The road had a reputation as an accident black spot; maybe more accurate to call it a deadly rash than a single spot, given the multiple mortalities and injuries
The Journey A Short Story by Trevor Hoyle
I
t was that last stretch of the A38 – from Buckfastleigh to Plymouth – that Don Weaver dreaded most. Even though he’d driven the route so many times he’d lost count, he always felt apprehensive and a bit queasy. The road had a reputation as an accident black spot; maybe more accurate to call it a deadly rash than a single spot, given the multiple mortalities and injuries. Switching from fast dual carriageway to constipated twolane traffic and back again every few miles was a temptation too great to resist for overtaking drivers who met their fate head on. Compounding the risk were slow lumbering farm vehicles, and this
was a bad time of year for them. At the moment the traffic was light, the weather fine and clear. Don had left Bristol a few minutes after one o’clock. His appointment with the manager of Stubley Manor, Ian Pocklington, was at three, which was cutting it fine. Over the phone Ian had come across as a laid-back, agreeable sort of bloke, so maybe it wasn’t worth breaking his neck to be punctually on the dot. Ian had even suggested an overnight stay with dinner, gratis, if Don could spare the time. Unbidden and unwelcome, Janet’s voice wormed its way into his head. “Why do you leave everything to the last minute, Donald? Working in the travel in-
Art: David Anderson / www.dandersonillustration.com ColdType | Mid-July 2020 | www.coldtype.net
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