Chapter 1 Chapter 1 Sunday, 2:00 a.m. The two women spill from the back of John Slater's taxi into the triangle of light falling from a streetlamp. The blonde tugs at her skirt and straightens the flashing devil horns perched on her head, then promptly drops her keys in the gutter, cursing loudly. Her friend giggles and staggers toward the house, calling for her to hurry up. She's busting for a pee. John waits until they are safely inside, lights on and the front door closed, before turning the car around. The last fare of a rowdy night. Job done and into the home stretch. Alone now and yawning, John cranks up the radio and opens his window a few inches, hoping a blast of cold air and Lionel Richie will keep him alert. If he's lucky, he'll get a couple of hours of shut-eye before the wife wakes him. He leaves the market town behind and takes the snaking road toward Bath, his car cruising down into the valley, past the turning for the fancy private school where he sometimes drops rich kids with their freshly-pressed blazers and their monogrammed luggage, before heading deeper into the woods. A paper-thin moon flickers between the tangled trees. He rolls his shoulders and blinks to focus. It's not as if he believes the stories about this particular stretch of road, but you can't argue with traffic statistics. Known to locals by its peculiar nickname, Sally in the Wood, the route has seen far too many cars careen off into the dense woodland over the years. He's read about the tragedies. A young female driver killed a few years ago in a head-on smash. A promising young rugby player paralyzed after coming off his motorbike. It's sobering to realize he's just a moment's lapse in concentration away from the steep drop to his left. He's not taking any chances, no thank you. He's looking forward to sliding into a warm bed and curling around his wife. Thanks to her nagging, their suitcases are already packed and waiting in the hall. This time tomorrow they'll be fast asleep, lulled by the sound of the Atlantic Ocean drifting through their balcony door. His fingers drum a beat on the steering wheel. He checks the dashboard clock, notes it's 02:38 a.m., catches movement in his peripheral vision. Something white flitting between the trees. An animal, he thinks. An owl ghosting through the night. Or a deer, perhaps? He glances sideways, trying to fix the image in his mind, but it's already gone and the dark, serpentine road is rushing at him, demanding his attention. He grips the steering wheel, taking the bend a little too fast. Clearing the corner, he lets out a cry. A streak of white is caught in the blaze of his full beams, something darting across the tarmac. What the hell? He slams on the brakes. There isn't time for anything other than instinctive self-preservation. The car wheels lock, the steering unresponsive in his hands. He swears as he skids toward the lip of the road, knowing with awful certainty that the car is going over. He's going to plunge into the steep valley, following the path of whatever that thing was. His knuckles blanch. The tires screech. At last, the steering responds to the desperate yank of his hands, the car veering away from the drop and back onto the road. Christ. His heart thuds in his chest. That was close. Sweat beads pop on his brow. What the hell was that? He chances a quick glance in his mirror. The black road slides away behind him. All he can see are the dark trees painted lurid red in the glow of his taillights. Sally in the Wood. He shudders. A deer, he tells himself. No reason to spook himself with silly ideas of ghostly girls rushing out at him. Not at this time of night. All those Halloween devils and zombies he's been ferrying around have messed with his mind. He drives the rest of the way home at a cautious speed, his hands still clammy as he puts his key in the front door. The sight of the waiting suitcase offers some comfort, and by the time he has poured himself a generous whiskey, gulped it down, undressed, and crawled into bed beside his wife's soft, slumbering body, he's almost consigned the episode to a forgotten corner of his memory. He won't think of it again. Not for a few days. Not until he sees grim headlines splashed across the British newspapers piled high at the airport as he waits for his flight home. Excerpted from One Dark Night: A Novel by Hannah Richell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
