The trick to travel was the ability to sleep when you needed to and it was a trick that Nichols had never learned. 

Despite the early start, he was wide awake during the flight from London to Edinburgh, as he was during the train from Edinburgh to Aberdeen and during both journeys he had stolen jealous glances at his colleague Priest, whom either possessed the uncanny ability to fall asleep on command or was simply communicating that he had no desire for conversation with Nichols. 

Either way, Priest’s eyes snapped awake whenever the moment came to disembark onto the next leg of their journey and shut down when they made their connection. The journey had been uneventful with Nichols reading and re-reading the few facts of the case from his firm and pointlessly fretting about what would happen if there were delays in their journey north. 

Their final destination was an oil rig in the North Sea which could only be accessed via helicopter. From Aberdeen train station, they had reserved a car they would drive to the coast and from there the oil company’s helicopter would take them the rest of the way. 

Now, head throbbing from lack of sleep and too much travel, Nichols eyed a coffee shop for something solid to eat and soak up the bitter coffee he had been consuming since he had gotten up to drive to the airport. Any more coffee and he felt liable to vomit. 

Turning to Priest, he indicated the coffee shop and its welcoming aroma of warm pastries. “Fancy some breakfast, er, lunch?” 

Priest didn’t turn to him, instead saying in a voice that brooked no argument: “We should get going.” 

Nichols was considering going anyway but the rental car pulled up and the clerk got out, holding out the keys. Priest ignored him and got into the passenger seat. 

Nichols didn’t say anything except glare momentarily at Priest, took the keys from the clerk, thanking him in a monotone, and got into the driver’s seat. 

“We’re on time you know,” said Nichols, before stopping: Priest’s eyes had closed again. Nichols wearily started the car, typed the destination into the GPS, and pulled out before the car behind him could start beeping its horn at him (he had noticed that people’s impatience, particularly when behind the wheel of a car, these days was at a remarkably short fuse). 

An accident had happened on the oil rig and, as an insurance investigator, the firm had sent Nichols out to look into it and get the facts. He had first seen the news story as he ate his tea yesterday evening and gotten the call shortly after. His travel bag was ready and the tickets and schedule were emailed to him. 

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He had also been told about Priest on the call. This was Nichols’ first time working with the man and he already held out hope that it would be the last. Seemingly a paragon of stoic efficiency, Priest had followed him on his journey north from Gatwick without uttering more than a few curt sentences as if he were rationing words. 

Traffic became more sparse as they left Aberdeen behind until the roads were clear and the sky seemed to become bigger. Deciding that he would return in the summer to enjoy Scotland’s natural beauty at his leisure, Nichols’ attention kept being caught by roadside stops advertising fast food but he feared waking the slumbering (or was he?) man in the seat opposite. 

The roads became narrower the further to the coast they got and the cars became fewer, so it was surprising to Nichols when the GPS directed them onto a road that had been blocked by a sizable number of police. 

There were a dozen officers standing in the way of their car and a couple began shaking their heads “No” and waving their arms to indicate he turn around and drive back the way he’d come. He rolled down a window and one of the officers walked towards him, but not before making a show of how displeased he was at having to break his monotonous watch on this lonely stretch of highway. 

“Sir, you need to turn around and take another exit - the road ahead is closed,” 

Nichols smiled awkwardly and took out his identification, along with papers from the file that his boss had told him would get him to where he needed to go. 

“I understand but I - er, we - represent Habershires, the insurance company, and I - er, we - need to, are expected at the airfield within the hour. To go to the rig,” 

The officer looked at the ID and paperwork, projecting nothing but grumpiness (when had everyone become so combative all the time?), shaking his head. “We haven’t been told about you, or, ER, him. Hello - are you ok in there?” 

Priest’s eyes flicked open and he turned to face the officer who looked decidedly disturbed by Priest’s stare and turned back to Nichols. “Mr Nicholas, I’m afraid you’ll need to turn around. We can’t have civilians in the vicinity of a major accident, and you don’t have the proper authorisation to proceed.” 

“Ok, how about I call my boss at Habershires and we sort something out. Oh… the signal is weak out here. Could I use your phone, please?” 

The officer looked at him as if Nichols had propositioned him. Nichols quickly turned away and began looking through his bag for something - he didn’t know what. Then he noticed Priest and communicated “Help” with his eyes, that he hoped Priest would pick up on. 

Priest looked back at him blankly but his hands moved slightly. Nichols noticed a small object in Priest’s left hand that he began to touch. In a way he couldn’t describe, the atmosphere of the situation changed from tense to… serene. Nichols’ eyes went up to Priest’s face who said in a quiet but clear voice, “Try again,” then indicated the officer with his eyebrows. 

Nichols turned back to the officer, expecting to see the look of irritation on his face but instead saw his demeanour transformed into one of calm neutrality. 

“Er, Nichols and Priest from Habershires Insurance Company - we’re expected at…” 

“Of course, Mr Nichols. Mr Priest.” and turned away, indicating to the other officers to stand aside and let them through. 

Nichols looked at Priest. “What was that?” but whatever had been in Priest’s hand had retreated back to whence it came. 

Priest stared ahead. “Drive.”

Nichols looked ahead and drove slowly past the officers, all of whom ignored their vehicle as if it wasn’t there. As they began the final leg of the journey, Nichols tried speaking once more to Priest but stopped as he noticed the man’s eyes had shut. Again. 

There better be bloody vending machines at the helipad, he thought.