Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

A blue light flashed on the dashboard. He glanced down. No, it was a reflection. He turned his head. There was a police car approaching at twice his speed. He indicated left and drifted from the lane.

‘What is it now?’ Saskia snapped at the driver. She was exhausted. They had been delayed at the accident site for over an hour and Heathrow was, at last, only minutes away. Beside her, Jago awoke and scratched his cheek.

‘What’s the description of Proctor’s bike?’ asked Teri, the co-driver.

‘Vague,’ said Jago. ‘It could be a trail bike. Green, but possibly a different colour by now.’

The co-driver whistled. ‘That new?’

‘Yes, that new,’ Saskia said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Look at the bloke in front of us. Can’t be that many Moiré-types on the M4 at this time of night being ridden by a weekender. This year’s registration, too. Fair-sized luggage container on the back.’

‘A weekender?’ asked Saskia.

‘He couldn’t ride a bike to save his life. Obvious from the way he’s sitting on it.’

‘Pull him over,’ said Saskia.

‘Easy, hen,’ Jago said. ‘We can’t pull over every bike we see.’

‘What do you want to do?’ called the co-driver. ‘He’s changing lane.’

Saskia touched Jago’s elbow. ‘Scotty, pull him over. It will cost us five minutes if I’m wrong, but if I’m not—’

‘Fuck it. Teri, give him the news.’

The siren whooped. The headlights blinked. The rider glanced back, wobbled, and changed lane. He seemed uncertain whether to pull onto the hard shoulder or come off at the next exit. Teri activated the siren once more. The two vehicles crossed onto the hard shoulder and stopped.

Dan opened his door. The interior light was abrupt and dazzling. Saskia said, ‘Be careful. He may be armed.’

Dan paused. ‘Armed?’

Saskia sighed. The preferred weapon of the British police was a stern finger.

‘Wait here,’ she said.

She slipped from the car and moved forward until she was standing between the headlights and the motorcyclist, who still sat astride his machine. She touched her gun.

‘I am armed. Switch off your engine.’

The man did not turn. The engine revved. Saskia heard Scotty and the two uniformed officers get out of the car.

Stay back , she thought. I’m in control .

She exhaled and took a pace closer. ‘Armed police. Turn off your engine and show me the key.’

This time a gloved hand disappeared in front of the rider’s torso. Was he reaching for a weapon? The engine cut. She relaxed. She had to think slow. She was in control. She was prepared to draw and fire. Ignoring the Brits behind her, the occasional car roaring by, and the on-off wash of blue light, she drew her gun. The rider’s hand appeared again. It held the keys. The keys dropped to the ground.

Saskia gave further commands and, as she spoke each one, the rider obeyed. ‘Deploy the kick stand. Get off the bike. Move to the right. Face away from me. Remove your helmet. Slowly. Place it on the ground that it cannot roll away. Lie down on your face. Put your hands behind your head. Cross your legs.’

Only at this point did she look behind her. The two uniformed officers had their shotguns trained on the suspect.

‘Finished, dear?’ Jago asked. He walked past her and sat on the rider.

Saskia waited for him to apply the cuffs, then holstered her gun. ‘Well?’

‘See for yourself.’

Her breathing stopped as the man’s head came into view. For a moment, their eyes locked. She smiled apologetically. He looked away.

Jago stood. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Okay.’ Saskia turned to the uniformed officers. ‘It’s not him.’

‘Smashing,’ said Dan. He and Teri gave their shotguns to Jago and hoisted the man to his feet. Saskia followed Jago to the car. She was sleepy and embarrassed. She overheard Dan’s raised voice. They were haranguing the rider over a technicality.

‘I did not think British police were armed,’ she said.

‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’

They leaned against the bonnet and watched the traffic. The air was crisp and smelled of exhaust gases.

‘Sorry, Scotty.’

He snorted. ‘We had to take the chance. What if it had been Proctor?’

Saskia watched the traffic some more. A police car fired past and its blue lights were a racing heartbeat. Seconds later, she saw another motorcyclist.

No. She would not cry wolf again.

David noticed the parked police car and motorbike. A man and a woman were watching the traffic. He checked his speedometer. It read 65 mph. He slowed and drove past, looking straight ahead.

Hard upon midnight, David entered Heathrow’s Terminal Five. He tooled around the multi-storey car park until he found a secluded bay for the Moiré. The engine sighed away and he slid off. He tugged the bike onto its lay stand. He removed his helmet and slapped his face, firmly. He shook his head like a dog throwing off water. He needed to be awake. He needed to be careful.

‘Ego, I’m at the airport.’

‘Excellent.’

David had long abandoned reading human emotions into Ego’s voice, but it was hard to ignore its surprise. ‘Change your clothes. Then find locker J371 in Terminal Five.’

‘Am I going to fly?’

‘I am not in a position to tell you that. If you are captured, it is better you know little in case you jeopardise a future escape attempt.’

David watched his condensing breath. His eyes followed the vapour and continued to stare long after it vanished. Then, after another slap, he crouched in the shadow of a van and removed his jacket. He took off his waterproof trousers, his riding trousers and his hiking boots. He placed them in a heap. He opened the universal storage crate on the back of the bike and retrieved the briefcase. He placed his essential items inside it. There were some non-essential items too. In the escape, he had transported most of the bathroom from The Poor Players .

He grabbed a fistful of underwear from the container and stuffed it into the briefcase. In another bag, he found a pair of tinted glasses, a shaving kit, a wedding ring and a belt. He packed those too. He found a travel iron and wondered why he had bought it. He left it in the container.

There were paper overalls at the bottom. He put them on carefully, though the material was durable. And he put his boots back on, but not his bike jacket. Instead, he took a light coat and threw it across his shoulders. He had become an invisible everyman, albeit a cold, tired one. Along one side of the container was a dry-cleaning bag with a complete suit inside. He rummaged some more and found a bottle of aftershave. He tossed it into the briefcase, closed it, and set about stuffing his old clothes into the bike container with one hand. In the other, he held the suit.

Finally, he closed the container and detached it. He thought of his escape from the farm hands. He had roared from that ditch and jumped the hedge like a champion show jumper. He smiled and patted the headlamp.

‘Ego, can you hear me?’

The computer was inside his briefcase. ‘Perfectly.’

‘Is it all right to leave the bike?’

‘Where better to hide a tree than a forest? There are more than four thousand spaces in this car park. And, because payment is requested on exit, it will be days before suspicions are raised.’

‘Did you read that in a spy novel?’

‘Yes.’

David carried the container and the briefcase towards the terminal building. The pain of the past few days seemed to trot one pace behind. He was nearing the next stage. After miles on the bike, things were moving again. He hailed a Personal Rapid Transport pod and, when it arrived, settled into the driverless four-seater alone.