The Long Way Home

I’ve driven the A30 between Exeter and Plymouth a thousand times. Know every lay-by, every farm gate, every stretch where the speed cameras lurk. That night in October, coming back from my sister’s birthday dinner, I took the usual shortcut through the back roads near Dartmoor. Saved twenty minutes, avoided the lorries. Standard procedure.

The clock on the dash read 11:47 PM when I turned off onto the B3212. No other cars. Just me, the engine noise, and the narrow beam of my headlights cutting through the moor darkness. I’d done this route so many times I could drive it blind—past the old stone bridge, up the hill by Postbridge, then the long straight stretch where you can finally put your foot down.

That’s where I saw the other car. A red Vauxhall Astra, same model as mine, maybe five years older. It appeared in my rearview mirror doing at least ninety, closing fast on the straight. I pulled left to let it pass, but it didn’t overtake. Just sat there in my mirrors, matching my speed exactly.

I slowed down to sixty. The Astra slowed down. I sped up to seventy. So did it. The driver’s face was hidden in shadow, but I could see hands on the steering wheel, the faint outline of someone leaning forward slightly, the way you do when you’re concentrating hard on something.

What the hell are you playing at?

I muttered to myself

I tried the old trick of sudden braking, hoping to force an overtake. The Astra braked too, staying exactly the same distance behind. No horn, no flashing lights, no road rage. Just this methodical, patient following. Like it was tethered to my bumper by an invisible rope.

The next bit gets difficult to explain. I mean, I work in insurance. I deal in facts, figures, evidence. I don’t believe in ghost stories or supernatural nonsense. But when I looked in my side mirror to get a better angle on the Astra, I saw something that made my hands tighten on the wheel.

The driver was me. Same face, same hairline, same navy jacket I was wearing. He was staring straight ahead with the kind of blank concentration you see in people who’ve been driving too long. His mouth was slightly open, like he was breathing through it. Just like I do when I’m tired.

I tried to speed up, get some distance. The other me kept pace. I tried slowing right down to thirty, hazards on, hoping he’d get frustrated and overtake. Nothing. He just sat there behind me, patient as a hearse driver, matching every adjustment I made.

The rational part of my brain was working overtime. Stress hallucination. Too much wine at dinner. Tired eyes playing tricks in the dark. But I could see him clearly now every time I checked the mirrors. Same tired expression I wear on long drives. Same way of gripping the wheel at ten and two.

I pulled into the next lay-by, a gravel patch beside a cattle grid. The Astra pulled in behind me, stopping exactly parallel. I sat there for maybe two minutes, engine running, trying to decide what to do. Then I opened my door and stepped out.

The other car was empty. Engine still running, headlights on, driver’s door hanging open like someone had just stepped out for a quick stretch. But no footprints in the gravel. No sign anyone had been there at all.

I drove the rest of the way home doing forty in the slow lane, checking my mirrors every few seconds. Never saw the Astra again. Told myself it was fatigue, imagination, too many late nights at the office. But I still take the main road home now. The A30 might be slower, but at least I know who’s driving the other cars.

Most of the time, anyway.

I tell myself

Glossary