crazy at the isolation of being on the road, of the disembodied voices that floated into his cab via CB radio. But it was unlikely; the men who lived this nomadic life did so largely because they wanted as little to do with other human beings as possible.
“Are you a thief?”
The voice was soft, and lilted sweetly on the night air. It seemed to contain no accusation, only curiosity. Frankenstein turned to see the owner of it standing in the shadows between two of the enormous lorries.
It was a little girl, a tiny thing of no more than eight. She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, thick, sensible work boots and was holding a small model of a truck in her hand; she was every inch a driver’s daughter. She was frowning at him, staring up at his huge frame, her forehead furrowed.
“I’m not a thief,” Frankenstein replied, lowering his voice. “Are you?”
The little girl smiled, involuntarily, at such a naughty idea, then remembered herself, and frowned again.
“Of course I’m not,” she said, firmly. “This is my daddy’s lorry.” She reached out and touched the wheel of the truck she was standing beside; it was taller than her.
“Where is your daddy?” asked Frankenstein. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own. It’s cold.”
The little girl pointed to Jeremy’s transport café.
“Daddy’s playing cards,” she said. “The clock said he had to stop driving, but he’s not tired.”
“Does he know you’re out here on your own?”
“No,” she replied, proudly. “I sneaked out. No one saw me.”
“You shouldn’t do that. It’s dangerous.”
“Why?” she asked. “Aren’t I safe with you?”
Frankenstein looked down at the tiny figure beside the wheel.
“You’re safe,” he said. “But we should still get you back to your daddy. Come on.”
He held out a huge, mottled hand, and the little girl skipped forward and took it. She smiled up at him as he began to lead her towards the café.
“What’s your name?” she asked, as he stopped at the edge of the parking area, checking that nothing was about to pull up to the fuel pumps.
“Klaus,” he said, leading her forward across the brightly lit forecourt.
“That’s a nice name.”
“Thank you.”
“My daddy’s name is Michael.”
“What about yours? What’s your name?”
“My name is Lene. Lene Neumann.”
“That’s a pretty name,” said Frankenstein.
“You’re nice,” replied Lene, smiling up at the monster that was holding her hand. “I like you. Are you going south? I bet my daddy will give you a lift with us.”
Frankenstein was about to reply when an almighty crash rang out above the noise of the idling engines. He looked at the truck stop, and saw a commotion in the small diner, before the screen door slammed open, banging with a noise like a gunshot against its metal frame.
A man was silhouetted against the fluorescent lighting of the transport café. He was short, and heavy-set, with a baseball cap perched on the top of his round head.
“Lene!” the man bellowed. “Lene! Where are you, sweetheart? Lene!”
The man leapt down from the doorway, and ran across the forecourt in their direction. He would see them as soon as he reached the shade of the fuel station’s canopy. Behind him, a cluster of men and women followed him out of the diner, all calling Lene’s name.
“That’s my daddy!” exclaimed Lene. “He’s looking for me! I bet we can go when he finds us!”
A sinking feeling settled into Frankenstein’s chest, and as he looked down at the little girl’s hand wrapped tightly in his own, everything seemed to slow down. He saw the rotund figure of Lene’s dad pass under the canopy and out of the blinding spotlights that illuminated the entrance and exit ramps. The man’s face was ghostly pale, his eyes wide, his mouth a trembling O of panic. The men who were following him across the forecourt were all drivers, some of them carrying wrenches and crowbars. Frankenstein looked again at his hand, and Lene’s hand, and realised what was going to happen, realised it was too late to do anything about it.
“Daddy!” cried Lene, and the group of running men bore to their left, adjusting their course towards the sound of the little girl’s voice, like a flock of birds in flight. Lene’s father skidded to a halt in front of them, and took in the scene he found before him.
“Lene,” he said, gasping for breath. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
“Don’t be silly, Daddy,” his daughter smiled. “This is my friend, Klaus.”
The rest of the men drew up behind Lene’s father, weapons in their hands and looks of anger on their faces.
“He’s your friend?” asked Michael Neumann. “That’s nice, sweetheart. But you come over here next to me now, all right? Come on.”
Frankenstein let go of Lene’s hand; she ran happily over to her father, and hugged his leg. Her father stroked her hair, his gaze never leaving Frankenstein, his eyes like burning coals.
“You shouldn’t sneak off like that,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “How many times have I told you? It scares me when I don’t know where you are. You don’t want to scare me, do you?”
Lene looked up at her father, an expression of terrible worry on her small face.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”
“It’s all right,” he replied, still staring at Frankenstein. “I want you to go with Angela and wait inside, OK? Daddy will be there in a minute, and then we can go. All right?”
Lene nodded. A teenage girl wearing a white waitress uniform stepped forward, looking at the monster with obvious disgust, and took Lene’s hand. The little girl waved at Frankenstein as she was led away. He raised his hand to wave back.
When the door of the diner clanged shut a second time, the group of lorry drivers stepped slowly towards Frankenstein, who found himself backing away down the narrow space between two rigs.
“What were you doing with my little girl, mister?” asked Michael Neumann, his voice trembling with anger. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”
Frankenstein knew that nothing he could say would change what was about to happen, but he tried anyway.
“I was bringing her back to you,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “She was hiding from you, and I told her it wasn’t safe. I was bringing her back.”
“He’s
