Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

Pope wondered as he drove how the girl would react. She’d be terrified, no doubt. But someone who could keep their cool and escape from a murder scene with a purposeful journey in mind, someone who was a civilian and not accustomed to the sordid arts of death, had to have something about them that was tough. He had no fears that she’d be difficult to subdue or keep under control; but she might make life a little more difficult than he’d been expecting.

Of more concern to him now was the fact that there had been a murder or murders from which she’d had to flee. Either she’d killed somebody who’d been following her — unlikely, he thought — or someone else had got caught in the crossfire. Either way, it suggested some other party was pursing her. He couldn’t think of a reason at the moment, and it nagged at him.

There’d been one mention of her as a girl on the recording he’d listened to and committed to memory. He didn’t like to submerge himself in the remembered diary while he was driving, for obvious reasons, but he did want to explore that mention of her again. It would have to wait.

A flash of inspiration hit him, a thought so blindingly obvious that he was astonished at himself. He turned on the car radio. In an age when all news was assumed to be obtainable solely online, he’d forgotten about the tried and tested medium of local radio.

The stations were unfamiliar and he flicked through them at random. Loud rock music was followed by sickly country fiddles. A talk show host ranted, an evangelist roared. He settled on a quiet-sounding political debate programme and waited for the news broadcast.

It came after fifteen minutes. Police had been called to an apartment in Greenbrier, Charlottesville, after neighbours had reported sounds of a struggle and shots fired. Two individuals had been identified as having been shot dead, their names not yet released. The Charlottesville PD would like to speak to a Ms Nina Ramirez in connection with the shootings. A description followed.

Two people dead. She definitely hadn’t killed them. Friends, then, probably, who’d got in the way.

But in the way of whom?

*

He was on Interstate 95 passing the town of Dumfries when it happened.

The news had ended but he kept the radio on at a low volume, in case of updates. He’d been thinking about something else that had been bothering him but hadn’t risen to his full consciousness until now: why was she going to Washington, anyway?

The blacktop curved leftwards, the lights arcing through a light patina of drizzle on his windscreen. Traffic was still steady, but lighter than it had been nearer Charlottesville. He suspected it would begin to thicken as he neared the capital.

The bus was fifty yards ahead of him round the curve, stopped on the hard shoulder at a slant so that it blocked half of the outermost lane. Its hazard lights were flashing. Cars swerved irritably into the adjacent lane to avoid it. Even from a distance Pope recognised the Greyhound markings on the side visible to him.

He eased the brake down, slowing and at the same time shifting towards the hard shoulder.

A car was parked behind the bus, a nondescript saloon, its headlights on. The streetlights cast the bus’s windows into shadow so that Pope couldn’t detect any movement through them.

He stopped behind the car and killed the engine. Waited a moment, winding down the window to listen. All he could hear was road sounds: distant truck horns, cars steaming past through the thin rain.

Pope stepped out.

As he did so the hazard lights of the bus switched to a single blinking indicator and its exhaust billowed. With a rumble it pulled away on to the road.

Pope’s impulse was to dive back into his seat and fire the engine but a stronger instinct made him approach the car, his posture slightly stooped and loping. He peered in. There was nobody inside.

A yell hit his ear on the right. A man’s shout.

Pope straightened and stared in its direction. Beyond the safety rail on the side of the road, a bank sloped down into darkness. There was some kind of scrubby field below the Interstate, undeveloped land.

His night vision was still impaired by the brightness of the headlights he’d been facing for the last couple of hours; but if he couldn’t make out details, he could still see the outlines of the figures moving at a clip across the ground.

The one in front was a woman.

Pope vaulted over the railing and half slid, half scrambled down the slope.

Between Charlottesville, Virginia and Washington D.C.

Monday 20 May, 11.25 pm

An hour into the bus ride, Nina began to notice the car behind, and wonder if it was following her. Half an hour later she was convinced.

It was a dark grey sedan, with the Toyota symbol on the front. Nina didn’t know much about cars — didn’t drive, herself — so that exact make wasn’t clear. Sometimes it was right behind the Greyhound, sometimes it dropped back a car or two; but always it was there. When the bus driver put on an unaccustomed burst of speed and overtook a truck ahead of them, the Toyota followed suit and swung into place at their rear.

Nina couldn’t see through the windshield in the darkness. This wasn’t surprising, but the blackness of the glass seemed sinister, as though there was an added veil of secrecy about the vehicle.

Glad that she’d chosen the rearmost seat, she nonetheless felt nervous about turning and staring back through the window. Surely the occupants of the Toyota would see her waxen face peering through the glass at them? But then it didn’t matter; they knew she was on the bus, and whether she’d spotted them or not would be of no relevance.

A road sign loomed as the bus slowed temporarily: Washington D.C., 42 miles .

Nina made her decision.

Barely trusting her legs to support her, she wove to her feet, lifted the violin case and picked her way down the aisle towards the front, brushing newspapers and barging jutting elbows and knees. As she neared the bulging glass face of the bus she saw the driver’s eyes in the mirror, wide and wary. A crazy , he’d be thinking. He’d have had experience of them. Of the likes of her.

When she got close enough to make herself heard without violating his personal space, she said, low and shakily: ‘Please stop the bus. I need to get off.’

For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard, and she cleared her throat to repeat herself when he said, ‘Miss, I need you to sit down. Right now.’

His voice was low and warning, as though he’d had to deal with this kind of scenario before. She took a step back to show she wasn’t a threat, wasn’t going to seize the wheel from his hands.

‘There’s somebody following this bus. I need to get off.’

‘I said, you need to sit down. Or I’ll call for a police escort.’

The idea struck her that this might be a good idea, and she suppressed a laugh. Then she remembered that she couldn’t be sure the police weren’t in on it.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Stop the bus, let me off, and go on your way. I’ll be out of your hair.’

‘I’ll also be in breach of the rules.’ He was a tired-looking fifty. In profile she could see he hadn’t shaved since at least that morning. His expression said: I don’t need this .

Nina wavered, turning to look back down the aisle. The passengers nearest her were either asleep or lost in private worlds of sound embedded in their ears. One or two people gazed incuriously at her.

She considered wandering back to her seat. Then she thought of the headlights behind, picking out her silhouette against the rear window.

She hefted the violin case and leaned forward and muttered, as menacingly as she could manage: ‘I’ve got a gun. Stop the bus.’