The Mariner

He’d been on the way to collect some things, temporarily still under the old bastard’s roof when… what? Suddenly he was here, in this strange forest behind the wheels of his car. A car he’d been hoping to sell, though the crash may have put an end to that dream.

“Fuck,” he cursed, wincing at the pain in his face as he did. Perhaps he’d been attacked and drugged? Perhaps he’d had a flashback? He didn’t think he’d taken enough acid in his youth to worry about such things, but who could tell? There wasn’t enough research on the subject to be sure. Perhaps his brain had been fried and he’d zoned out for weeks?

A sign ahead caught his eye. He squinted, not making it out, so he rubbed his eyes.

Deggendorf 10

“What the fuck?” He shook his head. The name sounded German, but he’d never been to Germany before. If he’d been spiked, or drunk, or hallucinating, how did he cross the channel?

McConnell rubbed his head. The strange fizzing sensation was passing, his brain recovering from whatever blow had broken his skin.

A groan from the back seat made him shriek, jumping where he sat and smacking his head against the side window, leaving a circular print of sticky blood upon impact.

His father was in the backseat. Gregory McConnell, looking many years beyond his sixty-seven, was slumped in the rear-opposite side, belted in and semi-conscious.

“Dad?” McConnell asked, not believing his own eyes. “Dad, what’s going on?”

And then the ground began to shake.

It began as a low trembling, something felt in fillings that could be dismissed, but as it built up, the trees on either side began to quiver.

“Dad!” he yelled again, turning the key in the ignition to breathe life into the old ford, but with no avail.

Water seeped across the road. Not much, only an inch deep, but it flowed through the trees to his right in one wide wave. His panic stricken mind screamed tsunami, but could a tsunami hit Germany? How much of Germany was coast? Was he even in fucking Deutschland? With a moment’s reflection he figured it must be a flood from nearby river, burst from its banks, but this did nothing to allay his fears. He tried the ignition again and reluctantly the car rumbled into life.

The sound of the engine must have roused his father, who now leaned forward, staring over McConnell’s shoulder. “Sighisoara. Take me home. Please, take me home.”

“What?” McConnell put the car into reverse and de-tangled it from the fragmented wall. The car bounced over scattered stones as it rolled to realign itself withthe road. “Your home is Croydon. Where’s this other place?”

“Sighisoara.”

“Dad, you’re confused, just be quiet for a second… How did we get here? Do you know what’s going on?”

“Take me home. Sighisoara.”

“I don’t know where the fuck that is!”

“Transylvania.”

Shaking his head, McConnell began to drive towards Deggendorf for no other reason than because the water was running from the opposite direction. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw his father had fallen into a semi-conscious state. It was probably for the best, the old man was speaking gibberish.

As he drove, a thick mist rolled in as if brought by an ocean breeze, settling on the windscreen and forcing McConnell to switch on the wipers despite the absence of rain. He was eager to make haste, water still flowed around his tires with a hunger that made him nervous, but the low-visibility was an even greater threat. It would be hard to see head-on traffic in this mist. Perhaps it was an oncoming vehicle that made him lose control in the first place?

Suddenly, realising his mistake, he veered into the right hand lane. He’d been driving on the left! If this was Germany, surely he should be on the right? How long had he been breaking the law?

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, heart beating with heavy ominous thuds, two thuds to every swipe of the windscreen.

Thud-thud. Swish. Thud-thud. Swish.

“Where are you taking me?” his father asked, his voice thin and exhausted.

“Dad, it’s okay,” McConnell said, trying to pacify his father. “I’m going to find a way back to Croydon.”

Thud-thud. Swish. Thud-thud. Swish.

“Croydon?”

“Yes. Somehow we’ve ended up in Germany. We’re not in England any-more.”

“I don’t want to go to England!” the old man yelled as stubborn as a toddler. “Take me home!”

“England is home you senile old fool!” McConnell found himself shouting at his father, frustrated, stressed and scared out of his wits. “Shut up, and let me drive!”

“England? My home? Don’t be silly, that’s where Pappa’s from, but I don’t want to go there. And you shouldn’t address a stranger so.”

“A stranger? What are you talking about? I’m your son, you silly git! Christopher! Remember? Christopher!”