I’ve worked at the Tesco petrol station on the A272 for three years now. Night shifts, mostly—11 PM to 7 AM. The pay’s rubbish, but I’m twenty-two and still living with my mum, so basically any job’s better than none. You get used to the silence, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the occasional lorry driver coming in for energy drinks and a piss. But you also get your regulars. The people who keep the same strange hours you do.
Martin was one of those regulars.
Every single night, 2:47 AM exactly, he’d push through the doors. Always wore the same North Face jacket, always bought the same things: large black coffee, two scratch cards, packet of Marlboro Gold. We’d got to the point where I’d have his coffee ready, you know? He’d nod, I’d nod, maybe exchange a “cheers, mate” or comment about the weather. That was it. Three years of the same routine.
I mean, I didn’t know his name was Martin until later. To me, he was just Coffee Guy. The bloke who never smiled but wasn’t exactly rude either. Just… there. Reliable as clockwork.
Looking back, I realize I should have paid more attention to the details.
It was a Tuesday in October when things got weird. Martin came in at 2:47 AM, same as always. But that night, something felt off. He seemed—I don’t know—thinner, maybe? His jacket hung differently on his shoulders. And his face looked pale, waxy almost, like he’d been ill. When I handed him his coffee, his fingers were freezing. Properly freezing, like he’d been standing outside in the cold for hours.
“You alright, mate?” I asked.
He just stared at me. Not through me, exactly, but like he was trying to remember who I was. Then he blinked, picked up his items, and left without a word.
I felt my heart sink a bit. Maybe I’d overstepped. We weren’t friends, after all.
The next night, same thing. 2:47 AM. Martin shuffled in, bought his usual. But this time I noticed his shoes were caked in mud. Properly caked, like he’d been walking through a field. And there was this smell—damp earth and something else I couldn’t quite place. Something sweet and wrong.
“Been hiking?” I tried to joke.
He didn’t answer. Just handed me exact change—cold coins, wet somehow—and walked out into the darkness.
I watched him through the window. He didn’t get into a car. He just walked down the road and disappeared into the trees near the layby.
That’s when I started feeling properly uneasy. I mean, everyone’s got their quirks, but this was different. The Martin I knew always drove. I’d seen his silver Vauxhall hundreds of times, parked right under the CCTV camera.
Maybe I was just paranoid. Night shifts do that to you—make you see problems where there aren’t any.
About a week later, around 2:30 AM, a police car pulled into the forecourt. Two officers came in, and the younger one—couldn’t have been much older than me—bought a coffee while his partner asked if I’d seen anything unusual lately.
“Like what?” I asked.
“There’s been some vandalism down at the memorial near the layby,” he said, stirring sugar into his tea. “Someone keeps leaving flowers and scratch cards there. Every night, apparently. Bit odd.”
My stomach dropped. “Memorial?”
“Yeah, for that bloke who died in the crash. Martin Hewitt. About a year ago now—October 15th. Drove straight into a tree on the bend just past here. Dead on impact. Happened at 2:47 AM, according to the report. Poor bastard.”
The mug I was holding nearly slipped from my hands.
“You alright, mate?” the younger officer asked.
I couldn’t speak. My mouth had gone completely dry. Behind me, the clock on the wall read 2:39 AM.
“When you say a year ago…” I managed.
“Yeah, exactly a year tomorrow night. Weird how people get, isn’t it? Obsessive about anniversaries and that.”
They finished their drinks and left. I stood there, frozen, watching the clock tick toward 2:47 AM. My hands were shaking. This wasn’t possible. I’d seen Martin. I’d spoken to him. Given him coffee. Taken his money.
I didn’t want to seem crazy, but I pulled up the CCTV footage from the previous nights. Fast-forwarded to 2:47 AM.
There I was, reaching for a cup. Pouring coffee. Taking coins from my own hand and placing them in the till. Putting scratch cards on the counter. Talking to empty air.
On the footage, I was completely alone.
I felt my heart pounding so hard I thought I’d be sick. The door sensor chimed, and I nearly screamed.
But it was just a lorry driver, looking at me strangely. “You alright, son?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He bought his Red Bull and left. I checked the clock.
2:46 AM.
I should have run. Should have locked the door, called someone, done anything. But I just stood there, watching the clock. Watching the door.
2:47 AM.
The door opened.
Martin walked in. Same jacket. Same dead expression. Same muddy shoes.
Our eyes met, and for the first time in three years, he smiled.
I wish I hadn’t seen his teeth—grey and broken, like he’d been underground.
“Cheers, mate,” he said, his voice hollow and wet.
Then he was gone.
I quit that night. Didn’t even wait for my replacement. Just locked the doors, left a note, and walked straight home in the dark. I didn’t care.
I’ve got a new job now—day shift at Sainsbury’s in town. I never work nights anymore. Can’t stomach them. But sometimes, when I’m lying in bed at 2:47 AM, I hear something tapping at my window. And I know, even without looking, that if I checked the timestamp on my phone, it would read exactly 2:47.
To this day, I still won’t buy scratch cards. And I’ll never forget the sound of those wet coins hitting the counter, or the way his smile didn’t quite reach where his eyes should have been warm.
Some routines, I’ve learned, don’t end just because someone dies.
They just keep going.
And going.
And going.
