The Passenger

A shortcut through a deserted wood at night. What could possibly go wrong?

It was nearly two in the morning when Malcolm left the party. Frost dusted the garden like cheap glitter and the temperature gauge in the car read minus five. Next to it, a virtual snowflake, designed to alert drivers to icy conditions, suggested he should have gone easy on the weed. There were two ways home. The first, through town, involved navigating a seemingly endless series of traffic lights, whereas the second, ten minutes shorter, cut through the wood and with only five hours until his shift began, it was a no-brainer.

As he turned off the main road, a Bob Dylan song was playing on the radio. Something uncharacteristically jaunty about a farm. Malcolm didn’t know the words, so he hummed along as the trees closed around him. They were mostly pines, remnants of a long-abandoned Christmas tree plantation, now etiolated and deformed through lack of light.

‘Maggie’s Farm, blah, blah,’ Malcolm improvised beating time on the steering wheel.

His dad liked Bob Dylan. They were both from the hippie generation, all peace and love and flared trousers, which, according to Malcolm’s ex-girlfriend, were in fashion again. Malcolm couldn’t imagine his dad wearing flares any more than he could imagine him climbing Everest or staring in a West end musical. He was pondering which musical would suit him best, and had landed on Bill Sykes in Oliver! when a fallen tree loomed out of the darkness. It was sprawled across the road like a drunkard, and by the time his weed-addled brain deigned to notify his foot, it was too late to avoid it. The car executed a clumsy pirouette on a patch of black ice before skidding sideways and crashing into the trunk.

When Malcolm opened his eyes, the snowflake was flashing self-righteously, but apart from a bump on his head where he had bashed it on the steering wheel, he was pleased to find he was uninjured. He sat for a minute listening to Bob grumbling about the farm situation before turning the radio off and getting out to inspect the damage. It wasn’t good. The door and side panel needed replacing, along with the bumper and the right headlight.

He was checking the rear indicator – also smashed – when he heard something moving in the trees. A deer, probably. He directed the torch towards the noise and two eyes glinted back at him. They were level with his own, which didn’t seem right. A bear? Despite the weed, he was almost sure there weren’t any bears in Yorkshire. He had read something about a family of beavers, although a six-foot beaver was an even more alarming prospect than a bear.

The eyes blinked and then vanished. What was it they said about wild animals? Don’t run. Don’t let them see you’re afraid. Malcolm took a tentative step backwards. A tremor rippled through the branches like a Mexican wave. Whatever was in there was moving, too. Fifty feet away, the driver’s door was hanging open and, ignoring the advice, he made a dash for it. Relief overwhelmed him as he slammed it closed behind him and punched the lock. In the passenger seat, something stirred expectantly.

The door was still locked the following morning when two forestry workers found his remains.