The Boy in the Van: John Hayes #10.75 - A John Hayes Novella (EBOOK)

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Devices: Kindle, Apple and Android Devices, Nook and Kobo eReaders, Computers
Series: Book 1, The Hong Kong Trilogy

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John sipped his coffee and gazed through the windshield. The wipers swept intermittently, clearing the light drizzle that clung to the glass. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a pale glow as the grey sky lightened. Outside, the cold morning air clung to the wet tarmac of the assembly area, which shimmered under the reflections of red taillights and the glaring white floodlights illuminating the parking lot. He had left his parents' home in Winchester at two-thirty, driving through the quiet night to reach the Eurotunnel terminal in Folkestone.

He’d said his goodbyes the night before, slipping out quietly so as not to wake his parents. A hollow feeling lingered in his chest at the thought of not seeing them for some time, but it was tempered by the anticipation of reuniting with Adriana. It had only been just over a week since they’d parted, but it felt much longer.

Normally, John would break the journey to Lisbon into two days. This time, though, he was determined to make it in one stretch. His classic Porsche 911, despite its age, was more than capable of handling the long journey—and John was confident he could handle it too, provided there was enough coffee and he stuck to the autoroutes instead of the meandering back roads he usually preferred. For that reason, he had booked the earliest train. If all went according to plan, he’d reach Adriana by three a.m. the following day. It would be exhausting, but worth it.

He took another sip of his coffee, now lukewarm and nearing the end of the takeaway cup. A flask of his own home-brewed coffee sat beside him, but he was saving that for the long stretches of the French autoroutes so he could avoid unnecessary stops, except for fuel.

He wasn’t the only one making such an early start. The assembly area was already filling with cars and light commercial vehicles. He scanned the number plates: mostly UK, but also French, German, and Swiss. One vehicle caught his eye—a striking tangerine orange McLaren 750S with Swiss plates. His gaze lingered, a small smile tugging at his lips. It was a stunning car, and no doubt a thrill to drive, but he wouldn’t trade it for his beloved Porsche 911. Despite being over fifty years old, the Porsche made up for its lack of outright performance with character and driving pleasure. Modern cars, with their electronic driving aids and constant beeping and chiming, dulled the driver’s connection to the road. Besides, with speed cameras everywhere, where could anyone truly enjoy the top speed of a car like the McLaren?

A car pulled into the row beside him—a generic people mover, maybe a Kia or Hyundai. He wasn’t sure; they all looked the same these days. The driver, a man in his thirties, glanced at John’s car, his gaze lingering on the sleek lines of the 911 before their eyes briefly met. He smiled, but his attention quickly shifted to his wife, who was speaking animatedly in the passenger seat. Her expression made it clear the early start wasn’t agreeing with her.

The couple exchanged gestures, their conversation apparently heated. The man turned and said something to the two children in the back seat. John glanced at them—a young girl, perhaps three or four, wiping tears from her cheeks, and a boy, maybe five or six, who had unfastened his seat belt and was now leaning closer to the window. The boy pressed his face against the glass, his nose flattening comically as he stared at John.

John smiled, but the boy didn’t react. Undeterred, John stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes. That did the trick—a grin spread across the boy’s face before he stuck out his tongue in return.

Meanwhile, the father, clearly frustrated, climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He caught John’s eye and rolled his eyes dramatically before heading to the rear of the vehicle to open the hatch. John watched in the rearview mirror, but a flicker of movement at the front of his lane drew his attention. The cars ahead were starting to move.

Draining the last of his coffee, John tossed the empty cup into a small garbage bag tucked into the passenger footwell. He started the Porsche and shifted into gear.

Before rolling forward, he glanced at the family one last time. The father was still at the rear hatch, arguing with his wife, who had twisted in her seat to respond. The boy, ignoring the argument, continued to watch John.

John gave him a wave, put the car in gear, and rolled forward.