The Black Book

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There were two of them in the van that early morning, lights on to combat the haar which blew in from the North Sea. It was thick and white like smoke. They drove carefully, being under strict instructions.

‘Why does it have to be us?’ said the driver, stifling a yawn. ‘What’s wrong with the other two?’

The passenger was much larger than his companion. Though in his forties, he kept his hair long, cut in the shape of a German military helmet. He kept pulling at the hair on the left side of his head, straightening it out. At the moment, however, he was gripping the sides of his seat. He didn’t like the way the driver screwed shut his eyes for the duration of each too-frequent yawn. The passenger was not a conversationalist, but maybe talk would keep the driver awake.

‘It’s just temporary.’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s not as if it’s a daily chore.’

‘Thank God for that.’ The driver shut his eyes again and yawned. The van glided in towards the grass verge.

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