"No thanks,” she politely declines the whisky. He seems slightly taken aback by her reaction. She continues to dry off her face and neck with a handkerchief.
“Weren’t you at the Roadhouse?” he asks. His voice is middle-class and clear.
“Yes,“ she says, “I got a lift. The fare was too high.”
“Ah, one of those.”
“Hmmm. One of those,” she confirms.
“You were asking for it, hitching lifts with those drivers.”
"I had no choice, my car broke down. Gonna take a couple of days to fix. Anyway, I can take care of myself." She is not frightened to look directly at him.
"Glad to hear it," he replies, but his face says that he is not entirely convinced. He glances at her, drying herself down with the hanky. “Haven’t you got a case or anything?”
This time, she doesn’t meet his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on spending the night, I have to get a few things in Strickham tomorrow.” She looks at her reflection in her compact mirror. “Damn,” she mutters, while folding down the sunblind-flap to get access to a bigger mirror, and a better look at her eye make-up. She combs her hair, vigorously, and then flaps the blind up, satisfied that she now looks more presentable.
Out of the blue he says, “Do you know how long it takes to boil an egg, on the top of Mount Everest?” She looks at him, warily. “Four hours,” he answers. Her look becomes, more now, one of mild concern. He sweeps his hair back, nervously. “Imagine having to wait that long for breakfast," he says. Her eyes lock onto him, and they widen. Tension begins to build. “Well, eh, I’ve got this book... how to win friends... it says that, to break the ice, you have to say something... ” and then a gentle smile comes on his face and he laughs a bit. She laughs too. “You see, it works,” he says. She gives him a warm smile in return. They both immediately become more relaxed with each other.
The girl clicks on the car radio. There is a news bulletin in progress.
“…escaped, last night, from the mental hospital … residents have been warned to lock all doors and windows …" says the announcer.
“Got a cigarette?” she asks.
“No, sorry,” he replies. He switches the radio to a music channel. “They’re always breaking in and out of there,” he says.
“Hmm?”
“Bromwood.”
She opens up the glove compartment, and takes out a pack of fags. She shows them to him. “Oh, eh, sorry, I thought I was out.”
She dangles a cigarette in her mouth.
“That’s the place they send you if you are... guilty... of being insane...” he says, while watching the cigarette lingering on her lips.
“Hmm... I’ve heard of the place,” she says, indifferently.
“It’s funny, I’ve been reading a lot about those cases recently. Right as rain one moment, and then the next minute... ” He tails off.
“Got a match?” she asks.
He takes one hand off the steering-wheel and searches for a packet of matches inside his left jacket-pocket. He continues to speak. “Some of them look so normal... to take a look at them, you’d never think they were dangerous. In fact half of them, don’t even know it themselves... sorry, I’ve got a lighter somewhere... ”
“You also have matches,” she points out to him, as she rattles a packet she has found in the glove-compartment. She lights up, and takes a deep drag.
