HALFWAY HOUSE

A salesman finds a pub after a nightmare drive ...

Christ! What a nightmare of a drive!  

Shattered, shaking, and at the same time relieved, he saw the pub loom out of the gloom. Halfway House. 

His instant thought:

Halfway to where? And why? After what I’ve just driven through. 

He pulled to a stop in the almost empty car park and his head sank onto the wheel. After a few moments he looked up and took in the grey mist and the bleak car park. He glanced across at the only other car.

Struth, what a mess!  Not surprised on roads like these. Write-off for sure.

He didn't seem to notice similar damage to his own car. Right now, some solace inside a warm hostelry seemed more important than worrying about other drivers or anything else. He approached the pub door.  

OK, probably not very busy. But as long as they’re serving and I can sit by a fire that’ll do me. 

Still shaken, he walked in. To his surprise a gentle hum of social talk and chinks of glasses greeted him. 

Hmm. Perhaps a coach group parked round the back?  But I don’t recall seeing------

-----“Not the day to be out and about, Melrose, I would suggest!”  

The greeting, if such, came from a barman whose voice and manner took him back to his first head teacher, Mr Cripps. That was presumably, some part of him reasoned, how 'Cripps' knew his name. 

Bit weird, but at the moment I just need to chill for a few minutes.

“You look a bit shaken up, my lad. Wondering what hit you? Bad journey?”

“Bad?“ he responded. 

“It was all fine. Calls were going well. Great progress, good traffic. Then I hit awful problems on the motorway. Stop start, mainly stop. Jamming on the brakes, cars and vans careering round everywhere - jeez!  Sometimes being stuck is OK because I can take a longer look at things for my next call. This time, luckily, I thought, I’m by a slip road. Work round another way. Call the office again to let them know. Then the nightmare really started.”

The barman nodded for him to continue.

“Well, blue sky was suddenly replaced by thunderous clouds and torrents of rain so hard I could barely see. Lightning. Such lightning. Then all hell broke loose. Side-winds like I’ve never known before. Then just as suddenly into this dark dank clinging fog. I could barely see. I followed a grey road surface, but for the life of me I couldn’t tell you what road I took or where in heaven’s name I …”

He paused. An old habit ... scanning for clients, competitors, or women. .. kicked into amber alert. 

Wasn’t that the young kid in the back seat of that nuisance car … stupid bloody Star Wars T-shirt … and that annoying woman too. Was she actually driving? More likely she was polishing her nails.

“Ah yes.” The barman responded interrupting his thoughts. 

“Very inclement indeed, I shouldn’t wonder. Poor weather. Poor roads.  And might I add, begging your pardon Melrose, poor drivers. Too many, far too many, poor, inconsiderate, arrogant drivers. But I imagine Melrose, a man in your line, you would be more than familiar with such matters. Cast a glance over there, lad. I see you have already noticed them. That mother and son came in only moments before you and said all the same things.” 

Almost an instinctive thing after all these years, he began appraising the woman.  

OK, probably in her late 30s. 

He skimmed over a fleeting recognition that this was a decade he himself was some years beyond. He looked again. 

Great body! Great eyes. Dresses well.  Looks after herself.  Gym for sure.  But, struth!  Cheer up, love. At least smile or laugh for the kid if not for anyone else - bloody turning the whole place into a morgue.

“They thought, Melrose, that they had seen a driver speeding and using his phone, with his car veering every which way. One of those, forgive me Melrose, I-know-how-to-drive-and-do-ten-other-things-at-the-same-time inconsiderate scallywags. They pass through here all the time. By chance and the look of you, was that you, Melrose?  Your attention on your calls rather than on your driving? Are you a scallywag, Melrose? I’m starting to suspect it might have been …“

Bloody hell! 

He reeled back from the judgemental lecture that was so typically how Cripps had used to put him and his schoolfriends in their place, and again wondered what on earth was going on.  

I wasn’t expecting a bloody inquisition!  Bloody cheek accusing me. Me! Christ, if I had made contact wouldn’t I know about it. Lousy paperwork and insurance hassle and replacement car. Nightmare. And anyway at the speed I was going I wouldn’t now be in a pub having a drink. And how come my head teacher is a barman in a hell-hole of a pub in the middle of nowhere?  

Then he came back to the words ‘that mother and son … only moments before you’.  

That wreck out in the car park? What’s going on?

The barman glanced under the counter as though checking notes.  

”I see, Melrose, that you were unfaithful with eight different women over the years. Cheating. Betraying, one might say, Melrose, the love of your trusting wife who was at home raising your children. Your adoring children, Melrose, asking and pestering ‘Mama when will Daddy be home?’  She, stretched and stressed with keeping them fed and dressed and learning the right lessons in life, crying herself to sleep in an empty bed which you could have shared more instead of inventing extended business trips.” 

He looked aghast at both the truth and suddenness of these charges.  But ‘Cripps’ wasn’t finished yet.

“Did you consider for a moment, Melrose, how these ladies may have regarded their, liaisons, with you?  Some of those eight have passed by here, dreadfully unhappy after broken promises. Look yonder, Melrose. Yvonne; number six, I believe. Yvonne who wanted to set up home with you, while all you had in mind was ... need I go on? Does that sound to you like a worthy citizen, let alone a good husband and father, Melrose, or a scallywag?”

He could only stare, open-mouthed and increasingly disturbed. 

What on earth is this? Am I on bloody trial!

“I propose a strong coffee for you, Melrose. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. And perhaps an even stronger brandy to wash it down. And let me reassure you, Melrose, there is no cause to concern yourself about drink-driving. Though I suspect you think you drive well after drinking, Melrose, and certainly wouldn’t concern yourself about such trifles. Perchance your dashboard has a police camera speed trap warning sensor, Melrose?“

“Well yes, but-----“

“For now we’ll put to one side the financial and other inducements you have participated in with both clients and competitors to secure personal gain and kudos when even at the expense of your employer or fellow colleagues.”

This is getting ridiculous. Bloody witch hunt. 

“For goodness sake! That’s just ...“

“Doubtless you are about to say - what is your phrase, Melrose - it’s part of the game.  Here, Melrose, I can assure you, disloyalty, back-handers, betrayals - here they are NOT part of ‘the game’, and those with such tendencies are most definitely seen as scallywags.  But I can already see the look of shock and confusion in your eyes, Melrose. In need of that brandy and coffee. I’ll have them brought over. You might like, while waiting, to rest yourself by the fire.”

For heaven's sake, yes it’s part of the game, you sanctimonious fool. Oiling the wheels. Everyone does it. And then, how did ‘Cripps’ know any of this? That there’d been any women, let alone eight? He’d have to count back to check again - eight? Well, he thought.  Life on the road. What happens at the conference stays at the conference, eh. Everyone did it. The stories he could tell. It was just sex. Didn't mean anything. Consenting adults. 

He looked back at Cripps. 

Get a life, mate; only one chance!

Too drained to feel aggrieved or think any more, and reeling from moralistic admonishments he thought he’d left behind years ago, he followed what sounded like good advice and sank into a comfortable chair. A chance to collect himself and take a longer scan of the other people in the bar, chatting in small groups. 

Pretty much a usual crew. More old than young, but you get places like that. 

Talking of resemblances, he started seeing look-alikes everywhere. 

Wasn’t that ‘Bing Crosby’ sharing a joke with ‘John Lennon’? And ‘Nelson Mandela’ and ‘Joseph Stalin’?  Christ, one could hardly imagine a bigger gulf between two iconic figures; archetypal good and evil. Very strange bedfellows.  

‘Stalin’ and ‘Mandela’, he saw, were talking with new arrivals.  Then he checked himself.  

New arrivals? How do I know they’re ‘new arrivals’, and what does that mean anyway?

And on a more mundane level, that chap on the other side of the room reminded him of Derek pain-in-the-neck Webster from Purchasing. 

Bloody nuisance, he’d been. Following rules and procedure when a deal was hanging in the balance - best thing he could do was go over him to Derek’s boss who was an old drinking companion - save that deal and my commission, and keep that bureaucratic waster out of the way. No regrets there, then. Derek was, and probably always had been, a mug. Left last year? No. Wasn’t it a heart attack? Or was that someone else? 

Standing nearby, he spotted ...

Glenda? Bloody hell, another one who almost screwed things. 

The details came flooding back. Her worsening disability and resulting need in the office for purpose-built, expensive, facilities. Just when the firm was a bit strapped and he needed a few hundred for a client sweetener. It took a lot of devious moves and arm-twisting, but he got the cash while Glenda had to retire early. 

Good riddance. We’re running a business not a bloody charity!

Along with a couple of others, Glenda and Derek were gravitating towards the two doorways at the far end of the bar, through which he had the impression there were some kinds of assemblies happening. 

Perhaps that explains the crowd. A look-alike convention, perhaps? 

One of the doorways was well lit, a sort of bright halo seeping into the rest of the bar. He took in the folk headed that way.  

Christ, they’re a bit holier than thou. Safe-boring-dull, never taken a risk in their lives or had any fun. They’ll be singing bloody Kumbaya next. 

Whereas the people heading for the other room, and he knew ‘Cripps’ would disapprove,  looked more his kind of crowd. 

That’s a bit more like it! Looks like it’s pumping in there. Lots of action!  Screamin’ and whoopin’!  Red lights, here I come! 

Yet even as he thought this, he felt more than a little troubled about the wisdom of his certainty.

His scan continued, and he found himself half-surprised, but by this stage not totally shocked, to see a framed picture between the two doorways. Not just any framed picture. This was Lands End sometime back in the late seventies. Him as a grinning eight year old with Mum, Dad, and Gran. 

Blimey, almost forty years ago? My little angel, Gran used to call me. My little angel. 

Those days were all a bit blurred to him now, and had been for many a year. 

The past, is dead and gone. Nevertheless … he admitted, it gave him a bit of a jolt to see happier carefree times staring back at him.

God, this chair is heaven. 

He was starting to feel drowsy. 

Hardly surprising after that drive.  In fact, I must already be in some sort of heavy sleep surreal dream kind of thing, though why I would dream about these characters is beyond me.  

His drink still hadn’t arrived, so he decided to visit the toilet while he was waiting.  

I’ll do my usual check of the vending machines. Generally the same promises of ecstasy wherever one went, but you never know. 

He glanced as he went in. 

Well, these ones look different for a change.  Could be interesting.  Have a proper look in a moment. 

Then washing his hands he was able to look in the mirror and see the vending machines behind him. Eighteen years in Sales sitting across client desks had made him an expert in reading mirror wording.

NEVER AGAIN, said the first machine. 

Bit odd? Ah yes, never again fail to please, of course. Not that he’d ever needed …

JUST HEAVEN, proclaimed the second. 

Well, very little he could add to that ....

The third machine was directly behind him, he seemed to recall. But he must have been wrong, because he found that, although it was a bit blurred and fuzzy, he was able to read it. 

LAST FOR EVER. 

For ever? Bit extreme.  A good few minutes, perhaps, but ... 

He turned. And then he realised the machine had indeed been directly behind him. 

How the hell was I able to …

He turned back to the mirror. But the strange thing was the mirror was no longer there. Just a flat-screen TV showing Yvonne and those seven other women, and then, just as quickly, his wife and kids, all crying. But no mirror. 

But it was just here! What the hell is happening? Am I losing it?  Some dream, this is! 

Then all he could see was a grey wall. 

Definitely losing it, he conceded. 

Perhaps that journey was even worse than I thought. 

And he felt tired. That brandy and comfortable chair were waiting for him just the other side of the .... then the door disappeared! 

What in heaven's name is going on here? 

In his career in Sales he’d long become used to things not always going his way. It was to be expected, he knew. The trick was to stay alert, ride the punches, and anticipate the unexpected. And he’d tried to apply the same rules in the pub ever since he’d got out of his car.  But thick-skinned though he was, this was getting ridiculous and disturbing. Disappearing walls? Stalin? John Lennon? Pictures of his family? All these people he’d known? That mother and son? A headteacher barman who not only knew all his dark secrets but recited them as though reading a charge for the prosecution?  

This can’t be, he knew. 

And the alarming growing realisation that came welling up from his gut and inner being. 

If I’m not asleep dreaming weird dreams, then where, precisely, am I?

He found himself back in the bar, which also wasn’t looking that clear. Apart from the function rooms beyond the far doors, the rest was looking hazy and thin and more hazy still with every second. People were drifting into the next rooms, sort of ushered by the Stalin and Mandela lookalikes. He noticed Derek, Yvonne and Glenda.  He saw the mother heading the same way and looking to see if her son was following but he was holding back a bit. He took another look around and found that all his surroundings were fading away. He stumbled. Looking down, he realised with a sort of fatalistic recognition that he could no longer see his legs. Or feel them. Simply, they just weren’t. The only thing left was a beckoning Stalin standing by the red light through the other doorway where things were, yup, screamin’ loud, and lots of action. 

Bloody hell, is this it, then? Is this it? Is this bloody it?

On some level he didn’t recognise but just went along with, because he realised he had no choice in this, he thought he heard ‘Cripps’ by his side. 

“Comrade Stalin is inviting you to enter, Melrose. Are you ready, Melrose? Are you sure you’re quite ready? Or …”

He looked round for the source or sense of this voice. But of course, he knew by now, all he saw was deep dark grey. And equally surely he knew where he was even though he’d never come this way before.  He met Stalin’s eyes ... those eyes that killed millions. 

Is that me - am I that bad? 

He forced himself to blink, to shut his eyes, to think. 

Is that what I am, what I want? 

When he opened them Stalin was gone, the doorways were gone. Everything. Just black emptiness.

=================

Blackness. Nothing. Then pain. Screaming. Such pain. Such screaming. He was hurting all over. 

Blackness giving way to glaring light. Blinding white. 

Relentless sun. Such pain. Brutally hard beneath.  

A road.  

How come I’m lying on a road? Bleeding my life out. 

Such pain. And screams from nearby. 

Not a road please. I’m not going to die lying on a frigging road. Anywhere else - OK.

Inch by inch he raised his broken head and mis-shaped shoulders and looked at his desperately injured body and limbs. 

Christ what a bloody mess! 

A hollow laugh at his literally accurate assessment. Indeed he was a bleeding, broken, fading fast, mess. And still the screams in his ear. Turning his complaining neck he could see a familiar looking car, crushed on its roof, doors flung out, wheels still spinning. 

His? How? Those screams! Stop those bloody screams for pity’s sake.

He spat bile and teeth and blood. From somewhere he uttered a pain-ridden sound. 

“Who’s there?” No response. Screams. “Who’s there!?”

Straining his neck the other way he could see another car. Also familiar. Also broken and overturned. And through the crazed windows a child in a Star Wars T-shirt.  An adult in front. Flailing. Screaming. Doors closed. Trapped by seat-belts. In the same moment he saw clear fluid pouring from the car and yes, he’d known it would, igniting. 

Christ al-bloody-mighty. 

“GET OUT!” “GET OUT!”

In an instant he realised that only he could open the doors and free them. In doing so, he knew it would seriously lessen his own already small chances of still being in this world when the ambulances came. The flames started to lick around the fuel puddle on the tarmac. He knew it was a matter of seconds.

Even though it was but an instant, he looked at the odds and also his own balance sheet of life with the final entry headline ‘More deaths in Motorway collision - Driver on phone suspected to be responsible”.  

Christ, what an epitaph. Well, while I’m here I’m going to get closer anyway. See if I can …. 

Then the flames erupted.

From somewhere he’d never known he found the strength to block out his own agonies, and flung himself at the car and seized open the back door. Screams from the driver 

“SAVE HIM PLEASE SAVE HIM!!” 

His clothes started to smoulder and his hands were almost melting. The seat belt came undone and he grabbed the Star Wars T-shirt and, with his remaining strength, threw it behind him away from the blazing car. He started on the front door as flames consumed him and he could only reel from the unbearable heat. For the merest instant he half saw the trapped mother, knowing she had moments to live, look into his soul. Then, beaten, exhausted, burning, and broken, his charred body collapsed onto the screaming boy. Blackness returned.

=====================

Within minutes the ambulances arrived. The paramedics were hardened to these scenes.  They took it in almost instantly. It was probably just a cursory check to see if any of the people had a heartbeat, unlikely as it seemed. The body in the front seat of the overturned burning car was unrecognisable, and definitely with no beating heart. They turned their attention to the two blackened figures on the road, one largely on top of the other. 

It wasn’t easy to check, but seconds later they sprang into action to do all they could for the life hanging by a thread on the tarmac. 

A very thin thread, but definitely a thread.

Author's Note

I wrote this some years ago and published an earlier version of it on WC under my old name. Hopefully I've tightened it since then, and made it easier to hear Melrose's inner thoughts.