“He’ll have to drive faster than that if he’s hoping she’ll fall out.”

The white Rover 800 ahead of them, which they’d been stuck behind for the last 20 minutes on the final approach to the town, continued at its painfully slow speed as the driver negotiated the roundabout. They caught a glimpse of the face of his passenger, a woman whose face had turned putrid green. An old man wearing a cloth cap was driving.

“Come on mate, its the pedal on the right.”

The occupants of the black Golf laughed.

“Do you think he’s off to sell her to a halloween mask factory?”

“Nice one Mike.”

He shrugged, reverting back to his normal, quieter self. The Golf followed on across the roundabout, in time to see the Rover speed up as it headed towards a pedestrian crossing.