Destroyer of Worlds

5

In the heat of the night, amidst the thick odour of petrol fumes and the regular buzz of traffic heading west along the A30, the Libertarian waited on the fringes of the stark garage lights. For every car or lorry that trundled in for refuelling, he carefully searched the faces of the drivers, filled with barely contained anger that he had no idea what he wanted to find, but convinced he would know it when he saw it, and that it was important. This time, this place. Why? His memory was increasingly and frustratingly patchy, at the point when he needed it the most. He half-recalled a distant memory of sitting around a campfire, and drove its unpleasant taint from his mind; too haunting, too destabilising.

A sleek, silver BMW rolled onto the forecourt, music blaring from the open window. The driver was slim, tanned, with well-cut, sandy hair, wearing an open-necked, light-blue shirt. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him, but then the Libertarian caught sight of something subtle that was instantly recognisable: something in his eyes, perhaps, a hardness, too long between blinks, or the way the muscles of his face fell in an unguarded moment. He knew he had his man.

Marching over, he held out his hand. 'Simon,' he boomed.

'Scott,' the driver responded, unsure.

'Of course. Scott. You're looking for your girlfriend. Flighty type. Ran away, left you in the lurch.'

The information was so precise Scott was too taken aback to question the stranger.

'I might be able to help,' the Libertarian said with a tight smile.