The service station was different. While it was busy, it was quiet: a gentle hum of conversation and the odd rattle of cutlery and crockery. Everything was calm. There was no panic, no urgency, no pain.
John bought a tea and looked for a seat. The surface of the liquid quivered in the mug as he walked. His hands had shaken the time before, but much worse. Today, he was able to steady himself. And so he should, thirty years on. He gripped the handle tighter. The tea was served in a mug nowadays, not a cup and saucer. Times changed. Standards slipped. He remembered that distant night, how, by the time he’d sat down, the saucer held as much tea as the cup. It was more a tremble than a shake this time.
He looked around. They’d changed the geography, the geometry of the place. The building was full of bustling humanity, much busier than it had been that night. Back then it had just been a few truckers, late night drivers getting some caffeine or relieving their bladders. This time he’d come in the middle of the day. Deliberately. He couldn’t stand the idea of the motorway in darkness.
The calm of the place that night had seemed surreal as he’d walked in. He’d wondered if he should tell someone, but he wasn’t even sure if it had even happened, if it had been real. Everything seemed adrift, dreamlike. He’d stared at the drivers, the serving staff, marvelled at how calm they’d all been, unaware.
And then the first casualties had arrived.
It had been just after midnight when it had happened. He remembered the road, the high passes, the white lines unravelling under the headlights of the car. It had been peaceful, the hum of the engine, the gentle vibration of wheels on tarmac. He’d noticed the coach chugging along in the slow lane, had started indicating to come out and overtake when the back end exploded.
A flash and then a roar.
As the blast slammed into the car, it jumped as though swatted. A crack shot the windscreen and debris started pinging off the glass. He veered toward the fast lane, toward the central reservation, the crash barrier. In slow motion, he wrestled the wheel, dragging the car back to safety. He saw the coach again, slewing towards the hard-shoulder, its back a jagged absence, the roof peeled away. There were people in the carriageway. He’d swerved to avoid a body, flaming and tumbling, felt it strike the car, the shock thumping through the vehicle, into his seat, into him. He saw a smaller object flailing as it rolled past.
And then the carnage was behind. All was normal, as if it had never happened, as it should have been. He looked in his mirror. Flame and light, swerving cars.
Red lights. Some of the cars in front started braking. They’d seen what he’d seen, had looked in their mirrors, maybe heard something, but he’d stayed in the fast lane and gone past, accelerating, arms locked, hands gripping the wheel. He panted, eyes stretched wide as he drove into the calmness ahead, into the oblivious traffic.
Unable to go on, he’d pulled over at the first services, shaking with unspent adrenalin. He could barely control the pedals. He’d sat in the car park for five minutes before going inside, trying to get a grip on himself. When she set his tea down, the lady asked if he was ok. He’d nodded, unable to reply.
He hadn’t been there long when the first casualties were brought in. There were men, women, and children. Soldiers and their families. They were returning from holidays. None in uniform. Many were wearing very little. It wasn’t always easy to tell what was cloth and what was flesh. Everything was red, black or white, smoking slightly.
The bomb had been planted before the coach left Manchester.
He hadn’t stayed. He couldn’t be of help. He’d just be in the way. As he’d made his way out, he’d avoided eye contact.
He’d never come back, hadn’t needed to. It stayed with him. Followed.
The last sip of tea was cold. A family of four, laughing and tanned, were taking a seat nearby. On their way home, he supposed. They had no idea. How could they? The plaque had been moved. He’d read about it in the paper. Not such a bad idea. Now everything was calm.
Without looking at the family, not wanting to catch their eyes, he got up and left.
He would not return.
***
Shortly after midnight on February 4th, 1974, an IRA bomb exploded in a coach travelling on the M62 motorway, killing 12 and injuring 38. The coach was carrying off-duty soldiers and their families back to base from weekend leave. The dead and injured were taken to a makeshift aid station in the westbound entrance of Hartshead Moor service station.
Banner Image: by Humphrey Bolton / The M62 at Hartshead Moor, looking south into Clifton
Image – Memorial plaque at Hartshead Moor
literally stories 
Hi Matthew,
Thanks for submitting this.
We must all remember.
‘The Troubles’ (Whit a fucking understatement) does really interest me. I’ve been accused of having an affiliation for those murdering bastards before.
The history of why this happened, I can understand but when the first innocent was killed, that ’cause’ was fucked for ever!!
As soon as you say that you can see why it started, in the West Coast Of Scotland, you are judged. (By fucking idiots I might add!!)
The British / Irish issue goes back to Cromwell times but if you ever want to watch something that is a bit more in our time frame (HAH!! Within a hundred years or so!) have a look at the Ken Loach film, ‘The Wind That Shakes The Barley’. That is all about when The Black And Tan regiment were sent into Ireland.
I digress.
I love the song, ‘The Patriot Game’ not because of the politics but because of the symbolism. But again, due to where I stay, I need to watch who I say that to. There is no way that I could do that at Karaoke!!
Personally, I will never have any sympathies for those murdering fuckers, especially of the seventies. My uncle lost his PA due to a letter bomb in those times. The letter was addressed to my uncle who was a Major. The thing was, he normally opened his own mail but that day, he was sent elsewhere.
I think those times need to be remembered. It is interesting to think in a hundred years will Martin McGuinness and Gerry Adams be looked at as peace makers or fuckers with a helluva lot of blood on their hands??
Off on a few tangents there – But that’s what good stories do!
Excellent!
All the very best my fine friend.
Hugh
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Necessary venting, Hugh. 👏👏Well said.
I will look into that movie by Ken Loach. Thanks for the heads up.
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Heavy reading Matthew. But necessary that the tragedies and horrific acts are never forgotten.
Powerful writing, sir. 🙏👏
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Matthew
When I was a child two phrases were constants on the evening news here in America: “Today, in Vietnam…” and “More trouble today in Londonderry” (or Belfast–seemed interchangeable–I’m told the residents just call it Derry).
What you done was perfectly capture a moment in history through the eyes of one witness who felt (feels) impotent due to a lack of action, even though there was nothing he could have done and he knows it. A strain of survivor guilt as well.
Great work!
Leila
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A clever and poignant way of telling this story. I remember the incident very well and know the road so this was a sharp reminder of all those awful events – on both sides it must be said. It would be nice to think it was over but there is always the idea that it’s bubbling under the surface – heaven forbid that we find ourselves there again. Great scene setting and character drawing. Well done
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As others have said, a powerful piece but also very well crafted, offering a different perspective on an appalling tragedy.
(I won’t comment on the politics except to say we maybe need more Mo Mowlams in the world right now)
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Ukraine, Israel/Palestine, Middle East generally, Thoughts and Prayers for the most recent mass murder in the USA. Mass killing is a growth industry.
War monger leads the USA, and if he didn’t it would be a narcissic sociopath. So we huddle in and hope to die of old age.
Artists and writers do what we can as in this story, but it’s like spitting in the ocean.
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We must never forget incidents like this and far too many similar ones. The description of the explosion was excellent and horrifying.
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As others have said this is heavy, but also necessary – this is the kind of writing that makes a difference to the reader. Your attention to detail works so well here.
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I could put myself in John’s place. There’s vivid description, the opening leads us in, or leads us on. “The service station was different,” and later we know why. And at the end “The plaque had been moved,” is very effective in light of today’s fashion of sanitizing history. The theme also reminds me of the last line in the Kafka story “The Judgement,” where we all continue on, unaware, despite the tragedies all around us, unlike John, who comes back to reflect and relive.
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