Dead Angels

"Near enough," Shane told him. "Jump in."



Shane offered the stranger a friendly smile and slid back across the seat. The man got in and pulled the door shut. Shane drove on.



"Bitter out there?" Shane asked, knowing it to be a dumb question but conversations usually started with talk of the weather.



"You bet, its freezing," the younger man said, rubbing his arms and shivering.



Shane rubbed the windscreen with the back of his hand again, then settled back into his seat. "I didn't catch your name," he said.



"Jon. Jon Cooke," the man replied. "Yours?"



"Shane Cole. It's nice to meet you, Jon," he said back.



They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a moment, but Shane soon broke it. "You're frozen right through. Take a look in the back and you'll find my coat. Put it on if you'd like."



"Thanks," Jon said, reaching into the rear of the truck. He rummaged through some old newspapers, books, and fishing gear until he found Shane's coat. It was khaki and expensive. Jon put it on and found that it was way too big for him, so he snuggled down into it and blew warm breath across his fingers.



"Feeling better?" Shane asked him.



"Yes, much better, thanks."



"Good. You looked like death warmed up standing along the roadside," Shane remarked.



"I'd been waiting for a while. You don't get much traffic out this way, it's pretty remote," Jon said, rubbing his hands together.



"That's true," Shane said. "If you don't mind me asking  -  why are you going to Paisley End?"



"For some peace and quiet," Jon told him.



"You'll get it there," Shane said. "I've never been, but heard rumours that it's kind of dead there  -  you know, people keep themselves to themselves. They don't welcome strangers."



"If I'm to be honest, I got myself into a bit of trouble back home, so I'm kind of hiding for a while," Jon explained.



"Trouble?" Shane asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. "With the law?"



"No, nothing like that," Jon said. "Girl trouble. Trying to keep away from her father. He's really pissed at me. Besides, I'm a musician. I play the flute."



"Any good?" Shane asked.



"Not bad," Jon said. "I'm self-taught. Comes kinda natural, I guess. I'm planning on writing some music down here. You know, a bit of fresh air, beautiful scenery, peace and quiet  -  that sort of thing."



"You'll get plenty of peace and quiet in Paisley End," Shane commented. "It's pretty much a dead-end sorta place."



"Where are you going?" Jon asked, pulling the coat about him.



"A place called Weather Beach," Shane said. "I turn off about two or so miles before Paisley End. My daughter has a place there. Great for fishing."



The truck rumbled on through the rain and the wind, Shane and Jon chatting all the way. After about an hour and with no let-up in the bad weather, Shane pulled over.



"This is as far as I go," Shane said.



"I appreciate the lift," Jon smiled, pushing the door open against the wind.



"Don't mention it," Shane said, then added, "It's none of my business, but maybe after you found what you're looking for in Paisley End, you should maybe go home to that girl you got into trouble with. It's hard bringing up a kid on your own, I should know."



"I'll think about it," Jon said. He closed the door to the truck, and hoisting his duffle bag over his shoulder, he set off in the direction of Paisley End and the dull day gradually turned into night.



Shane stepped on the accelerator and drove the truck towards Weather Beach. He looked forward to seeing his daughter again, and the fishing, of course. With more than an hour or so of driving left to go, and with his companion gone, Shane lent forward, opened the glove box and rummaged around for a cigarette. He'd promised his daughter that he'd quit, but he had cut down. Unable to find a packet, and keeping one eye on the road ahead, he swung his arm over the back of his seat and felt for his coat. It wasn't there and he suddenly remembered he had lent it to Jon.



"For crying out loud," Shane cursed, remembering that his wallet, credit cards, and cigarettes were in the pockets of the coat, he slammed on the brakes. Reversing back up the road, which was little more than a dirt track, Shane reached the point where he had last seen Jon walking away into the distance. Knowing that it had been little more than ten minutes since Jon had gotten out of the truck, Shane sped towards Paisley End, hoping that he would soon catch up with him and his coat.



The truck rattled and bobbed over the rain-swollen ditches and puddles, and after twenty minutes or more, he was surprised that he hadn't caught up with Jon. He pushed the truck onwards. Then ahead, Shane saw a sign that read, Welcome to Paisley End. Stopping the truck, Shane rubbed the windscreen with the back of his hand again and peered out. Beneath the welcome sign, someone had written, Children Beware.



Not knowing what to make of the sign, Shane paused. Did he really want to go on? But his jacket was there. So easing his truck into gear, he headed into town. Just like the other roads, they were little more than lanes, with overgrown hedges on either side. The road was uneven, and Shane bounced around in his seat as he drove on. But there was still no sign of Jon Cooke.



Up ahead, Shane could see lights twinkling in the distance in the falling rain. He suddenly felt glad that he was finally reaching some kind of civilisation. Houses, shops, and people, he hoped. Shane swung the truck onto the first tarmacked road that he had seen in hours. He raced towards the lights in the distance. As he drew nearer to them, he could see that it was a petrol station and roadside cafe that he was heading towards.



Shane slowed the truck and veered into the car park and got out. With his head low and shoulders hunched forward, he ran towards the cafe, as the rain lashed down all around him. The cafe was shabby-looking, the roof bowed inwards, and the brickwork was cracked and moss-ridden. The windows looked dirty, and the curtains had a yellow tinge to them. Shane pushed the door open and stepped out of the rain. The cafe was dimly-lit, and people sat huddled around small tables. Seeing him enter, they all looked up at once and fixed him with an unfriendly stare. It was as Shane looked around the room at them, he noticed that their faces were deathly white, which spoke of unhappiness and sorrow. They eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot, and each of them looked as if they recently spent many hours crying.



Breaking their unfriendly stares, Shane shook the rain from his grey hair and made his way to the counter, which doubled as a bar. Behind it slouched a withered old man. His face was a mass of wrinkles. His eyes, just like the others, were almost puffed closed. As he watched Shane approach, the old man pulled a cloth from his pocket and began to wipe down the counter. He worked, but his heart wasn't in it. Shane stopped in front of the coffee-stained bar.



"Can I help you?" the old man asked, and Shane couldn't help but notice that his voice was riddled with suspicion.



"I hope so," Shane said right back.



"Tea? Coffee? Or something stronger?" the old man asked.



"No, nothing, thanks. I'm fine," Shane told him. "I would just like some information." But with the feeling that all those eyes were boring into him, he just wanted to run from the cafe and get right back in his truck and out of town.



"What sort?" the old man snapped.



"Has a young man passed this way in the last hour or so?" Shane asked.



The old man made no reply and went back to cleaning the counter. Shane tried again. "He was in his early twenties, was wearing a khaki coat and carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder."



The old man turned his back on Shane and started to busy himself by cleaning some cups.



"His name was Jon Cooke," Shane started up again. "Do you know..."