‘Wit’ choo babe, I wanna dance wit’ choo.’ the Afro voice chanted as bass thudded and tinkling percussion looped.
“This song’s getting on my wick,” said Maggie.
‘Hey I say, I’s a’gonna give you’s a résumé.’ the voice rapped.
“Should send ‘em all back home!” said Frank, punching the ‘off’ switch.
Now silent, the powerful car ploughed on through the night. In all lanes of the motorway, relentless traffic – headlights dazzling, red tail-lights shining, occupants invisible. Huge trucks sporting rows of blazing spotlights on hibars and lobars resembled speeding Christmas lights. Beyond the central barrier, the lights of equally unrelenting oncoming traffic.
A huge, illuminated blue sign stretched across the motorway. Above their lane – ‘Devilsdale 10 miles’.
“I need the loo,” said Julie.
“OK, there’s a service at Devilsdale,” said Frank.
They felt their bodies vibrate as an enormous articulated lorry, rows of red and white lights along its sides, thundered past, throwing up spray from the recently wetted road.
“Where’s the houses gone?” said Maggie after a while. On either side of the motorway, all they could see was inky blackness. “It’s taking so long.”
“Soon be there. Don’t worry.”
Another blue sign loomed ahead, “Devilsdale 10 miles.”
Featured in the book, To Cut a Short Story Short: 111 Little Stories
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