Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXXIII

Bill leaned forward and stared through the windscreen. He was bitterly regretting having set out for the cottage. Just as he was leaving the office the afternoon before, someone had come in and talked to him for hours. By the time they had gone it was getting dark and he had decided to postpone his decision until the morning.

A desultory sun was shining when he woke up at nine. He stared thoughtfully out of the window at the distant view of Hampstead Heath and then back at his bedroom which was untidy and smelled frowsty. He glared at the socks he had taken off the night before and thrown into the corner. Perhaps a weekend in the clean, bracing East-Anglian air would do him good.

The sun had disappeared almost as soon as he had joined the A1. By the time he was on the M25 the sky was overcast, deep, brown-bellied clouds massing overhead. When he got to Chelmsford it began to snow. Wet, sleety snow which swished beneath the tyres and clogged the windscreen wipers. The traffic was slow – not because there was a lot of it; unusually for a Saturday morning it was light, but because the visibility was appalling. Silently Bill cursed himself for his stupidity in setting out at all. He leaned forward and pressed a cassette into the deck, not taking his eye off the sleety road. He would drive as far as Colchester, park the car, give himself a drink and a meal at The George and then make the decision whether to go on or go back.