The sign on the A14
indicated that there were services ahead.
Martha pulled off the main road; thinking of shops, conveniences and hot
food. What she found was merely a petrol
station with a patch of hard-standing.
There had been a café once, but it looked like it had served its last
bacon butty before the turn of the century.
The windows were thick with the dust kicked up by a constant convoy of
container lorries. Martha felt much the
same herself, like she could scrape the dirt of her journey off her body with a
sharp edged implement. She must stop
though, at least wipe her hands and find a cool drink. She turned off the engine and looked around. The midday sun glinted off the petrol price
list . Two van drivers in shorts took
long swigs from cans and exchanged comments about the roadworks near Cambridge.
The van drivers glanced
over at Martha as she got out of the car. It was a car that attracted people’s attention
and they were always curious to see the driver.
It could work against her, people might remember seeing the sleek white
coupe gliding along the fast lane. But,
then again, the cameras. She’d be picked
up wherever she went, no matter what the car.
At least this one could go fast, nip between lanes of traffic.
The pre-occupied woman in
the petrol station shop served her with little care and pointed out the toilets
as if she had done so a thousand times already that day. Martha returned to her car, wiping her hands
thoroughly with a wipe, and then rubbing in anti-bacterial lotion. She worked it in between her fingers and up
her wrists. She turned on the engine and
left. No need for petrol. Soon she would
be in Harwich with its big anonymous car park and boats to the continent.
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