Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

David crossed to the window. As he had guessed, a police car was parked outside. The six-metre drop was sheer. No escape that way. Across the street, a uniformed officer emerged from a flat, touched his cap at the owner and walked on.

So the local police were carrying out house-to-house enquiries in pairs. The officer in David’s pub was still checking.

Silently, he turned off the light. With the darkness came a taste of safety. The moment ended when footsteps stopped on the landing outside and he heard the landlord say, ‘There’s one in here. Bit of a character. Popped out with a Dodger not more than half an hour ago. Under-aged.’

Another voice: ‘Come back, did he?’

The landlord: ‘Oh, yes. Came right back.’

‘Did he.’

David could not move. He needed a plan. The window was not an option. The fall would hurt him badly. He had to think of something else.

His thoughts jammed.

Think, think.

Get out, get out.

The policeman knocked. David had anticipated it, but he drew a sharp breath. He sank to a crouch. Would it make him more difficult to see? Would it provide a moment’s advantage?

‘This is the police, sir. Open up.’

David reached into his jacket pocket.

The landlord said, ‘I’ve got the master key.’

The policeman, quieter: ‘Go on, then. Unlock it. Just unlock it and step back. Understood?’

David drew the stun gun.

In his ear, Ego said, ‘The latest story was filed at the BBC—’

‘Ego, shut up.’

‘Understood.’

Silence beyond the door.

‘Do you hear something?’ asked the landlord.

‘Only you, Sam. Hurry up.’

David imagined the two of them standing there, wondering what lay before them, what the fugitive would do when cornered. He looked down and saw their shadows move in the gap of light.

A key turned in the lock.

David raised the stun gun. The laser-sight put a red dot on the door. His finger tightened. If he squeezed hard enough, two barbed darts would fire at the speed of air-rifle pellets. Each would trail a conducting filament. On contact with the chest, they would lodge under the skin and unleash 50, 000 volts. The leaflet had been quite specific.

The shadows paused.

Suddenly, a third voice erupted: ‘Delta Two from Delta Three, over.’

‘Go ahead Three, over,’ said the policeman. It took David long seconds to realise that the new voice had come from the policeman’s radio.

‘Report of a six-four in progress, end of Main Street. Request assistance, over.’

‘Three, I’m assisting, over.’

David froze in his marksman’s crouch. The landlord asked, ‘Aren’t we going in?’

The policeman scrambled downstairs. ‘A six-four is an assault, Sam. Takes priority. You stay here, eh.’

The policeman’s footfalls became quiet, then clear and brisk as he ran out into the street. David kept the weapon trained on the door and his eyes on the shadow of Sam, the landlord. The door was still unlocked. Sam muttered something and stepped away. Finally, he toddled down the stairs.

David held his position until his calves prickled with cramp. Only then did he exhale and stand. He rubbed his legs. He took another breath and pocketed the gun, shaking his head at his outstanding luck.

He walked to the window and parted the curtain. The policeman was running down the road and David felt a momentary guilt. He had been ready to electrify that man.

David took his helmet, confirmed the presence of his rucksack, and moved to the door. He pressed his ear against it. There was no sound. It opened on an empty corridor. He made his way downstairs, low and sideways. He heard the far-off sound of a jukebox, some laughter, and breaking glass. At the bottom of the stairs, he risked a glance into the bar. The landlord was not there.

David took three huge steps across the entrance and slid through the door. The street was deserted. He swung the helmet over his head and jogged towards his bike. It was a mistake to act like an escapee, but he had too much spare energy. He slipped into the alley and noted, with relief, that the bike had not been moved. The old woman’s window was closed and dark.

He climbed aboard the bike and made ready for the long ride, pausing often to listen for running footsteps or a shout of alarm. Finally, he zipped his jacket and kicked up the stand. The alley was too narrow to turn in, so he waddled the bike backwards to the pavement.

‘Ego, can you interface with the bike’s computer?’

‘No. It has not responded to my attempts at communication.’

‘Fine. Listen, the bike computer uses a vocal input. I don’t want to get the two of you confused. From now on, I’ll refer to you by name if I’m talking to you.’

‘Understood.’

David cleared his throat. Still no police. He held the brake, turned the key and pressed the ignition. The bike rumbled to life. Its windscreen rose and the suspension settled. The display gave him the time, his fuel load and a route map. He had enough petrol for one hundred kilometres on the straight. The excitement of escape began to lighten him.

‘Ego, what do you think will happen when the police learn I’ve disappeared?’

‘The local traffic division will move to a high state of alert. Records indicate that the local constabulary has one helicopter. If it locates you, the probability of reaching Heathrow is almost zero. You must find a motorway to leave the area before roadblocks are set, then transfer to minor roads to avoid detection.’

‘Bike computer, show me the fastest route to the nearest motorway.’

A map appeared. He could be on the A1 in less than twenty minutes. He would pass through settlements called Walshford, Fairburn and Darrington. Names he would never remember. He could make Leicester without stopping for fuel.

He rolled to the junction and looked left. The two police officers were standing only metres away. They had their backs to him. Between them, being berated vigorously by one, was Janine. Her eyes briefly touched upon David’s. Her expression did not change. David nodded.

He turned in the road and coasted away, retracing his route along Main Street.

‘Bike, change colour.’

The motorbike rode through one pool of streetlight with a silver finish. By the next, it was midnight blue.

‘Ego, read me War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy.’

‘“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Bonapartes. But I warn you…”’

Mrs McMurray, Saskia’s landlady, gave her a key with a plastic St Andrew’s Cross as the fob. Saskia took it and closed the bedroom door in her inquisitive face. She had fantasised about collapsing on the bed and sleeping dreamlessly, but her mind had not spent its momentum. It turned over still, rolling facts around, testing them, tasting them. The words on the wall. Shakespeare. The Fates. The death of Bruce Shimoda. The first bomb in 2003. The second bomb. Proctor. Back to the words on the wall.

By the pricking of my thumbs.

Minutes later, she lay stretched on the bed. Her nose was cold. By the pillow, her glasses were folded and dark. Near her feet was the dusty envelope, unopened. It read: ‘Do not open this envelope’.

She walked to the sash window. She might have been looking from the window of an apartment on a quiet, cold night, back in Berlin.

Something wicked this way comes.

The Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she measures a length. Atropos, she cuts it.

Spin, measure, snip.

The window was jet, smoky with hints to the scene beyond. The impressions merged and snapped into focus. A human face.

Whom do you hunt?