The Layby of Sour Apples

In the autumn of 1994, my friend Mira and I worked the late shift at the old Meridian Mill, a sprawling, drafty complex on the outskirts of Halebury. We lived in a small flat about a mile away, and after closing up at 11 pm, we’d often walk the quiet, unlit stretch of the bypass to my place for a nightcap. That particular Thursday, I was pushing my bicycle, the chain clicking softly, while Mira carried a chipped plate with a slice of apple tart she’d swiped from the canteen.

The road was a ribbon of black asphalt under a bruised sky, and the only sound was the crunch of our footsteps on gravel. About halfway down, there was a layby hidden from the main road by a thicket of brambles and stunted oaks. As we passed, we heard the low grumble of a van pulling in, followed by the slam of a door. A minute later, a noise behind us made me turn. A man stood at the edge of the layby, his silhouette barely visible. He was pretending to urinate, but his head was twisted, looking back the way we had come. Odd, I thought, and quickened my pace.

Then he turned. He locked eyes with us, and without a word, he sprinted onto the asphalt. His feet slapped the ground with a hungry rhythm. My heart lurched. Mira grabbed my arm, and we tore down the road, my bike wobbling beside me. The road was deserted, save for a distant pair of headlights. Mira yanked me across the double yellow line, waving her free arm wildly, but the car swerved at the last moment, horn blaring, and vanished. The man was closing in, his breath ragged, his feet pounding.

My shoulder bag had snagged on the handlebar, and I had to stop to yank it free, feeling the cold dread of wasted seconds. Mira screamed, ‘Run!’ We dashed toward a patch of scrubland on the left, hoping to lose him in the darkness. But the ground was uneven, and I stumbled over a hidden root, sprawling hard. The tart flew from Mira’s hand, splattering on the gravel like a burst of rotten custard. The man was upon us, his shadow falling over me. I looked up, expecting a knife or a fist, but he just stood there, breathing heavily, a strange grin on his face. Then he spoke, in a voice too calm, ‘You shouldn’t have taken the shortcut.’ He pointed to a small copse of trees ahead. ‘They’re waiting for you there.’

He turned and walked back toward his van, leaving us trembling on the cold ground. We scrambled to our feet and ran the rest of the way to my flat, not daring to look back. But as I fumbled with the key, I heard a rustling from the bushes across the street. I squinted, and thought I saw a figure standing among the shadows, but it moved when I blinked. Inside, Mira and I sat in silence, the tea growing cold. We never spoke of that night, but every time I pass that layby, I see the man’s grin, and I wonder what was waiting in those trees—and why he let us go. The sour taste of that spilled tart lingers in my mouth to this day, a reminder that some roads are better left untraveled after dark.