'The Pub With Bright Lights' by Peter Hodges

The sound of the door closing was the finality that made the breath sink out of him. Emptying. He faced the night; snow falling, caught in the light from the window until it dimmed with his walking away. Along the drive the flower borders he had tended, now snow laden, now lost to him. She would have them still. But all that was behind him. The fading light of the home he once knew. Now it was the cold welcome of night just beginning. It was Christmas Eve.
He reached the car. Brushed the windscreen clear, the windows, mirrors. How precise. Mechanical. As was the starting of the engine, wipers, heater. For why? To leave this place? This home he once had? Once shared.
At the road he turned to face the blizzard. His need was such that he would attack. Drive at the fury, smash through, send it skittering, swirling, thrown aside by the wipers, ignored by the headlights, wheels slithering, bighting, bighting and slithering. Down the hill, the other side gained as much by willpower. Speed gathering, he reached the top. And now house and village where once he lived, had fallen away into that that which no longer existed. Like the trees, the hedges and fields. The lonely post box on its lonely post at the gate to the farm about which he knew nothing.
Could it be that? That he had never become assimilated? Enfolded or accepted? By whom? His wife? No, now it was the more immediate business of putting distance between that before and what lay ahead. Yet as to what did lie ahead reached no further than the car's lights. The road had widened from unclassified into an A but no less white from verge to verge. The rear lights of other traffic appeared and seemed now to obstruct, crowd, and that brought the realisation that he might actually be travelling too fast. He should know better. How long had he been driving? Thirty years? He was Frank Marshal, a director of business, looked up to, responsible. He slowed. The car veered momentarily until the auto braking took over and it steadied. And for the first time he breathed, consciously that is, a deep breath, and he glanced at the dashboard clock. He did not remember the time of leaving and could only guess at how long it had been, probably more than an hour, probably a lot more. By the time the motorway sign loomed his thoughts had rambled until his head was full of tangle and he took the direction he least used, had no use for, from where the snow came. As if to obliterate in entirety a whole life. Destroy himself. That brought him up short. That he could possibly have such intention. Just drive until he dropped, fell asleep. Hit a bridge pier. Such was not unknown. Men had done that.
The snow had stopped. Vehicles had stopped. In front was a line of red tail lights, not straight, it was how they had all come to rest. There seemed no reason, no one as far as he could see was out of their vehicle waving arms or whatever people did in such circumstances. An accident? It was so quiet. The silence of snow. Someone did get out, a distance away, just to see, to stretch and look about. He did likewise. Steadying himself against the open car door, he looked one way then the other. Another driver got out. A van had slithered to a halt across the carriageway and two drivers were talking, one kicking the snow at his feet, it was not deep but deep enough, the suddenness of its coming had been sufficient.
He got back into the car. He had no wish to talk. There was nothing to be said. Then he was aware of someone in the car with him. A figure in a cape with a hood, the face obscured.
"Oh…" he said, "Who are you? I didn't see you. I didn't see you get in the car."
The figure made no reply and nor did it move.
"Are you from one of the others?" He nodded to the line of stationary vehicles outside. "Got stuck, did you?"
The face remained hidden. He would have put on the interior light but didn't. Something stayed his hand, fixing it where it rested on the gear select. And now his throat clamped on his voice. A brilliant blue light flashed in the mirror. They're getting us out, he wanted to say but was unable to articulate the words.
"Be ready to move." The order blasted the silence as a police four-by-four thrust through. "Get into your vehicles and be…" the sound died with the pulsing light, it could have been lights on a Christmas tree in the window of a house. But there were no houses. He engaged drive, pressed the accelerator, instantly the wheels spun but the car moved.
Everyone was moving, sideways, forwards, the common aim of getting out, thoughts of home. Except for him. He had no thoughts of home.
As for the figure next to him… a woman obviously, and in a dress that was completely inappropriate. The hooded cape but… he blinked. He had momentarily cast an eye over this person who had assumed a place in his car, and realised she was wearing what appeared to be evening wear. At least it seemed so: long dark dress, frills at the hem, lace over bare arms where they appeared from under the cape, long lace gloves to the elbow, and slippers that hardly covered her feet. He set the car heater higher and tentatively asked, "Where've you been? A party? I suppose your car got stuck."
There was no answer. The traffic was going faster, he was aware of the lights behind closing. He speeded up.
"Why do you travel so fast?" The question took him by surprise.
"This isn't fast…" he said as the car weaved suddenly in drifted snow and he was obliged to lift off the accelerator.
"I once lived here," the voice went on. "In that valley. The church is not changed."
"Which church?"
"My village."
"I didn't know there was village here."
"What matter is that?"
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the figure was turned away, staring out of the window. The sky was black and there were stars now.
"Sorry," he said, "I didn't quite catch what you said."
"No matter. None at all. It was where I lived. You live far away."
"Well, not that far…"
"A long way." There was an insistence in the voice, well spoken, rounded. "Many miles."
"Eh, yes… about…" he checked the odometer. "Over sixty miles."
"A long way."
"On a night like tonight, yes."
"Day or night."
"Not really…"
"Yes. A very long way. Are you married?"
"What was that you said?"
"Your name… it is Frank, isn't it?"
For a moment he didn't reply. "How do you know that?"
"I see it in you. I hear it in you."
And now for the first time he saw the face for the woman had turned to him. She was pale, he guessed at one time pretty but drawn now as if something unexpected had taken place. Searching eyes that were deep set, dark, penetrating. He forced his attention back to the road, his brain trying to work out what was happening, how he was known, as if he carried some brand of infamy. As if his world had been found out.
"I died here," she said.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his back pressed into the seat. The words repeated in his head: I died here. The manner of its expression, the dry disinterest of its delivery. He could not have heard correctly. Her gaze settled on him again. "I have frightened you," she said, a note of melancholy now. "That was wrong of me."
"Who are you? I mean, do I know you? Did you know I was here? Travelling this road?"
"I am no one. You do not know me."
"You must have a name. You seem to know mine."
There was a pause. "Alice," she said.
"But I have a daughter called Alice." And his relief was such he tossed out the name again: "Alice! It's a lovely name. My God it is!" The vehicles in front were drawing to a halt again and he did likewise. "That is such a coincidence," he said. "The same name, my God…" he put out his hand. An involuntary move – as he would have to his daughter – but did not touch. Or felt nothing. Except cold, and that made him pull away.
"You are married," she said.
"Yes… well, I'm not sure now. I think it has come to an end. Tonight. Only tonight." He folded his arms behind his head.
"Your wife is dead?"
"No. We have separated. Tonight."
"Separated," she repeated looking again at the snowy scene, black sky full of stars and a bright moon. "What does that mean to you? To me, it is what I am but I doubt we think alike. We are not the same." She paused, as if wrestling with herself. "You see, I am dead. But please don't be afraid." Her hand raised, she slipped of a glove, fingers trembling, nails white like the snow flakes that had fallen about them. She went on, her voice trembling now. "Each year I come back here. On this day – oh so many, many years ago but still I am not permitted to forget – I died. But I did not pass over. That was denied me. It was the way of my death, but I doubt you understand. No one ever has."
He was staring at her. The cloak – he could see now that it was more cloak than cape – had slipped, her hair was free, and fell in dark tresses over her bare shoulders. Her skin shone against the dark of the dress, shimmering in the reflected moonlight. He was unable to stop staring, and now she smiling. "I have shocked you," she said. "I am so sorry."
"Sorry… why sorry?" he blurted. "Why don't you tell me. Just tell me who…"
"Separated," she said again. "Yes, that is it. I too am separated. Your need is to be free whilst my need is to be rejoined. My soul searches for the man I once loved. He departed this earth and I wished to be with him. Yet I remain. You walked away. You, Frank, bear his name. Your daughter bears mine. That is how I found you. I have waited for this day. Predestined or fate, who can say? But you must not be afraid. Come, let me touch you."
Her face came closer, pale lips parting, yet her eyes never left his. He was transfixed. He had no idea why he was not screaming. His very fortitude as he allowed her to take his hand. Hers, slender and so cold, and her lips… no breath issued forth. "Thank you," she whispered and so close but no breath touched his face and with that he heaved himself away, grabbed the door handle and was outside into a commotion of blue lights and voices shouting at him.
"What are you doing? Get back into the car. A snow plough is pushing through." Behind a powerful torch he made out yellow hi-vis and the rounded hat with black and white chequers of a female police officer. The torch dazzled and she shouted again, "I said get in the car, didn't I."
"I need air," he gasped. "There's someone here who…" His feet slid on the snow and he clutched at the door. The officer came over, shone the torch in his face, leaned toward him, sniffing. "I'm not drunk," he said, "Although I could down a good stiff brandy…" he straightened. "No, it's not me. It's her in car."
The officer flashed the torch around the car interior. "Where? I don't see anyone." The officer looked at him. "No one there. So what's going on? Want to tell me?"
"I need fresh air," he said. "This snow plough… you say it's on it's way?"
The officer pressed her hand to the earpiece in her ear, listening. "A few minutes yet," she said closing the car door. "Now, want to tell me?"
He looked up into the sky. Overhead power lines glistened in the moonlight. One of the lines had a figure sitting on it all-aglow, even the dark dress was aglow against the blackness of the sky, feet in slippers swinging, one gloved hand wrapped around a glass insulator. She was singing, humming as if it was not a cold and snowy night but more a bright summer's day.
"Do you see that?" he said pointing up.
"No," replied the officer.
"Of course you don't. She's not really there."
"Want to tell me?" And with that the officer swept off her cap letting a tumble of dark tresses sweep over the brightness of her jacket. "Come on, Frank, want to tell me?"
"Someone else who knows me," he murmured.
"Some people need to be known."
He swayed and steadied himself against the car.
"The snow plough's getting closer, Frank. We'll soon be down there. See the village in the valley?"
"I don't know anything about a village," he replied. "I mean, it's dark…" his voice fell away.
"It's were we're going," said the officer. "See the bright lights? That's the pub. Soon be there. I've got my party frock, let my hair down. See!" and she swirled it. "Can't wait to put on my slippers and poke my toes at the big log fire. See it, Frank? The pub with bright lights?"
Someone walked by, nodded to him. "We need to get outa here," said the stranger. "They think we don't exist. A whole bloody motorway, for Christ sake. Where the hell is anybody?" Frank half-glanced at the police officer, she was smiling, and only for him. "The police…" he began, then raising his voice. "They're here," he called. "Aren't they?"
"Where?" returned the man. "Police? Where, for Christ sake?"
The officer still smiled, her face close now. She clapped her hands on his shoulders and her eyes glittered like the black of night all around as she pulled the collar of his coat close around his ears. "It's turned midnight, Frank. Christmas Day! Come on, I'll take you there. The pub with bright lights."
                                                                          * * *
He threw aside the bedclothes. His wife cried out his name. "Frank! Frank! What on earth is the matter?"
He was out of bed, sweating, freezing, shaking. "Oh thank God… a dream, nothing but a dream." At last his breathing steadied.
"Get back into bed, for goodness sake. You're as cold as…"
"What a dream. I was on… I'd walked out. Driven off. Snow. On the motorway going God knows where and then everything stopped. So quiet. Still. Everywhere snow. Then there was this woman in the car. And a woman police officer. I was invited to a pub, for God's sake."
Frank got back into bed. His wife put her arms around him and held him close. "Get yourself warm, love," she said. "Here, put my dressing gown around you. What's this about a woman in the car?" Smiling now with relief, she pulled the collar of the dressing gown close around his ears. "And this pub? Was it an invitation, Frank?"
"Yes," he stammered. "It was Christmas Day… she invited me to…"
"The pub with bright lights? Was that it?"