Post by Jack Bauer on Jul 26, 2011 3:45:26 GMT -5
Jack Holby was a keen member of the Old Duke Carnival Club, which was based, unsurprisingly, at the Old Duke of Gloucester pub in the middle of Bridgwater, Somerset. Each year, each Carnival Club in town and the surrounding area would put on money raising events to fund the float, usually called a cart, which would represent them in the Winter Carnival season, which always started with Bridgwater Carnival on the Thursday closest to Guy Fawkes Night.
As with most Clubs, the Old Duke put most of their efforts into fund raising and left construction of the float to the last few weeks before the start of the carnival season. This always meant that there was feverish activity at the various construction sites around town and the surrounding countryside during those last all important few weeks.
Jack worked as a maintenance fitter at one of the local factories and his skills with spanner, wrench and welding gear were in high demand during the construction phase. This meant that he made the four mile trip from his bungalow in the village of Weston Zoyland to the Old Duke pub, where the cart was under construction in conditions of utmost secrecy, almost every evening during those final weeks.
He had been making these regular trips every evening for ten days or so when he first became aware of the teenage girl. She was standing where the pavement ended where the Bridgwater Road left the village, right where the bus stop used to be in the days when the village still had a regular service. It was his habit to have his tea as soon as he got home from work, which was usually around six o’clock, then sling his toolkit in the back of his ancient Ford van and head off for the pub by about seven. This meant that he passed the particular spot on the pavement where the girl was standing every evening about two minutes past seven or so. When he first saw her, he did not recognise her, so he knew she must be a stranger. In a village the size of Weston Zoyland, everyone knows everyone. He wondered if she were waiting for a lift.
The next evening, she was in the same place, and the next and the next. Although the evening was still quite warm, at least for a mid October day, she looked as if she were cold. Being a neighbourly sort of fellow, Jack pulled the van over and rolled down the window on the passenger side.
“Hello, miss?”
She did not seem to hear him as she had not responded.
“Hello, miss. Miss!”
She turned and stared at him.
“Can I offer you a lift into town?”
She still stared at him.
“I mean… I’ve seen you standing here these last few evenings. I thought you might be waiting for a lift.”
“I’m waiting for the bus.” Her voice was thin and reedy, as if she did not use it very often.
“I’m sorry; you’ll have a long wait. There hasn’t been an evening bus service into town for, oh, it must be at least twenty years now.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Well, you’ll have a long wait.” She went back to ignoring him, so he wound up the window and drove off.
She was there again the next evening, so again Jack pulled over and wound down the window.
“There’s no bus this evening. I can give you a lift into town and back again, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Her head turned slowly until her watery green eyes could stare at him.
“No bus?”
“No bus. My name is Jack Holby. Everyone in the village knows me. I’m quite safe.” He was well aware that some females were deathly afraid of hitchhiking.
“You’ll bring me back?”
“Of course. Where do you want to go in town?”
“The old cinema. I’m meeting my boyfriend.” Jack knew that there was currently only one operating cinema in Bridgwater, but there were at least two other buildings where cinemas had operated in the past. His new acquaintance might well be referring to one of these. The centre of Bridgwater was not exactly huge and everywhere central was within a few minutes walking distance of everywhere else.
He opened the passenger door. “Hop in; it only takes a few minutes.” He pulled away from the pavement. “Is your boyfriend local?”
“He’s in the Army. He’s stationed just outside Taunton.”
“Oh, I expect he’s in 40 Commando, they’re in Norton Camp, that’s just outside Taunton. You’re not local, are you?”
“No. My Dad just died a few months ago. Mum moved down here because she liked the area when we used to come on holiday down here was I was small. We come from Dudley.”
Jack wasn’t too good with accents but now realised he could detect a Lenny Henry like twang in her speech.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Has your Mum got a job here?”
“No… She doesn’t need to work for a while. We’re alright for money for a few years. Dad was a firm believer in life insurance.” By this time they were through the outskirts of the town and were approaching the bridge over the railway line. “What time is it?”
“Ten minutes past seven.”
“You can drop me here. My boyfriend is coming in on the seven fifteen train. I’ll meet him at the station.” The station was some two minutes walk from the bridge. This seemed quite reasonable to Jack so he pulled the van over and stopped.
“I’ll be returning at quarter past eleven. Where do you want me to pick you up?”
“Oh…” She seemed confused. “Here.”
“OK. Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you later.” But she had already wandered off. She must have crossed the road behind his van and gone down the stairway that led to an alley which gave access to the station as he couldn’t see her.
After an uneventful evening of cart construction, Jack headed home. It was spot on quarter past eleven when he drove over the bridge. There was no sign of his new acquaintance. The bridge was too narrow for him to wait in the van, so he drove on, turned round and parked where the road was wider and he had a good view of the bridge and the top of the stairway. He though she might have gone back to the station to see her boyfriend back on to the train.
He waited until just past midnight, but she did not put in an appearance. Maybe the boyfriend had put her in a taxi. Maybe the boyfriend was jealous. Jack drove home and did not give the matter another thought…
At least, he did not give it another thought until just past seven the next evening as he was on his way back to the Old Duke. Standing in the usual place was the young girl. He pulled in and wound down the window, calling to her. She turned her head and stared at him, apparently without recognition.
“Would you like another lift?”
“I’m waiting for the bus, thank you.”
“I thought we’d been through this. There’s no bus. There won’t ever be an evening bus. I can give you a lift. Where do you want to go?”
“The old cinema. I’m meeting my boyfriend.”
He opened the passenger door. “Hop in; it only takes a few minutes.” He pulled away from the pavement. “Is your boyfriend local?”
“He’s in the Army. He’s stationed just outside Taunton.”
“Oh, I expect he’s in 40 Commando, they’re in Norton Camp, that’s just outside Taunton. You’re not local, are you?”
“No. My Dad just died a few months ago. Mum moved down here because she liked the area when we used to come on holiday down here was I was small. We come from Dudley.”
Jack shuddered as he realised they were replaying the conversation from the previous evening. He resolved to break the replay.
“My name’s Jack. What’s yours?”
“My name? My name is Joyce, but people call me Jo.”
“Nice to meet you, Jo. Did you get a taxi home last night? I waited for you until midnight?”
“Taxi? Last night?” She seemed bewildered. “Last night I was at home with Mum.”
They sat in silence until the railway bridge was in sight. Again, Jo asked for the time, then requested to be dropped on the bridge and asked to be picked up from the same place. When Jack returned at quarter past eleven, he was not surprised to find the bridge empty. Again, he waited until midnight, but there was no sign of Jo.
When Jack got home to his bungalow that night, there was a message on his answering machine telling him that one of the shift maintenance fitters at the factory had called in sick and, as Jack was on call as standby, he would have to cover a week of evening shifts. So there would be no trips to the Old Duke for cart construction for the next week.
Jack next made the evening journey to town eight days later. As he passed the place where Jo had stood, he looked, but she was not there. She had seemed a bit odd, but there were plenty of stranger people about.
He thought of her again as he approached the railway bridge. That was strange… A bus had pulled in at the bus stop located at the start of the uphill slope that took the roadway over the bridge. There was no scheduled service at this time of night, it must be a ‘special’, probably hired by a local women’s group who had spent a day shopping in Bristol. As he approached the green vehicle he could see that it was an elderly model, almost as old as his van, but appeared in good condition. He thought he remembered reading somewhere in the local paper that a local bus company had purchased a couple of vintage buses especially for private hire. This must be one of those.
There was some oncoming traffic so, as the road was not that wide, Jack slowed and kept to the left. He was on the point of coming to a halt behind the bus, which was showing its left indicator, when he spotted a gap in the oncoming traffic he judged of sufficient size to allow his old Ford safe passage. He checked his mirrors, put on his right indicator and pulled to the right, accelerating past the bus. As he drew level with the front of the bus something flew from the left in front of the van. He jammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The bonnet slammed into the body, which rode over it and smashed into the windscreen, which immediately shattered. By instinct, he heaved the wheel to the left, praying that there had been no other vehicle pulled into the kerb in front of the bus. As the van screeched to a halt, he was left with a fleeting impression of the terrified face of the victim, a face he knew. It was that of Jo.
Fortunately there was no other vehicle in front of the bus and the old Ford came to a halt when the front nearside wheel nudged into the kerb. He tore the driver’s door open, dived out and rushed to the rear as he was convinced that the body had bounced off the windscreen and gone under the van.
There was no sign of a body. Even more alarmingly, there was no sign of the bus. In a state of disbelief, he checked the front of the van. There was no dent in the bonnet. Neither was the windscreen broken.
Numbly, Jack climbed back into the driver’s seat. His mind was racing, but his brain had no idea how to order his thoughts. He had no idea how long he sat, staring through the intact windshield at the unmarked bonnet. Well, it wasn’t exactly unmarked, having picked up those little customisations that thirty plus years on the road tend to leave on such an old vehicle, but it lacked the sort of indentation that would be left by the impact of a human body at fifteen miles an hour or so.
His miasma was broken by someone tapping on the driver’s window. He came to with a start and wound the window down to find a member of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary looking at him with some concern. A glance in the rear-view mirror showed a police vehicle parked behind the van.
“Are you alright, sir? You look a bit shaken.”
“I’m… I’m alright, constable. At least, I think I am.”
“You’re Jack Holby, aren’t you? Jim’s boy.”
Jack looked at the copper more closely. He seemed slightly familiar. He mentally removed the uniform cap and dressed him in moleskin trousers. “Ah, you’re Bob Haggett, aren’t you? You skittle with my old man.” Jack felt slightly more relaxed now that he knew that he was talking to what amounted to a family friend and not just an officer of the law. “I’m feeling a bit shaky… Hop in the van and I’ll tell you what happened. Or, at least, what I thought happened.”
Haggett climbed into the passenger seat. “I thought it might be you as I recognised the old van. Used to belong to Jim, didn’t it?”
“Yes. He let me have it when he got a new one backalong.”
“Coo, I remember when he got this’n. Pleased as Punch, he was. ‘Course, that was thirty odd year ago, before you was born. Mind you, a week later, when he had the accident that smashed up the front, he was in a right sorry state…”
A cold hand gripped Jack’s heart.
“Accident?”
“Ar. It happened just about here, as a matter of fact. A young girl ran out from behind a bus and he smacked straight into her. Killed her instant like. Wasn’t his fault, poor bugger. Bounced of the bonnet and got pulled underneath. He wasn’t even going all that fast.”
“She ran from behind a bus?”
“Well, no… In front of, more like. She’d gotten off the bus to go to the station to meet her boyfriend, but his train was early, like. He’d climbed up the stairs over there and was waiting to cross the road to come to the bus stop to wait for her. She saw him and ran out into the road without thinking.
“’Twas a real tragedy. The post mortem showed she were two or so months pregnant. The boyfriend, he was in the Army. Shot himself six months later. I can’t remember the name…”
“Jo. Joyce, that is…” put in Jack.
Bob Haggett stared at Jack, an odd expression on his face. “That’s right. Joyce Weatherby, now you remind me. I suppose Jim told you about it?”
“No… Someone else.”
Haggett was quiet for a moment. “Alright, son. I think I might know what has happened here,” he said, quietly.
“You do?”
The policeman sighed. “Your dad tried to sell this van a number of times when he got it back after it was repaired. He reckoned he didn’t want to drive around in something that had taken a human life.
“Three times he found a buyer and three times he had to take her back. It seems that whoever took the van had, er, uncomfortable experiences when driving it.”
“No wonder the old bugger was happy to give it to me.”
Haggett glanced at his watch. “You picked her up, didn’t you.”
“Picked up who?”
“The Phantom Hitchhiker. These things get reported to the police, you know. We have two Phantom Hitchhikers around these here parts. One, a middle aged man, flags down cars on the Wellington Road out of Taunton, the other, a teenage girl, waits at the outskirts of Weston Zoyland, looking pathetic. People naturally offer her a lift. She gets into the car and talks to them. When they get to the railway bridge here, she just vanishes.
“Jo Weatherby, you say.”
“Yes. I suppose you’ll be wanting to get rid of this old heap now?”
As Haggett had been relating the story, Jack had become calmer, as if an understanding of poor Jo’s plight had settled in his mind. “No, Bob, I think the old girl has a few miles left in her yet. She suits me just fine. And if I see Jo Weatherby again, I’ll be more than happy to offer her a lift.”
Since that October evening, there has been no sign of the Phantom Hitchhiker of Weston Zoyland.
As with most Clubs, the Old Duke put most of their efforts into fund raising and left construction of the float to the last few weeks before the start of the carnival season. This always meant that there was feverish activity at the various construction sites around town and the surrounding countryside during those last all important few weeks.
Jack worked as a maintenance fitter at one of the local factories and his skills with spanner, wrench and welding gear were in high demand during the construction phase. This meant that he made the four mile trip from his bungalow in the village of Weston Zoyland to the Old Duke pub, where the cart was under construction in conditions of utmost secrecy, almost every evening during those final weeks.
He had been making these regular trips every evening for ten days or so when he first became aware of the teenage girl. She was standing where the pavement ended where the Bridgwater Road left the village, right where the bus stop used to be in the days when the village still had a regular service. It was his habit to have his tea as soon as he got home from work, which was usually around six o’clock, then sling his toolkit in the back of his ancient Ford van and head off for the pub by about seven. This meant that he passed the particular spot on the pavement where the girl was standing every evening about two minutes past seven or so. When he first saw her, he did not recognise her, so he knew she must be a stranger. In a village the size of Weston Zoyland, everyone knows everyone. He wondered if she were waiting for a lift.
The next evening, she was in the same place, and the next and the next. Although the evening was still quite warm, at least for a mid October day, she looked as if she were cold. Being a neighbourly sort of fellow, Jack pulled the van over and rolled down the window on the passenger side.
“Hello, miss?”
She did not seem to hear him as she had not responded.
“Hello, miss. Miss!”
She turned and stared at him.
“Can I offer you a lift into town?”
She still stared at him.
“I mean… I’ve seen you standing here these last few evenings. I thought you might be waiting for a lift.”
“I’m waiting for the bus.” Her voice was thin and reedy, as if she did not use it very often.
“I’m sorry; you’ll have a long wait. There hasn’t been an evening bus service into town for, oh, it must be at least twenty years now.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Well, you’ll have a long wait.” She went back to ignoring him, so he wound up the window and drove off.
She was there again the next evening, so again Jack pulled over and wound down the window.
“There’s no bus this evening. I can give you a lift into town and back again, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Her head turned slowly until her watery green eyes could stare at him.
“No bus?”
“No bus. My name is Jack Holby. Everyone in the village knows me. I’m quite safe.” He was well aware that some females were deathly afraid of hitchhiking.
“You’ll bring me back?”
“Of course. Where do you want to go in town?”
“The old cinema. I’m meeting my boyfriend.” Jack knew that there was currently only one operating cinema in Bridgwater, but there were at least two other buildings where cinemas had operated in the past. His new acquaintance might well be referring to one of these. The centre of Bridgwater was not exactly huge and everywhere central was within a few minutes walking distance of everywhere else.
He opened the passenger door. “Hop in; it only takes a few minutes.” He pulled away from the pavement. “Is your boyfriend local?”
“He’s in the Army. He’s stationed just outside Taunton.”
“Oh, I expect he’s in 40 Commando, they’re in Norton Camp, that’s just outside Taunton. You’re not local, are you?”
“No. My Dad just died a few months ago. Mum moved down here because she liked the area when we used to come on holiday down here was I was small. We come from Dudley.”
Jack wasn’t too good with accents but now realised he could detect a Lenny Henry like twang in her speech.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Has your Mum got a job here?”
“No… She doesn’t need to work for a while. We’re alright for money for a few years. Dad was a firm believer in life insurance.” By this time they were through the outskirts of the town and were approaching the bridge over the railway line. “What time is it?”
“Ten minutes past seven.”
“You can drop me here. My boyfriend is coming in on the seven fifteen train. I’ll meet him at the station.” The station was some two minutes walk from the bridge. This seemed quite reasonable to Jack so he pulled the van over and stopped.
“I’ll be returning at quarter past eleven. Where do you want me to pick you up?”
“Oh…” She seemed confused. “Here.”
“OK. Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you later.” But she had already wandered off. She must have crossed the road behind his van and gone down the stairway that led to an alley which gave access to the station as he couldn’t see her.
After an uneventful evening of cart construction, Jack headed home. It was spot on quarter past eleven when he drove over the bridge. There was no sign of his new acquaintance. The bridge was too narrow for him to wait in the van, so he drove on, turned round and parked where the road was wider and he had a good view of the bridge and the top of the stairway. He though she might have gone back to the station to see her boyfriend back on to the train.
He waited until just past midnight, but she did not put in an appearance. Maybe the boyfriend had put her in a taxi. Maybe the boyfriend was jealous. Jack drove home and did not give the matter another thought…
At least, he did not give it another thought until just past seven the next evening as he was on his way back to the Old Duke. Standing in the usual place was the young girl. He pulled in and wound down the window, calling to her. She turned her head and stared at him, apparently without recognition.
“Would you like another lift?”
“I’m waiting for the bus, thank you.”
“I thought we’d been through this. There’s no bus. There won’t ever be an evening bus. I can give you a lift. Where do you want to go?”
“The old cinema. I’m meeting my boyfriend.”
He opened the passenger door. “Hop in; it only takes a few minutes.” He pulled away from the pavement. “Is your boyfriend local?”
“He’s in the Army. He’s stationed just outside Taunton.”
“Oh, I expect he’s in 40 Commando, they’re in Norton Camp, that’s just outside Taunton. You’re not local, are you?”
“No. My Dad just died a few months ago. Mum moved down here because she liked the area when we used to come on holiday down here was I was small. We come from Dudley.”
Jack shuddered as he realised they were replaying the conversation from the previous evening. He resolved to break the replay.
“My name’s Jack. What’s yours?”
“My name? My name is Joyce, but people call me Jo.”
“Nice to meet you, Jo. Did you get a taxi home last night? I waited for you until midnight?”
“Taxi? Last night?” She seemed bewildered. “Last night I was at home with Mum.”
They sat in silence until the railway bridge was in sight. Again, Jo asked for the time, then requested to be dropped on the bridge and asked to be picked up from the same place. When Jack returned at quarter past eleven, he was not surprised to find the bridge empty. Again, he waited until midnight, but there was no sign of Jo.
When Jack got home to his bungalow that night, there was a message on his answering machine telling him that one of the shift maintenance fitters at the factory had called in sick and, as Jack was on call as standby, he would have to cover a week of evening shifts. So there would be no trips to the Old Duke for cart construction for the next week.
Jack next made the evening journey to town eight days later. As he passed the place where Jo had stood, he looked, but she was not there. She had seemed a bit odd, but there were plenty of stranger people about.
He thought of her again as he approached the railway bridge. That was strange… A bus had pulled in at the bus stop located at the start of the uphill slope that took the roadway over the bridge. There was no scheduled service at this time of night, it must be a ‘special’, probably hired by a local women’s group who had spent a day shopping in Bristol. As he approached the green vehicle he could see that it was an elderly model, almost as old as his van, but appeared in good condition. He thought he remembered reading somewhere in the local paper that a local bus company had purchased a couple of vintage buses especially for private hire. This must be one of those.
There was some oncoming traffic so, as the road was not that wide, Jack slowed and kept to the left. He was on the point of coming to a halt behind the bus, which was showing its left indicator, when he spotted a gap in the oncoming traffic he judged of sufficient size to allow his old Ford safe passage. He checked his mirrors, put on his right indicator and pulled to the right, accelerating past the bus. As he drew level with the front of the bus something flew from the left in front of the van. He jammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The bonnet slammed into the body, which rode over it and smashed into the windscreen, which immediately shattered. By instinct, he heaved the wheel to the left, praying that there had been no other vehicle pulled into the kerb in front of the bus. As the van screeched to a halt, he was left with a fleeting impression of the terrified face of the victim, a face he knew. It was that of Jo.
Fortunately there was no other vehicle in front of the bus and the old Ford came to a halt when the front nearside wheel nudged into the kerb. He tore the driver’s door open, dived out and rushed to the rear as he was convinced that the body had bounced off the windscreen and gone under the van.
There was no sign of a body. Even more alarmingly, there was no sign of the bus. In a state of disbelief, he checked the front of the van. There was no dent in the bonnet. Neither was the windscreen broken.
Numbly, Jack climbed back into the driver’s seat. His mind was racing, but his brain had no idea how to order his thoughts. He had no idea how long he sat, staring through the intact windshield at the unmarked bonnet. Well, it wasn’t exactly unmarked, having picked up those little customisations that thirty plus years on the road tend to leave on such an old vehicle, but it lacked the sort of indentation that would be left by the impact of a human body at fifteen miles an hour or so.
His miasma was broken by someone tapping on the driver’s window. He came to with a start and wound the window down to find a member of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary looking at him with some concern. A glance in the rear-view mirror showed a police vehicle parked behind the van.
“Are you alright, sir? You look a bit shaken.”
“I’m… I’m alright, constable. At least, I think I am.”
“You’re Jack Holby, aren’t you? Jim’s boy.”
Jack looked at the copper more closely. He seemed slightly familiar. He mentally removed the uniform cap and dressed him in moleskin trousers. “Ah, you’re Bob Haggett, aren’t you? You skittle with my old man.” Jack felt slightly more relaxed now that he knew that he was talking to what amounted to a family friend and not just an officer of the law. “I’m feeling a bit shaky… Hop in the van and I’ll tell you what happened. Or, at least, what I thought happened.”
Haggett climbed into the passenger seat. “I thought it might be you as I recognised the old van. Used to belong to Jim, didn’t it?”
“Yes. He let me have it when he got a new one backalong.”
“Coo, I remember when he got this’n. Pleased as Punch, he was. ‘Course, that was thirty odd year ago, before you was born. Mind you, a week later, when he had the accident that smashed up the front, he was in a right sorry state…”
A cold hand gripped Jack’s heart.
“Accident?”
“Ar. It happened just about here, as a matter of fact. A young girl ran out from behind a bus and he smacked straight into her. Killed her instant like. Wasn’t his fault, poor bugger. Bounced of the bonnet and got pulled underneath. He wasn’t even going all that fast.”
“She ran from behind a bus?”
“Well, no… In front of, more like. She’d gotten off the bus to go to the station to meet her boyfriend, but his train was early, like. He’d climbed up the stairs over there and was waiting to cross the road to come to the bus stop to wait for her. She saw him and ran out into the road without thinking.
“’Twas a real tragedy. The post mortem showed she were two or so months pregnant. The boyfriend, he was in the Army. Shot himself six months later. I can’t remember the name…”
“Jo. Joyce, that is…” put in Jack.
Bob Haggett stared at Jack, an odd expression on his face. “That’s right. Joyce Weatherby, now you remind me. I suppose Jim told you about it?”
“No… Someone else.”
Haggett was quiet for a moment. “Alright, son. I think I might know what has happened here,” he said, quietly.
“You do?”
The policeman sighed. “Your dad tried to sell this van a number of times when he got it back after it was repaired. He reckoned he didn’t want to drive around in something that had taken a human life.
“Three times he found a buyer and three times he had to take her back. It seems that whoever took the van had, er, uncomfortable experiences when driving it.”
“No wonder the old bugger was happy to give it to me.”
Haggett glanced at his watch. “You picked her up, didn’t you.”
“Picked up who?”
“The Phantom Hitchhiker. These things get reported to the police, you know. We have two Phantom Hitchhikers around these here parts. One, a middle aged man, flags down cars on the Wellington Road out of Taunton, the other, a teenage girl, waits at the outskirts of Weston Zoyland, looking pathetic. People naturally offer her a lift. She gets into the car and talks to them. When they get to the railway bridge here, she just vanishes.
“Jo Weatherby, you say.”
“Yes. I suppose you’ll be wanting to get rid of this old heap now?”
As Haggett had been relating the story, Jack had become calmer, as if an understanding of poor Jo’s plight had settled in his mind. “No, Bob, I think the old girl has a few miles left in her yet. She suits me just fine. And if I see Jo Weatherby again, I’ll be more than happy to offer her a lift.”
Since that October evening, there has been no sign of the Phantom Hitchhiker of Weston Zoyland.
