The drivers

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Seventeen stone of cartilage and sinew cracked at the release when Jack dropped down from his seat in the cab. Four hours in the same position put terrible pressures on such a large frame, pressures that required release, and escape, and required it often. His way into the bright surgical atmosphere of the motorway eatery was lit as a multicoloured show of light that reflected from the diesel floating in puddles of sludge along the pock marked Tarmac. Each puddle sent out circles of blues and reds as his dirty boot dropped into it before lifting to carry the man in for his food.

Several other drivers were already there, eating their way through plates of bacon and drinking great quantities of tea that kept them awake during the early hours. Some congregated in groups sharing a joke or cigarette, others, the loners, remained on the periphery, hunched over their food pretending to read a paper. They never stayed long, just time enough to grab a bit of food and use the toilet before hitting the road once more.

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