Short Story

The Hitcher

Be careful who you pick up

It was August and Peter was driving to Wales to stay the weekend with his mother when the urge hit him. The timing couldn’t have been better. It was mid-summer. Every service station and major road junction was lined with hitchers swinging their thumbs back and forth, eager for a lift.

Peter pulled up in front of the first one he saw. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘St. David’s. You know, in West Wales,’ the hitcher replied in a tone Peter disliked. He knew where fucking St. David’s was!

From the very off, the hitcher couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Asking him this, asking him that. He even dared to criticise his driving, telling him he was too close to the curb.

All Peter needed was a nice, remote lay-by, and he would take this guy out. He even considered swinging the 12-pound monkey wrench, he always kept by his side, into the guy’s face while he was driving. But that would be too risky, and he never took a chance.

‘I’m just going to pull over for a sec,’ Peter announced half an hour later, seeing a suitable lay-by ahead.

‘Just keep driving,’ said the hitcher. ‘And get your hands away from that monkey wrench, otherwise I’ll blow your head off.’ He removed a gun from under his jacket.

Peter’s insides turned to lead. This was his worst nightmare. For years, the only thing that had terrified him more than being caught was picking up a version of himself.

‘I’ve got money,’ Peter quickly declared, trying to act as businesslike as possible in the hope that it might be only a robbery.

‘I don’t want money. Just drive.’

Peter drove for two hours. The hitcher didn’t say anything, except, ‘keep driving,’ each time Peter asked where they were going.

They were now driving through Haverford West and Peter knew that in ten miles they would hit the dark, treacherous cliffs of St David’s Bay.

Peter’s mind was racing, trying to figure out how to get out of this.

He considered making a jump for it, or even stopping and calling the man’s bluff, seeing if he would shoot him. But he couldn’t muster enough courage to do either.

They eventually reached a deserted car park, and they both got out, the gun still trained on Peter. The hitcher motioned him towards the cliffs.

‘Well?’ Peter said, as he approached the edge.

‘Well what?’ said the hitcher.

‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t want anything.’

‘Why are we here, then. The view?’ Peter ventured in a last-ditch effort at humour.

‘I’m wondering whether you’re going to jump, or whether I’m going to have to shoot you.’

‘Wait,’ said Peter. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I’m the Hitchhiker Killer everyone has been looking for. There’s a reward out for me,’ stammered Peter. ‘Millions of pounds. You’ll take the lot. You’ve just got to take me in.’

The hitcher smiled for once. ‘Looks like it’s my lucky day, then.’

Peter felt relieved. He would go to prison for the rest of his life, but at least he wouldn’t be shot down like an animal on a cliffside. But something wasn’t right. The gun was still trained on him.

‘I’ve been hitching around the roads of Britain for the past ten years waiting for you to show up,’ said the hitcher. ‘You killed my wife.’

Peter looked at the man in terror. ‘No wait!’

A few minutes later, the hitcher sat in the car smoking one of Peter’s cigarettes.

‘What an idiot,’ he mumbled to himself.

It was always the same with these copycat killers. As soon as they knew the game was up, they always pulled the tough guy card. Always pretended to be the real hitchhiker killer to try to save their sorry asses. ‘Take the reward!’ They always said. So predictable!

Then there was the look on their faces when they heard: ‘You killed my wife.’ He loved that bit. Almost as much as when he pulled the trigger.

The hitcher finished his cigarette, got out of the car and started rolling it over the edge of the cliff. Once he had heard it crash into the sea below, he walked off into the Welsh mist, as he had done so many times before.

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