I'm sitting in the passenger seat of a car. How I got here I can't remember, why I'm here I can't discern. The driver is a man, but everything about him is nondescript, his clothes are plain, his face is one I find I cannot commit to memory. I glance in the rear view mirror, on the back seat is a couple wearing tuxedos, they are kissing. I blush slightly and look away.
I try to look out of the window, tall hedges rush past, framed by an endless blue sky. We crest a hill and for a moment an opulent manor house is visible over the artificial horizon. I shift restlessly in my seat, craning my neck to better see our destination.
No sooner have I sat back than the car slows down, in front of us on this tiny, winding stretch of country road a red Ford Sierra is parked, horsebox in tow. The car fills with the acrid scent of smoke, I look behind me; the couple have stopped kissing and are now sharing a cigarette, which, I think idly, is almost the same thing.
There's a tap on my window, I jump