In the front passenger seat, in a big black BMW, on a featureless road, bisecting featureless fields, in the middle of Yorkshire, George Stillwater was frowning.

He was trying to prepare his expenses for his forthcoming business trip. It wasn’t going well.

The company form was simple enough. It only needed a few trivial details about where he was staying, how far he was going, and what he was doing. It shouldn’t have been too much to ask really.

But the hotel didn’t seem to exist. Neither did the town.

As for the third part, George settled for other.

He saved what he would describe to his superiors as his ‘projected progress’ were it anything that could earn commission, and looked out of the window. They were speeding eastward, through tiny picturesque villages where Simon was supposed to slow down, and through lone and desperate terraces of staring yokels where he dared not. There were also the featureless fields still. In fact, it was mostly featureless fields.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“What did you say you’re doing here again?”

From his place at the helm, green and grey rolling along the circles of his lenses, Simon watched the road. Unmoving. Silent.

“Something to do with marketing, wasn’t it?”

Simon ran a hand through his overgelled hair. Risked a sideways glance. “Yes. Untapped customer pathways.”

“Oh.”

They didn’t know each other very well, George conceded. Which meant he thought he’d seen half of Simon’s nervous, mousey face by the coffee machine once. He couldn’t reasonably expect conversation until their families were fused by the holy sanctity of matrimony or until they’d shared a trench in a world war. This was England.

They drove on.

Another twenty miles had gone by when George sensed something to his right. A twitch, a spasm.

He turned his head. Simon had been studying him for a heartbeat, he was sure of it. They were getting on splendidly.

“How did you find your contacts?” said Simon.

George saw something piercing the horizon. It was a tower, or a spire, he thought. Jagged and crimson and crooked. It wasn’t York Minster.

They were nearly there.

“Just... something from the family,” he replied finally. He mouthed quietly through what he would tell Simon when he demanded to know just exactly what he was up to.

But Simon didn’t ask.