he said, his hands locked on the steering wheel, the engine straining with the constant gear changes. “Come on old girl, you can do it.”

He knew it couldn’t be long now before he rejoined the main road.

Yeah, get back on the proper route, and away we go. Maybe a little more foot on the throttle. Make up some time.

But when he turned round one last tight bend, hedgerows brushing both sides of the lorry, he saw, dead ahead, a dark shape.

Barry quickly went to the brake, gently pumping it. Stopping short on a bend like this? Damn lorry could go head-over-heels.

Lights came on and he saw another lorry, facing this way.

Men outside, the back of the lorry clearly open.

Barry gulped. He felt himself begin to sweat, even as his braking brought him to a full stop.

And he thought, God, not again…

*

Barry stayed in his seat, as two men came over. They had caps on, pulled down tight. Faces looking like they’d been smeared with some oily smudge.

No way in hell they could be recognised… or identified.

Each man had a shotgun. As one came to the driver’s side, the other went to the passenger side.

More shadowy men in black woollen balaclava hats, their faces completely concealed, stood nearby.

A team, Barry thought.

Just like last time.

The man at his door climbed up to the lorry’s running board, popped open the door, pointed the barrel of the gun at Barry’s head…

And spoke.

His voice low, gravelly, as if he was making an effort to change it.

The words, short, clear – and reinforced by a movement of the gun.

“Get out. On the ground. Hands behind your head.”

*

Barry sat on a rough patch of ground, the hedge behind him. He watched the crew unload the Excelsior truck, and carry the...