The Hitchhiker

There was no one on the streets, the man driving a sleek black car noticed. He was a good driver, but the dark and the fog made him a bit wary.

He stopped the car quite recklessly as he saw someone asking for a lift.

“I’m going to Yorkshire, any chance you’re going there too?” the hitchhiker asked.

With his scraggly, wild ginger hair and his scruffy clothing, he looked the complete opposite of the driver – neat, black hair,  twinkling blue eyes and a fancy suit, he somehow looked like the car – sleek and modern. Compared to the driver, the hitchhiker looked quite deranged.

The driver cleared his throat, glanced at him and said “Actually, I am. I-“

Before he could finish, the hitchhiker scrambled into the car’s front seat, muttering thanks, there weren’t many people who were half as kind as this gentleman.

Both men remained silent for quite some time. The driver kept shooting glances at the hitchhiker, who somehow seemed a bit shifty.

After what seemed like the longest time, the driver asked “Do you listen to music?”

Keeping his eyes on the road and aware that his companion was watching him keenly, the hitchhiker said, probably too quickly, “No.”

“Well, would you mind if I put some on? It’s a long drive and I’d like to-”

“Of course, of course.” He shot the driver a fake smile.

The driver switched on the radio. A loud screech drowned out the hitchhiker’s sentence. “Ah! Vivaldi.” The driver smiled at no one in particular.

Humming to the tune, he seemed a bit annoyed as the program ended abruptly and a voice announced something about an escaped psychopath when the hitchhiker quickly turned it off.

“I hate listening to the news. It’s always depressing or horrifying. Never a good thing…” He muttered, looking at anywhere but the driver.

The duo drove in silence for some more.

“I’m not the escaped psychopath, if you were wondering. I -”

“Of course you’re not.” The driver said. Unaware of the sarcasm in his voice, the hitchhiker smiled gingerly. The other man didn’t return his smile.

The driver turned on the radio again, listening to the soothing violin playing. He glanced at the man and then at the road. They were all alone. It was completely deserted.

The driver shifted uncomfortably.

The voice interrupted the screeching violin again, announcing the robbery of an expensive black car. And it continued that the escaped psychopath’s name was Philip something or other when the hitchhiker switched it off again.

His eyes went to the driver’s right hand, in which something gleamed in the moonlight. Was it a knife?

“Mister,” He asked the driver, who smirked at him, suddenly a whole new person.”I never caught your name.”

The driver grinned at him, his gaze following the hitchhiker’s. He slammed the brakes and looked at the trembling man with cold blue eyes. “It’s Philip.” He said, his eyes twinkling dangerously, his grin downright deadly.

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