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'I'd sooner attempt root canal work on a werewolf He pressed his foot hard on
the accelerator and weaved around the traffic that was waiting to return to
the westbound M4. 'I'm bored with all this. Death, drape your sable coat upon
us!'
Spike's car shot forward and rapidly gathered speed down the slip road as a
deluge of summer rain suddenly dumped on to the motorway, so heavy that even
with the wipers on full speed it was difficult to see. Spike turned on the
headlights and we joined the motorway at breakneck speed, passing through the
spray of a juggernaut before pulling into the fast lane. I glanced at the
speedometer. The needle was just touching ninety-five.
'Don't you think you'd better slow down?' I yelled, but Spike just grinned
maniacally and overtook a car on the inside. We were going at almost a hundred
when Spike pointed out of the window and yelled:
'Look!'
I gazed out of my window at the empty fields; there was nothing but a curtain
of heavy rain falling from a leaden sky. As I stared I suddenly glimpsed a
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sliver of light as faint as a will-o'-the-wisp. It might have been anything,
but to Spike's well-practised eye it was just what we'd been looking for  a
chink in the dark curtain that separates the living from the dead.
'Here we go!' yelled Spike, and pulled the wheel hard over. The side of the M4
greeted us in a flash and
I had just the faintest glimpse of the embankment, the white branches of the
dead tree and rain swirling in the headlights before the wheels thumped hard
on the drainage ditch and we left the road. There was a sudden smoothness as
we were airborne and I braced myself for the heavy landing. It didn't happen.
A
moment later we were driving slowly into a motorway services in the dead of
night. The rain had stopped and the inky-black sky had no stars. We had
arrived.
28
Dauntsey Services
'Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.'
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
'A Psalm of Life'
We motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby's Bentley was standing
empty with the keys in the ignition.
'Looks like we're still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?'
'Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well  and not looking back has
something to do with it.'
'Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: we locate the President
and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you
think?'
'Wow!' I muttered. 'You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn't you?'
'It has the benefit of simplicity.'
Spike looked around at the people entering the motorway services building. He
got out of the car.
'This gateway isn't just for road accidents,' he muttered, opening the boot
and taking out a pump-action shotgun. 'From the numbers I reckon this portal
must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as
'well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked,
then went up or down.
Simple.'
'So what's changed?'
Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the
shotgun.
'The rise of secularism has a hand in it but mostly it's down to CPR. Death
takes a hold  you come here
 someone resuscitates you, you leave.'
'Right. So what's the President doing here?'
Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a
long pocket on the inside of his duster.
'An accident. He's not meant to be here at all  like us. Are you packing?'
I nodded.
'Then let's see what's going on. And act dead  we don't want to attract any
attention.'
We strode slowly across the car park towards the services. Tow trucks that
pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the
mist that swathed the exit ramp.
We opened the doors to the services and stepped in, ignoring an RAC man who
tried in a desultory manner to sell us membership. The interior was well lit,
airy, smelt vaguely of disinfectant and was pretty much identical to every
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other motorway services I had ever been in. The visitors were the big
difference.
Their talking was muted and low and their movements languorous, as though the
burden of life were pressing heavily on their shoulders. I noticed also that
although many people were walking the main in entrance, not so many people
were walking out
.
We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the
cafeteria, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups,
talking in low voices, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some
of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food
order.
'Are all these people dead?' I asked.
'Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.' Spike
pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us  the
southside services  to the other side, the north-side
. I
looked out of the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge which stretched in a
gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.
'No one comes back, do they?'
'The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns,' replied
Spike. 'It's the last journey we ever make.'
The waitress called out a number.
'Thirty-two?'
'Here!' said a couple quite near us.
'Thank you, the northside is ready for you now.'
'Northside?' echoed the woman. 'I think there's been some sort of mistake. We
ordered fish, chips and peas for two.'
'You can take the pedestrian footbridge over there. Thank you!'
The couple grumbled and muttered a bit to themselves, but got up nonetheless,
walked slowly up the steps to the footbridge and began to cross. As I watched
their forms became more and more indistinct until they vanished completely. I
shivered and looked by way of comfort towards the living world and the
motorway. I could dimly make out the M4 streaming with rush-hour traffic, the
headlights shining and sparkling on the rain-soaked asphalt. The living,
heading home to meet their loved ones. What in God's name was I doing here?
I was diverted from my thoughts by Spike, who nudged me in the ribs and
pointed. On the far side of the cafeteria was a frail old man who was sitting
by himself at a table. I'd seen President Formby once or twice before but not
for about a decade. According to Dad he would die of natural causes in six
days, and it wouldn't be unkind to say that he looked about ready. He was
painfully thin and his eyes appeared to be sunken into his sockets. His teeth, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]