Adventures of a Hitchhiker - The Mad Monk

 

Chadwell had promised me that he would pick me up at midnight. I last saw him a week before as I left my evening work shift on the holiday camp in Croyde Bay, North Devon. It was the summer of 1993

'Twelve midnight pal. At the Little Chef on the Tiverton Junction on the M5. Cheers pal,' I said to him as I left.

'Yeah no worries' he replied rather nonchalantly.

Chadwell was from Wales as I'm sure many of you have already guessed. He was a nice lad who I got on well with. He was a few years older than me (I was 21) and worked as a chef in the holiday camp kitchen. I wasn't too confident that he would be there to pick me up 1 week and 4 hours later at midnight by the Little Chef. He had a habit of over indulgence. He was enjoying himself too much to stay on track. I'd seen the transformation in him over the last few months and I was disturbed by what I saw. Nevertheless he had very kindly offered to pick me up and I wanted to trust him. I accepted his offer with gratitude.

I had managed to organise a lift from Wigan to the junction at Tiverton thanks to Keith who now ran the pub in Wigan where I used to work as a barman. I'd phoned him hoping to grab a few shifts behind the bar during my week off from the holiday camp. I would hitch home, visit my parents and friends, grab a few shifts and get a lift back down South with Keith's friend.

Having told Keith of my plans he'd offered me a little work and had informed me that a mate of his from the forces was up from Southampton for the week and would be driving back down there the following Sunday night. The following Sunday I had planned to be hitching back down to Devon so I grabbed the opportunity of a free lift as far as he could take me down the M5 towards Devon. The drop off point would be the Tiverton junction on the M5 as Southampton was down on the South coast and I needed to head over to the West coast in Devon from there. My plans were made and I felt lucky that I only had to hitch one way. The only problem had been the fact that I would be dropped off at midnight but Chadwell had saved the day with his generous offer of assistance.

The drive down to the Tiverton junction was tedious. Keith's mate was in the forces, the Navy to be precise and he spent the whole trip with his chest puffed out being all manly. It didn't do for me. I was verging on being a hippie at the time and stories of death and destruction churned my stomach. I think he thought he was garnering respect...in fact his stories were having the opposite effect. I didn't look like a hippie but that would change a couple of years later.

He may have been tedious but he'd planned the drive with military precision. I was dropped off at the junction at 11.50pm and he carried on his way back to base.

I knew what to do. I strolled across to the other side of the roundabout and put my backside on the grass next to my bag. As 12.30am approached I began to fear the worst and decided to give Chadwell until 1am before I stuck out my thumb. 1am came and Chadwell was nowhere to be seen. I wasn't too bothered as I didn't have to be at work until 8am. I figured I would be able to hitch back in a few hours.

An hour later I was still standing there with my thumb out occasionally. Over the last hour only a handful of cars had passed and their drivers showed no sign of picking me up so late at night. I decided it would be best to sleep now and get up early to hitch back to Croyde before 8am when I would have to be dressed in the penguin suit serving holidaymakers their breakfast.

It was far too cold to sleep there by the roadside and the only thing around was the Little Chef cafe over the road. The cafe would serve as a surprisingly expensive rest stop for drivers traveling along the M5 motorway and the A361 link road. The drivers would be reeled in by the veneer of the place. Little Chefs look like places that sell cheap food and probably attract drivers looking to save a few quid. They certainly got the cheap microwaved food and frozen chips but their policy seemed to be to charge for good quality food instead. The cafe was closed for the night and there was a small light on in the kitchen.

The kitchen was at the rear of the building behind some small bushes. As I approached from the rear I could hear a fan running. Over the bushes I could see through the kitchen window. The small light inside illuminated both the kitchen and the surrounding few feet outside. Next to the kitchen was a small set back area containing three large wheeled bins. I knew what would be in them. One would contain general waste, one would contain bottles and one would contain cardboard. I'd seen this at work and it seemed to be standard.

The bin space was twice as large as the bins it contained and the fan that I could hear was about six feet off the ground. It was pumping warm air into the space from the kitchen. I knew what to do. I checked my bin theory and was proved correct. One of the bins did indeed contain cardboard...lots of it. I dragged a good few nice clean pieces out, shoved the bins around a bit and made a lovely mattress under the warm fan. I even rolled myself a cardboard pillow. There was lots of cardboard after all.  I did leave a couple of sweaty looking pieces in the bin.

I had a quick look around the building to check no one was around then returned to my bin space. And with my alarm set for 5am, I got myself comfortable and pulled the largest sheet of cardboard over me like a nice warm blanket.

A short time later, I was awoken by someone kicking my feet. I opened my eyes to see two tattooed skinheads looking down at me. They both had broken noses and they both had tattoos and piercings on their faces. To say I was shocked would be a massive understatement but before any instinct of fear could kick in, I noticed how terrified these two skinheads looked themselves. They were also very out of breath. This was confusing but strangely it did put me at ease.

'Can we sleep here with you mate?' one of them stammered. 'You've got all the cardboard, can we squeeze in here with you?' quivered the other. 'Sure no problem' I said and began to dismantle my mattress. I gave each of them enough cardboard and to my surprise they made up their beds one either side of me. This weird experience just got a whole lot weirder.

The two skinheads were so afraid they were shaking badly. They were both as white as a sheet and dripping with sweat. They both wore traditional skinhead clothing. The lovely tight jeans, bomber jacket and tall Dr Marten boots. They were older than me, probably in their late twenties.

What a sight that must have been. Sat up in bed between two skinheads....behind the bins. It would've made my mammy's bosom burst with pride.

It was around here that I began to wonder what could have scared these two tough looking skinheads so badly and....whatever it was....was it following them.

'Are you two alright?' I said, turning to both of them. 'No mate...we've just legged it here from Taunton...we're shagged,' one of them said. 'Down the hard shoulder non stop till be saw you' said the other. I turned to face him 'You've just ran here....from Taunton....down the motorway?'

For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of South West England, Taunton is about 12 miles further North than our current location behind the bins. It is the next major town at the next motorway junction headed North. Looking at the state of them and what they were wearing I wasn't surprised they were so knackered.

The other skinhead intervened. It was as though they were fighting over who would tell the tale. 'The church...we were looking for somewhere to kip,' he ranted excitedly. 'What church?' I replied. I turned again as the answer came from behind. It was like watching a game of tennis as the two of them desperately spewed out their story from either side of me. 'The church near the Taunton junction....just on the hill.'

'What happened?' I asked both of them. There was a moment of hesitation as the two skinheads looked at each other briefly as though they were deciding who would tell the tale. They were still in shock, sweating and breathing quickly. I was beginning to find them both slightly endearing. It was like they were two small boys who had lost their mum. Any initial fears I may have had when first meeting these two characters were now well and truly gone. I felt like a surrogate parent as I sat between them, listening to their tale of terror.

'The Mad Monk,' one of them finally splurted, 'we saw the Mad Monk.' He said it as though he expected me to know who this 'Mad Monk' was. Before I could ask about the monk, the other skinhead began to continue the tale. 'We pulled the board off the window and he was there behind the window. Just standing there, looking at us.' This was surreal and I was beginning to find it amusing.

The tag team tale continued and I turned once again as the other skinhead went on. 'He had no face....it was just black,' he muttered as he looked down into his lap. He was calming down now and seemed to be questioning his sanity. The other skinhead also began to calm down as this tale got more supernatural. He chimed in 'He was wearing a monks jacket...one of those big brown ones.' 'A habit?' I replied. He looked confused and didn't know what to say. 'A habit....one of those big monk's jackets....it's called a habit,' I added. He relaxed a little and smiled for the first time. 'That's it...a habit...he was wearing a habit.'

They were both almost breathing normally by now and I was feeling pretty sorry for them. They were clearly not making this story up. I believed that they believed what they said they had seen. No one could act this well.

'He made a noise at us,' one of them said quietly. The other skinhead then began to mimic the noise for me. Imagine you're wearing a white sheet and scaring the kids with a ghost noise. You know....that wooahwoooahwoooah groan that most of us would make. It was like that but deeper; a long, low contiuous groan. It was pretty creepy actually. 'That was it mate' he went on, 'We just legged it straight outta there. Straight down the motorway....till we saw this place and saw you....and we're in court in the morning in Plymouth.' 'In court?' I asked. 'Yeah...we're off down to Plymouth. We're in court at eleven...burglary...we'll probably get sent down.' He said it as though it was not their first time in trouble with the law. 

'Are you hungry?' he then asked me. I was surprised and said 'Err..no..I'm alright.' He then asked his friend 'Shall we go get something to eat?' His friend mumbled something and they both got up and disappeared around the corner. A few minutes later they came back carrying sausage rolls and a cooked chicken. I had an idea what they'd been up to but didn't bother to ask. The skinheads sat up either side of me eating sausage rolls and passing the chicken across me to each other as they took turns to tear it apart.

A short while later one of them lay down next to me. His mate stayed sat upright, looking down into his lap as I drifted off between them.

My alarm did its thing at 5am and I knocked it off quickly. The skinheads were sleeping soundly and I managed to extracate myself from between them without waking them up. I made my way back across the roundabout and got my thumb out. I was picked up about half an hour later and was ready on shift at 8am, telling my other waiter friends all about it as we dished out English breakfasts and cups of coffee.

Many years later, about 6 or 7 years ago now; I was back in Devon re-telling this tale to an old friend of mine who hadn't heard it before. To my astonishment, at the point I mentioned the skinheads he said 'The Mad Monk.' My old friend was from South Devon, not too far from Plymouth and he had met the skinheads some years previous. They had told him a tale of terror, a tale of happening upon a 'Northerner' behind the bins at the Little Chef on the M5. My mate was as cool as a cucumber when he told me the tale from the skinheads perspective. I was amazed and exclaimed that this must be a million to one chance. 'Not really,' my mate said. 'In fact when they told me the bit about the Northerner I thought about you. I'm not surprised it was you in the slightest.'

So if you ever find yourself on the M5 heading north towards the Taunton junction, just take a little look out to the left. There on a hill next to the motorway, is a church, a church I have driven past and hitched past many times now. And every time I pass, I look closely at the windows and wonder if one day I will see 'The Mad Monk' standing there....moaning.....in the darkness.

I hope you enjoyed the tale. 

Keep a look out for the next Hitchhikers adventure coming soon.

Until then may your thumb be kind to you,

STEEMONKEY