All Roads Lead to London

"I-I'm sorry," Billy stuttered, “I seem to be lost.”

"Don't worry,” Shane smiled. "I know where we are. You're going exactly where you're supposed to."

Billy risked taking his eyes off the road for a second to sneak a glance at Shane. He was shorter than Billy, with a jet-black buzz cut, weathered skin and a fine, slightly shiny suit. Strange for a hitchhiker, he thought. It was strange that Billy had picked up a hitchhiker.

"I don't know how I got lost heading to London," Billy said, “I swear every road in England has signs to London.”

"Aye, seems about true." Shane crossed his arms. His suit sleeve pulled back to reveal a gold watch with an orange-red face that flickered in the light like fire.

“Is that, erm, Irish I hear?" Billy was British – very British. He grew up in a village a short walk from the Norfolk broads, where folk from the next village are treated with suspicion. You didn't treat those from further afield with suspicion. Suspicion gives them a chance.

Shane laughed. It was a scratchy laugh - a bump in the road away from a coughing fit. “Ought to be careful with a question like that lad. I'm Roma. Least I was."

Billy shifted in his seat as he swerved around a pothole, “That's one of those, erm, Travellers right?” He'd heard things about Travellers. Unlike travellers with a small 't', who might stop in the village pub for a drink and realise a second would be a bad idea, Travellers would set up shop in a field in a group too large to kick out.

“It's one travelling community, aye.” Shane replied with the collective tone of any community typically referred to as 'them'. Maybe I just shouldn't talk, Billy thought. He watched waves of British fields flowing past, broken by hedgerows and populated by schools of sheep and cows. He should have found it comforting, but the lack of landmarks made it even harder to place himself.

"I'm not as well acquainted with this side of London,” said Shane, “we in Buckinghamshire or Oxfordshire?"

Billy could have been in Scotland for all he knew. A small windmill had crept over the horizon, but that meant nothing to him. "Ox-. No. Buckinghamshire" he said. What does it matter? There basically the same, he thought.

"Ah, good memories of old Bucks. Good money here. And an appreciation of fine art. Gullible as poodles, though. We used to carve faces into pieces of tree bark and sell 'em fifty quid a piece." He raised a finger to Billy. Billy didn't want to take his eyes off the road - a blind left turn was coming up - but in the edge of his vision the finger looked unusually long, and the nail strangely pointed. "That's one of our tricks - don't tell no one!"

Billy laughed nervously. He didn't like Shane's sense of humour. As he turned the corner, a blue sign revealed itself, half covered by the hedgerow. It said:

...elcome

...kinghamshire

Ah, crap, thought Billy, must've been in Oxfordshire. I bet he'll take the piss all the way to London.

"You said we were already in Bucks!" It didn't sound like taking the piss. Shane sounded hurt. "You pullin' a fast one on me? What else you lyin' about? Is your name even Sam?”

Billy nearly swerved off the road in shock. "W-What? I-I never said-. M-my name's-."

Shane burst into laughter - a real belly laugh that made Billy's little Nissan Micra shake. "Ah, don't worry, I'm messing with you, Billy!”

Billy couldn't even feign humour at that.

The rest of the journey should have taken two hours on a bad day. Billy was having a very bad day. He drove past endless fields and through countless countryside towns. Every couple of hours, Shane would declare "Need a wizz!" They'd stop on a cobbled street in front of a pub named “The King's Arms” or “The Jester's Head". The medieval sign swinging on the front always showed a cartoon character that Billy found strangely familiar. They'd pick up a drink - take a wizz - then carry on.

After the third stop, Billy said “We should have arrived hours ago. I-I'm sorry, I have no idea where I'm going."

"They never do.” Shane shook his head, sounding like an executioner apologising before they swing the axe. He might have said, "I'm sorry you're about to die, but I can't wait to see how far the blood spurts.”

“I'm sure I've seen these fields before.” Billy continued. “Though I guess they all look-." Billy realised what Shane had said and replied, "Who is 'they'?"

Shane turned to Billy, looking almost sad. "The souls I pick up."

What is he talking about? Billy thought, I picked him up. But he didn't recall picking Shane up. He didn't recall the start of the journey for that matter. "The souls you-"

"Haven't seen that yet.” Shane interrupted. A railway line was a few dozen metres ahead. Somehow Billy hadn't seen it before.

The accelerator suddenly felt light as the car lost speed. Billy noticed the red fuel light. How the hell did I miss that, he thought, we've been driving for hours and I never stopped for fuel. How is that even-. "It's odd, don't you think?" said Shane, quietly, "how humans don't see the end of their journeys. Though they can often sense it."

The car approached the track. Billy pressed the break, but there was no resistance and the car rolled on.

"They know it will end, sometimes even want it to, but they think they can always stretch it out a little longer and never truly believe it will ever actually end."

They came to a halt on the track. Billy felt the rumble of the Earth reverberating through the steering wheel before he saw the train.

"l-l don't know what's going on, but we have to get the fuck out!" He pulled the door handle, but nothing happened.

“Jess Archer couldn't get out.” Shane looked down like he was mourning, “Her head hit the passenger window. She was lucky.” He looked at Billy, his face contorted into a caricature of misery. “Tyler King broke one arm on the rear passenger side window and dislocated the other holding onto your chair. He died in agony, unable to turn away from the twisted face of his dead girlfriend.”

The memories flooded back. "Oh my God, I'm fucking dead," cried Billy, "Am I fucking dead?"

Shane's face twisted into a hideous grin. "That you are, but God won't help you here.”

The train was ploughing toward them. Billy yanked the door handle. "I thought I could make it over the line!"

"You were drunk." Shane cracked his knuckles.

"The train should have stopped!” Billy continued to ineffectively tug at the door handle.

"You shouldn't have bet your friends' lives that it would." Shane dug the nails of his left hand into the driving wheel pulling himself toward Billy. Billy felt Shane's fiery breath on the back of his neck, but he couldn't pull his attention away from the track.

The train was a few dozen meters away. Billy started punching the window. Blood left translucent spots on the window. Billy felt a bone in his hand snap. He cried out, "Ah! What the fuck? Let me out!" The train was just meters away, then...

It vanished.

Billy's chest was heaving. His face was hot and sticky from sweat and tears. He threw up on his lap. He sobbed.

"It- wasn't- my- fault," he said between breaths.

Shane had settled back in the passenger seat. “Drive.”

The voice was guttural and acidic. The engine burst into life.

Billy had a feeling of deja vu. An abyssal feeling that he'd been through this hell before, that he'd relive it again and again, began to grow. Unable to stop himself, he pulled off. Searing pain pulsed through his hand where he held the steering wheel - sticky with blood. A rotten stench filled his little car. Despite knowing he'd been here before, despite the pain and the stench, he drove. The details in his memory became hazy, then distant, then they disappeared entirely.

And then he was driving again, somewhere North of Oxford, with a strange man in the passenger seat and a strong feeling that he was meant to be driving to London.

"I-I'm sorry." Billy stuttered, "I seem to be lost."