Tim wiped threads of sweat from his hair-line, as he killed the engine. He had gratuitously driven into a lay-by off the A426 - not to fix his bearings so much but to assure himself that the air pressure had not dropped: he was obsessed with the tyres, deeply dreading blow-out or unexpected seepage from their firmness. After all, rubber's hide was where car met world.
Having flipped over the cassette, he plugged it back into the slot on the dashboard. He heard the static hiss become music, swollen with stereo sound: a Stabat Mater by a composer he had forgotten. Fumbling for the case, Tim forced himself to check his own untidy handwriting, finding Dvorak. "Four-Jack," he whispered as if to someone else. Time enough to test the wheels: he was early for his appointment, anyway. He grabbed hold of the Guardian purchased earlier in a motorway service station. Watford Gap, he seemed to recall: or had it been Toddington where he'd stopped off? Probably neither.
There was an item in the paper that some American President had made all important decisions in the light (or rather, thought Tim, the dark) of Astrology: something to do with planetary alignment determining whether he should venture from the White House or not. Wonder what the man on the other side of the iron curtain had thought of that, having Summit Meetings dependant on the cusp of Uranus! Someone once said Tim had Aries Rising, although Tim had no idea what it meant. Bored, he allowed his eyes to wander: through the car window a blurred factory chimney stretching into the sticky sky's grey. Smoke began to belch, as if it knew it was being watched...
A sharp tap on the rear window startled Tim. Swivelling in his seat, he saw a woman staring at him. She smiled, with more than a hint of sadness in her eyes.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
She was in her mid to late twenties, in a uniform of white blouse and navy-blue pleated skirt that reached just below the knees. Her hair was windswept or, perhaps, simply untidy, in view of the lack of wind. A flicker of recognition lit a dim memory in Tim's mind - only to be snuffed out as she replied: "I wanted to tell you that one of your tyres is flat as a pancake." The voice was husky. Perhaps, she suffered a sore throat or she had tried too hard to make herself heard over the loud music. She said it was the rear nearside wheel.
Tim cursed. His immediate thought was the spare in the boot. Would that be flat, too? He had not checked it for at least twelve hours. "Thank you..." He did not question the woman's arrival, next to the middle of nowhere as the lay-by happened to be. The only sign of life was the factory chimney beyond the roadside field that was speckled unaturally bright yellow in the gloom.
"You have a spare one, don't you?"
You must be kidding, thought Tim, how could Fate possibly allow him to have a perfect spare? Sod's law. But he replied: "Yes, of course I do. Don't let me keep you. I can manage. Thanks again - I might have done some damage if I'd driven off." He clambered out and stared at the wheel. The rupture was ugly, the tread's black flesh splayed out on each side of the hub. Cringing, he knelt to examine the damage, inserting his finger into the various cloying orifices. This was no ordinary puncture. The whole thing had been flayed - like an ancient African slave.
"Nasty business." The voice came from above. Upon looking up, Tim saw that she was particularly attractive, the bra's outline showing vaguely through the sheeny blouse in the steel light. The face was round, a little puddingy, perhaps, yet the well-defined curves of the lips and the spearmint eyes...
Tim interrupted his own perusal, wondering why he scrutinised her to such a degree. He had more than enough trouble on his hands now to be spending time sizing up a potential pick-up. Years ago, he had always been on the look-out for female hitch-hikers. But, now, well - amongst other considerations, he was older, more mature and, yes, no longer over-sexed. Still, his hands flexed involuntarily.
"You sure I can't help?" The words seemed to breathe in his ear.
"No - no, thanks all the same. It's a simple matter these days. Jacks are much easier to handle..." He wouldn't admit to having four in his boot, collected over a period. Then hearing the faint strains of music still coming from inside the car, he stood up to go and switch it off.
"I'll do it." As if reading his mind, she opened the driver's door and disengaged the cassette.
Strange how quiet it was. The sky had even started to brighten, with the drizzle relenting. Heat remained oppressive, dampening any sound, including the footsteps as Tim and the woman negotiated around each other. She was, he decided, trying to get in his way.
"You know, you and I were destined to meet here today." The voice came out of the blue, after a long gap in the exchanges. Squatting by the blow-out, Tim stared up, at a loss for words. What could anyone say to statement like that? So he pointedly ignored it.
The afternoon was far brighter, since the sun had burnt off the mists. Tim's white car was still in the lay-by. The yellow field, despite the sunshine, had grown no brighter, it seemed, than it had been in the morning. The colour of rape-seed oil was true as a die. There was now no need to focus in order to see the factory chimney - just plain there and not worth the notice. The odd vehicles that pounded along the road were merely reminders of other human beings.
Tim had the driver's seat leaning right back. A gluey heat crept over his face. He could hardly see through the sleep-sticky eyelids or breathe along the froggy throat via the mucous mouth and bubbling nostrils. A twitching lizard's tail peeped from between his lips.
Music played. He had not put it on, he was sure, for he did not like jazz: a husky, bluesy voice, a remix of Elke Brooks, Ella Fitzgerald and Janis Joplin. He could not easily decipher the words, for his ears were fast waxing up with yellowing brain.
His lower parts stank: he could not smell them, of course.
He suddenly realised something he had known all along. The art of forgetting was a spent force. Hell's hymen was punctured. He had seen that woman before today. Yonks ago, she had been a student hitch-hiker, in the wrong place at the wrong time, getting the younger version of Tim as a lift. And unassuageable shame and vengeful retribution were so utterly powerful even Fate's dam had been breached, at the unlikeliest right place and right time.
Yes, it must have been Toddington. And Requiem, not a Stabat Mater.
