At least the 345 to Newcastle went straight up this part of the A19. It would be quicker than going through all those farmyards they call towns round these parts. I just had to focus on not nodding off now. If I ended up at the final destination, it’d be another horror show all of its own.

There were two young men sat just in front of me that kept me going. They weren’t very happy, and not just because Greggs had stopped doing those bloodblister tarts they’d had on over Easter.

“Raughnen’s done for,” the one in the anorak lamented. He studied his suitcase and backpack morosely. “All the old bickering’ll come back now. The All-Seeing Ankle will make its move, you mark my words. There’s already been a power outage at the scone plant. People’ll be rioting in the streets if it goes on much longer. And Babs still owes Lozza that tenner for the club last Friday.” He nodded decisively, more at the luggage than at his friend. “Yeah, it’s all going down. Might be staying at me mate’s a looooong time, if you get me meaning.”

I leant ferociously over the back of the seat. “You’ll be staying right where you are a loooooong time if you don’t stop gabbing. From what I’ve seen, Raughnen’s been done for for a couple of centuries. So just pipe down, let me get some shuteye, and wake me up when we get to Middlesbrough.”

I’d found a better use for them after all.

I went flat out a couple of minutes later. I needed it. But I didn’t wake up at Boro. It was two sodding hours before, and it was because my arm was being shook violently from the seat in front.

“Uuuuhhh?” I grunted.

“Just been thinking, mate,” said the second lad slowly. “He wouldn’t be here a long time if you battered ‘im. They’d take him off sooner.”

“Uhhh?” I grunted.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” the first one snarled.

“Nowt, mate,” said mate number two.

I looked out the window at the dark, featureless road rushing past. It wasn’t the dark, featureless road close to home. I shook my head and rolled onto my side. You really couldn’t trust people. That was the moral of the day.

They’re the real monsters.

There was a squeal of brakes just then. I shot up, thinking there was something in the road ahead, but I quickly remembered where I was and that the whole damned thing wouldn’t have seen a garage in the past ten years. The violent struggling of pads just meant we were coming to a gentle stop.

A bloody bus stop on a big road like this. I looked out at the dots of light going down the hill to my left. Not a bottle or a drug addict in sight. Somewhere posh, alright. Deffo long way from home yet.

“High Rimsworth,” announced one of the lads, as if to confirm my suspicions.

“Yeah, I been ‘ere once,” said the other, craning his neck out at the lights. “Me granddad used to do race horses, you know? Came down ‘ere once to see some thoroughbreds in a show. What a fucking waste of a sesh.”

I sat up just in time to give my head some space as a violent hurricane of a sneeze propelled it forward. My arse literally jumped clean off the seat, or it would have without the safety web of chewy clinging to my jeans. No snot, luckily. Yet.

‘Cos if I had to miss the match with the flu tomorrow, I really was gonna start getting pissed off.

It was only the one for now though, so I tried to settle back down. But I couldn’t. The sneeze had brought something nasty to the surface of my brain, as if the jerk had dislodged it from a dark, cluttered cupboard of shite at the back where I’d rammed it, hoping I’d never have to deal with it again.

Something terrible. I seized it before it could go fluttering back into the fog.

I leant forward. “Listen... how much did that driver charge you for Boro?”

The two lads turned round, minds whirring. “Errrr... ten fifty, I think.”

I relaxed, sat back. Wondered who I might scrounge a recording of Strictly off in the morning. “Cheers bud. Just checking.” I peered along the aisle at the driver with narrowed eyes. You couldn’t trust people.

“Thieving bastards.”