Why Read Me? The Moor of the Graves Novel Extract
An extract taken from The Moor of the Graves, a current work in progress.
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Up ahead, no more than four hundred metres away, someone stepped out into the road and turned to face him. David’s foot flew from the accelerator and stamped the brake. “Shit!”
ABS off for sports mode, the Beema fishtailed to a stop ten feet in front of the man — the hitch-hiker David knew he’d already passed — and he sat breathless over his steering wheel, staring wide-eyed at this maniac who’d brought his thrill to a grinding halt.
…Or life to a start.
The odd thought made David blink. He could not fathom why, given the day’s events, he would think such a thing. It was as though someone else had spoken inside his mind. Frowning, he scanned the stranger who should not have been where he was.
The man’s short blonde hair lifted a little in the breeze as he stood equal on his feet, tall and imposing yet easy with it. His hands pocketed, he stood as though waiting for a bus — a ride. Bright eyes held David’s. The man smiled. His ride, it seemed, had come.
Despite the distance, David looked into his rear-view mirror for the hitcher he’d already passed. But the road was clear; the garage was too distant to see, therefore the hitcher would be too. His frown deepened. The first man had been unusual for these parts, what were the chances of another? “Twins, maybe,” he muttered as he glanced through the windscreen again. He hissed in a breath. The man was gone.
“Fuck this for a game of soldiers.” David shook his head, moved foot from brake to accelerator once again. “Fucking weirdo, fucking with m–” A rap on the passenger window and he jumped. When he turned, the smiling man was looking in at him.
Not knowing what else to do, caught within the sticky surreality of indecision, David pressed the button and the passenger window whirred down.
The man poked his head in a little and looked around. “Nice car,” he said, his low, slightly accented voice appreciative. “It’s German.” His paper-cut eyes examined the leather upholstery, the dials, switches and lights of the dash, then came to rest at last on David. “I need a ride.” He raised an angled brow. “Have you got one?”
David opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what might come out, not knowing what to do. For the second time that day he felt entirely out of control. “I…um…where are you heading?” he asked, his mother’s voice echoing in his mind from years gone by, warning of hitch-hikers, mutilation — death.
The stranger already had his hand on the door handle, but not at the front. He opened the rear door and swung himself in. “Wherever you’re going,” he said.
David frowned and looked back over his shoulder. “Front’s free, you know.” He reached for the solicitor’s papers to clear them, casting an eye between the front seats to check his baseball bat still lay there. It did.
“That’s quite all right,” the stranger said. “I like to stretch out, if you know what I mean. This is after all going to be a very long journey. Isn’t it… David?”
David looked at the man as he shut the car door. Did I give my name? Straightening slowly, he stared past his own puzzled reflection in the rear-view mirror and to his new passenger behind. The word ’smooth’ didn’t quite cut it. David got the impression as he watched the man settling back against the passenger door, his long legs stretched over the seat, that nothing could faze the guy, nothing would disturb. He blinked as bright eyes turned his way, staring back at him through the mirror’s reflection.
The stranger faded from focus as David looked at his own eyes, comparing them. He’d always thought them bright, but they were dull and grey measured against this man’s piercing orbs. His hair, also, he’d thought a light blonde, but the man’s fair head made David’s look dirty, unkempt. And as he gazed at the curve of his own quizzical eyebrows, David realised that the whole of the stranger’s demeanour seemed sharper, more defined than anything around him. As though the world were only a backdrop and the man was the reality — the keystone and the focus.
David wondered at this strange clarity. Does this mean I’m not real? He rubbed his eyes.
Now the man looked around and pursed full lips. “Are we ready to go, David?” he asked. “Time ticks. Oh, you might want to pull over, out of the way of the lorry. Quickly.” He lifted a finger to point at the road running around the left-hand bend David had been about to take before the stranger stopped him.
The skin on David’s back prickled. With a bizarre panic urging him, he dumped the clutch and selected first. Pulling away, he chanced another glance back at the man, a small part of him expecting he’d be gone.
He wasn’t.
And as David accelerated, steering left and away from the log wagon that hurtled around the corner at that very moment, its wheels astride the centre lines, the man leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “You are ‘South’, David,” he said. “…Listen.”
