The Route

Short Story

Bilal leaves Derby at six. The A6 is slow with Friday traffic but he enjoys the rhythm of the country roads on his way to work. The steep hillsides, the woodland, the occasional glimpse of the canal or railway line between the trees. He doesn’t want to get there too early. By Milford the cars start to thin out. By Whatstandwell the valley begins to close in.

He has done this route four years. Derby to Matlock, Matlock to Derby. Six nights a week, sometimes seven if Aarif is sick or if his own rent is short. The valley doesn’t care. It takes what it needs.

His first pickup is at seven fifteen. A woman on Smedley Street who is going to the Red Lion. She is in her sixties. Her hands shake. She sits in the back and says nothing until they pull up outside the pub. Then she hands him exact change through the gap in the headrest.

‘Thank you,’ she says.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

She closes the door carefully, as if the handle might break.

The next call comes through at seven forty. A name he recognises. Bakewell Road, up the east side of the valley where the houses are stone and the driveways are gravel. He climbs the hill in second gear. The man is waiting outside, already unsteady. His friend comes out of the house behind him, pulling the door shut.

‘Matlock Bath,’ the man says, getting into the front seat without asking.

‘Where abouts?’

‘We’ll tell you when we get there.’

Bilal drives. The men smell of wine and aftershave. One of them leans forward suddenly from the back seat.

‘You know the Fishpond, mate?’

‘Yes.’

‘There.’

They talk across him. About someone called Jan, about the quiz, about whether the other one remembered to charge his phone. Bilal takes the slope carefully. The brakes are soft and the hill is steep and he has learned not to ride them.

At the Fishpond the man in the front seat opens the door before they’ve stopped fully.

‘Cheers, mate,’ he says, and gets out.

The one in the back leans forward and puts a tenner through the gap.

‘Keep it,’ he says.

The fare is eight fifty. Bilal takes the note and says thank you. The man is already closing the door.

He pulls into the rank by the park and waits. Two other drivers are there. One is on his phone. The other is asleep or looks like he is asleep. Bilal turns the engine off and checks the app. Three jobs pending but all of them are twenty minutes out. He drinks tea from his flask. It is still hot.

At nine the calls start coming faster. The estate to the Crown, the Crown to the estate. A woman with shopping bags who has missed the last bus. A man who directs him to a house on Chesterfield Road and then says wait here, I’ll be two minutes. Bilal waits. The man comes back with a coat and a different woman.

‘Change of plan, mate. Take us to Cromford.’

Bilal drives to Cromford. On the way back the app pings twice. He takes the first job. A pickup on Steep Turnpike. He knows this address. The house is halfway up and there is nowhere to pull in so he stops in the road with his hazards on. A car comes up behind him and waits, then overtakes.

The woman comes out. She is older, seventy maybe. She has a stick.

‘Can you help me down?’ she says.

He gets out and takes her arm. The path is uneven and the light above the door doesn’t reach. She holds his elbow and moves slowly. When they get to the car she pauses.

‘I’m off to Matlock Bath,’ she says. ‘Seven Stars.’

‘Okay.’

‘My son is meeting me there. Quiz night.’

Bilal helps her into the back seat. She arranges herself carefully, the stick across her lap.

‘Thank you, duck,’ she says.

He drives down through the town and out along the A6. Matlock Bath is three miles. The woman talks to him from the back seat. About her son, about the cold weather, about how the buses don’t run late anymore. Bilal listens and says yes and keeps his eyes on the road. At the Seven Stars he pulls up outside and gets out to help her. A man is waiting by the door. He nods at Bilal but doesn’t come forward.

‘How much?’ the woman says.

‘Seven pounds.’

She opens her purse and counts out coins into his hand. Seven pounds exactly.

‘Thank you, duck,’ she says again.

Bilal gets back in the car. The man has already taken her inside.

By eleven the pubs are turning out. The app is constant now. Fishpond to Tansley. Duke of Wellington to Darley Dale. Two lads from the train station who are trying to get to Bakewell and don’t understand why it costs eighteen pounds.

‘It’s only up the road,’ one of them says.

‘It’s six miles,’ Bilal says.

‘Fucking rip-off.’

They get in.

Halfway to Bakewell, one of the lads asks, ‘Where you from?’

‘Derby.’

‘No. I mean from from.’

‘Chaddesden.’

One of them tuts and curses under his breath.

‘I mean your ethnicity?’

‘Kashmir.’

A mobile phone bleeps. Bilal keeps his eye on the road.

When he lets them out, they give him a twenty and tell him to keep the change. They appear to be even drunker than when he picked them up. Then one of the lads says a garbled version of, ‘As-salamu alaikum,’ and laughs as they stagger off.

They have left an unopened can of cider on the back seat. Bilal puts it in the footwell and tips it out later at the rank.

At midnight he gets a call to the Hurst Farm estate. A flat above the shops. The man who comes out is in his forties, thin, walks like something hurts. He gets in the back and gives an address Bilal doesn’t know.

‘Just past the cemetery,’ the man says. ‘I’ll tell you when.’

They drive in silence. At the cemetery gates the man leans forward.

‘Just up here. That one.’

Bilal stops. The house is dark. The man pays and gets out and stands on the pavement looking at the house like he’s deciding something. Bilal pulls away. In the mirror the man is still standing there.

The rank is full now. Five cars. Bilal takes his place at the back. The driver in front of him gets out and comes to his window.

‘Quiet tonight,’ the man says.

‘Yes.’

‘You on till two?’

‘Expect so.’

The man nods and goes back to his car. Bilal drinks the last of his tea. It is cold now. He pours it onto the road and screws the cap back on.

At one fifteen he gets a job to Riber. The woman is drunk, and her friend—heavily pregnant—is even drunker. They get in the back and the first one leans forward.

‘Do you know where Riber is?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the cottage with the green door. You’ll see it.’

They talk to each other about someone called Matt. About work. About the karaoke tonight. Bilal takes the hill slowly. The road is narrow and the walls are stone and there is no margin.

‘Here,’ the woman says. ‘This one.’

He stops. The fare is nine twenty. The woman hands him a ten.

‘Keep the change,’ she says.

Her pregnant friend is already out and leaning on the wall. The first woman gets out and closes the door. Through the window she shrugs and mouths thank you. Bilal nods. He turns the car and goes back down the hill in first gear, foot tamping the break.

At two the app goes quiet. Time to go home. Bilal drives back through the town. The streetlights are orange and the roads are empty.

He takes the A38 south. The traffic is light. A truck, a few cars. He keeps to sixty and stays in the left lane. At the Little Eaton roundabout he stops at the Starbucks and uses the toilet and buys a coffee he doesn’t drink.

Derby is still awake but not for long. He drives through Chaddesden and parks outside the house. The lights are off. His brother’s car is in the drive.

Bilal sits for a minute. His back hurts and his eyes hurt and he can still smell the aftershave from the man on Bakewell Road. He picks up his phone. Sixteen jobs. A hundred and thirty-eight pounds. Minus diesel, minus the app fee, minus the radio.

He gets out and locks the car. Inside the house is quiet. He takes off his shoes in the hallway and goes upstairs without turning on the light.

In the morning he will sleep until noon. Then he will eat and pray and check the car. At six he will leave again, take the country road north. The valley will be waiting.

Image reproduced by kind permission of @chriscookmanphotography