Chapter 103: What would a serial killer say?

Croyde to Barnstaple

Croyde Beach

“Are you a serial killer?” Brett inquired reasonably.

“No,” I replied.

“Oh…” There was a disappointed silence. “I’d quite like to meet a serial killer…” his tone was wistful and contemplative, “I’d fuck ‘em up.”

Brett had vast bouldering shoulders wrapped in a sky-blue dry robe. His hair was tousled with sea salt. He looked at me through the mirror and I didn’t doubt his words.

We were on the north Devon coast driving away from Croyde. I had been at a fundraiser and was hitchhiking home to London.

“So you’re not a serial killer, but your mates have driven and you decided to hitchhike?”

I confirmed.

“Bizarre…” The word drifted out casually. He looked at his son, Jacob, who looked as latently surprised as he.

“In the rain as well…”

Brett had a dry sense of humour and a gentle, calm voice. His accent was from the midlands, where he’d grown up. They’d moved to Devon several years ago to work as an operations manager for an aerospace engineering firm. He said a lot of people down here were thick though and the town they lived in was fairly poor. There wasn’t much for people to do. “A lot are just lazy,” he shrugged, “That’s their choice.”

He was enjoying life here. He liked the slower pace and the peace of being near the sea. They’d spent the morning at the beach. He and Jacob were teaching themselves to surf.

“Life seems a lot better when you’ve been in the water,” he mused, “Found a lot of peace with it.”

It wasn’t always peaceful though. In peak summer the narrow lanes were overwhelmed. Sometimes you couldn’t reach the beach at Saunton Sands. The road would be backed up several miles to Braunton. A few weeks before the police had been turning cars around.

It was a grey day and the windscreen was flecked with light rain. The road wound around the headland, the metallic sea hammered out below on the bright smear of Saunton Sands. It was nearly June but didn’t feel it.

We came into traffic in Braunton and looked out at the empty rain-stained pavements.

“Do you believe in a higher power?” Brett asked, his elbow on the window sill.

“What like a god?”

“Mmm.”

“Not sure really…” I went back. A moment of silence followed.

“There’s gotta be something more,” he replied, but our theology was cut short by a ringing phone. Brett pressed green on the screen without a word. It was his partner.

“Hey,” he said, “I’ve got a hitchhiker!”

“Oh right…” she responded, “Ok.” Most people who hear their partners have picked up a hitchhiker report a degree of worry. There was none here. There was no doubt Brett was a man who could look after himself.

“He’s trying to get to London,” Brett continued.

“Oh right,” she said again, “Good luck with that one…”

“We’ve vetted him and we don’t think he’s a serial killer…” he glanced at Jacob who shrugged again, “Are you a serial killer?” Brett asked me over the vast curvature of his shoulder.

“No,” I replied.

“He says he’s not.”

“That’s what a serial killer would say though…” Jacob mumbled wryly, imitating his dad’s tone.

“That is true.”

“Does he have enough food and water?” Brett’s partner enquired through the phone.

“I dunno,” Brett retorted, “I’m not his carer! Anyway, he says he’s writing a book about it but that we can’t be in it. Says I’d have to kick him out the car and make him commando roll or something. Throw his whiteboard out the window. I’ve tried, but he’s not interested…! It’s difficult - I’m trying to get famous.”

The call ended and Brett asked what sort of things you need to hitchhike. We began to compile a list. He suggested a poncho, water bottle and snacks. I didn’t have any of those but agreed they were probably important things to carry. A whiteboard was my only real contribution.

Then we spent a long time working out where I should get out. They weren’t going far beyond Barnstaple so it would be somewhere on the A361. We went round and round about where the best place was. He told Jacob he had to think like a hitchhiker - where would he want to hitchhike from? Jacob wasn’t sure.

Brett’s rigorous planning, I discovered, had military roots. He had been a marine for over a decade. The fact seemed to tie a lot together. Not least the size of his shoulders and the camouflage skin on the car.

The Marines had taken him all over the world and 14 months of it was spent in Afghanistan. “When we weren’t there we were training to be there,” he told me. “All that effort,” he shook his head, “No one will ever know how much effort went into that country. All squandered.”

I asked if many people stayed long in the marines. “Errr…some do,” he said, “But that’s them. The Marines fucks a lot of people up. A lot of people commit suicide. It’s a fucked up world out there man, it’s a fucked up world.”

We were through Barnstaple and Brett told me to keep my eyes peeled for a lay-by. Anyone going to London from down here would go along this road. Then he turned to Jacob and said suddenly, “Says a lot about her doesn’t it?”

Jacob wondered what.

“I say we’ve got a hitchhiker and she says ‘Has he got enough food and water.’ Very caring…”

We all agreed it was.

We spotted a lay-by and pulled into it. They wished me luck as we shook hands. “Don’t forget your whiteboard,” they said I climbed out.

“Oh and don’t use permanent marker on there!” Brett shouted through the open window. Then they were gone.