Rear Window

In May of 2012, I was undertaking a five-hour drive from Glasgow to the northern tip of the Highlands for the Ullapool Book Festival. I was a doctoral research student and had received a small bursary to attend, but due to my teaching duties that week, I found myself driving up alone fairly late on the Thursday evening.

It wasn’t a terribly long drive, but having left the city after 8pm, I found myself tiring around the Cairngorms and decided it was safest if I pulled over for a cat nap.

At the time I was driving my beloved old Mini and had a bit of an embarrassing affectation for all things retro. I was therefore carrying a ridiculously old Nokia mobile with the battery life of a Spinal Tap drummer and absolutely no internet capability.

I had pulled over into one of the parking areas of the national park at Aviemore, where I specifically chose one of the smaller car parks that acted as an access point for hill climbers – these areas permit overnight parking, are generally off the main road and are unlit, which I thought would best facilitate a quiet rest before I started driving again. What with it being Scotland, it was raining lightly and the air was chill. I lowered my seat and pulled my coat over me, drifting off fairly quickly as the rain drummed pleasantly on the roof of the car.

I woke with a start some time later. I was in darkness, slightly disorientated and vaguely aware that I had heard a thump somewhere on the bodywork of the car. The combination of chill outside air and my warm breath inside had fogged the windows, and I couldn’t see out. I was by no means panicking, sure that it had just been the metal chassis settling as the engine cooled, and I picked up my mobile to check the time. I was cursing slightly under my breath about the fact my battery had died when I heard a distinct tap-tap-tap on the lower side of the passenger door.

I was unnerved, and I reached across the seat to check the door was locked. Do you ever talk to yourself when you’re nervous? I certainly do, and I was quietly chiding myself for being a baby when the tap-tap-tap sounded from the rear passenger panel. I immediately shut up and stared at the back window. No movement, no shadows. A bit exasperated with myself, I switched on the engine, turning the hot air on to clear the windows. I would have preferred to sleep a bit longer, but my nerves had me wide awake and I decided I’d be as well making tracks.

It took an age for the windows to clear (always did with my old Mini, thanks to a bust fan on the passenger side), and I sat for a couple of minutes before I began to see more clearly through the steam. My heart about plummeted to the floor when a brief movement in the wing mirror caught my eye. Something was lurking around the back of my car. I immediately switched on my headlamps, and the car park ahead of me was flooded with light. There were no other cars, which I found comforting, assured that it must therefore be an animal I had seen in the mirror.

I was restoring my seat to its normal position when something clattered deafeningly against the window by my face. I screamed (pure instinct) and immediately pealed out of the car park, a thick fog still obscuring the majority of my rear windows.

My heart stopped hammering about ten miles down the road when I realised that no-one was following me. By the time I reached my hotel in Ullapool just over two hours later, I had decided I had most likely been hit by a bird, or possibly a bat, and had laughed at my skittishness. I got out the car and stretched my legs in the bright car park of the hotel, enjoying the cool air after being cooped up for so long in a confined space.

When I went to collect my bag from the back seat, I noticed an envelope tucked underneath and opened it with curiosity.

*Dear Driver,

You should be more careful about where you park at night. I sat in the passenger seat for almost ten minutes and wrote this while you slept. Your passenger window can be eased down by hand.

Take care.*

I drove home from the festival early on the Sunday afternoon, determined to make the journey in one daylight trip. I had my window checked at a garage back in Glasgow and sure enough, the locking mechanism was broken.

I’ll never know if my visitor thought they were being a Good Samaritan or took some pleasure in frightening me, but either way, the thought of some stranger sitting on my passenger seat, watching me while I slept that night, still chills me to the bone.