The rudeness of strangers

Hesitation tremors in every muscle fibre in my body. Hesitation is a familiar companion. Wavering on the edge, one hundred times a day between ‘yes please’ and ‘no thank you’, ‘I’ll stay home’ and ‘see you there’. I have many poor character traits, but this is by far my least favourite. My arthritic finger hovers over the indicator for only a beat, before I smack it downwards. Decision made. Glancing in my rearview, I press the breaks and pull slowly off the road. My heart threatens to emerge from my throat and the hooded figure takes a step towards the car. 

***

I’m not a rude person, but I don’t like to waste my life contemplating my choice of words before I throw them out there. Carefully assessing the tone in which those words are delivered is also, in my opinion, a dire way to spend one’s life. As for my facial expressions - I’ve been called ‘cold’, ‘rude’ and ‘emotionless’ amongst other things. If you’re spending your days simply waiting to be offended by me at any moment, the problem lies with you. The only thing I have time for is The Hunt. You may call it an impulsive and reckless endless chase for money, good-times and dark thrills - I call it an average week. 

On Monday night I spent a little over 12 hours in a basement in Brighton with a man called Jacob (or Jack?) and his assortment of misfit pals. We took acid and I had a moderately good time. Tuesday was profitable - some miscellaneous bankers in a London casino were doe-eyed over my sky-high stilettos and pouty red lips. They traded a close-up moment in a dark corner for their personal security, and I left with four wallets. A couple of nights spent in a deliciously lavish hotel takes us to Friday. I’m ankle-deep in a mud off the side of a road near the Welsh border, feeling considerably less glamorous, soaked to the skin, and mightily pissed off. 

*** 

Her pale blue eyes seem to scan through me as she fastens her belt, and I try to shake off the feeling of immediate regret as she fastens her belt. 

“Hey, I’m Debbie” I offer the strange woman what I hope is a kind smile. “Horrid weather isn’t it, but hey, this is Wales and it’s rather -”

“I’ve been here before” the woman interjects. “If you don’t mind, I just really need a ride to the valleys”. 

I’ve pulled back onto the road but a nervous heat crawls up my neck as I wonder if I’ve made a mistake inviting a total stranger into my car. “Anywhere specific, or?...” I trail off, figuring that this is the type of woman who’ll be direct with her orders. 

“No. Chuck me out at any country road, as rural as you’re willing to go. Thanks.” 

We sit in an uncomfortable silence except for the squeal of the windscreen wipers and the rain battering my truck at all angles. When spotting the petite frame shrouded in an oversized raincoat with pale, bare legs and a pair of ankle boots, I’d initially assumed the girl at the side of the road was in her mid-teens. In a sideways glance I spotted the bags under her eyes and hint of crows feet at the corners, and realised she was more like mid-twenties. And a bit of a rude bitch, to be quite frank. I turn down a wooded lane and slow the car.

*** 

“How much longer?” I’m abrupt. The cold rain has seeped into my bones and I’m starting to regret checking out of the hotel with the soft king size mattress claw-footed bath tub. 

Cathy or Helen or whatever her name is brushes a wiry gray hair from her cheeks and attempts a weak smile. I make her nervous. 

“I think we’ll reach the really tiny lanes in another couple of miles. There are only a handful of cottages out here.” Her eyes scan the lane, looking as if she wants to pull over and politely ask me to evacuate her vehicle as soon as possible.

“That’s perfect. Stop at the first cottage we get to.” I only need to wait out in a hay barn for a few hours until night. It’ll be boring as hell, but all worth it when I get to enter that warm country kitchen through the back door and enjoy a giddy little treasure hunt around the sleeping farmer folk. Sure, these people live basic, shabby little lives and walk around in twenty year old jackets that stink of sheep shit, but there’s a high chance that they own an ancient brooch or valuable piece of china that may be the jackpot I’ve been longing for. 

***

I pull over and the woman whips up her hood and hops out, tossing me a strained smile and nod of thanks. I crawl away and watch in my rearview as she dips into a field, heading towards a gate on the far side. 

*** 

I fucking hate hay. It’s spikey and filled with spiders. The barn I’ve found is only moderately warmer inside than the field next to it, but thankfully not as wet. Dusk has passed and I’m feeling antsy, craving the thrill of gaining entry to the crumbling twenty feet away in the gloom. The last light goes out in the top right window and I attempt to stifle the excitement in my chest. I pick up a nearby pitch fork - not exactly the best weapon of choice but a girl needs to be able to defend herself. Plus, the image of a confused old farmer scratching his head as he surveys his pitch fork learning against the agar in his scruffy kitchen in the morning is enough to make me snigger out loud. I skulk silently over to the door and turn the handle. As predicted, it turns and quietly clicks as I slowly glide it open and eye the room I’m in.

It’s not what I expected. At all. I raise an impressed eyebrow at the floor to ceiling wall of mounted taxidermy animal heads. A beady-eyed fox watches me with what I can only describe as admiration. Yes, little fella - I’m as crafty as you once were before you were stupid enough to get murdered. A large candelabra on the heavy oak table catches my eye and I move closer to give it a better look. A sudden creak makes my ears prick and I freeze, hand gripping the pitch fork. A rumble of far away thunder and the steady patter of rain on the thin window panes remind me that there’s an array of nocturnal life just going about their business, and I need to stop getting jumpy. I turn my attention back to the candelabra, but something glints in the the dark, glassy eyes of a stuffed badger. Lightning cracks loudly, signalling that the storm is travelling closer. Not good. A restless homeowner who can’t sleep may pop downstairs for a midnight snack. I rest the pitch fork against a chair and grasp the silver with both hands, and turn towards the door. 

A grey haired figure emerges from the darkness, her bony fingers gripping a slender, black shotgun. 

“You never thanked me for the ride.”