It was of course my intention to forego sleep even longer and head straight into packing mode, the essentials all in one large bag, a big old army sack I bought one time and then regretted because there’s nothing that smacks of pretentiousness  as a civilian who buys combat gear. But I had to sit down, I just had to, I was shattered. And of course the moment I slunk down in my armchair I was out for the count. In fact so shattered I was and so easily into sleep I fell that I don’t recall slinking down into my armchair. I remember returning to the apartment and then I remember hearing a loud banging on the apartment door.

BANG BANG BANG!

That banging.

My body froze. I found myself unable to move. Who the hell is that? The police is my first, indeed my only, thought. It was of course a mistake to sleep but in that I had no choice in the matter. There was nothing for it, I had to hide. And there was but one place to hide. It was not a good hiding place. In fact as hiding places go you’d be pushed to find one worse. But, unlike falling asleep I did have a choice. I could of course open the door and embark on a lot of explaining and hope that, in time at least, and a time that does not drag out into years, that I’m believed. With hindsight that is what I should have done. But I was convinced that I could speak truth until I was blue in the face and would never be believed. I had convinced myself that I had no choice. That the only thing I could do was hide, then disappear and recreate a new life for myself elsewhere. So I went to my crappy hiding place, which was out through the bathroom window and lowering myself over the window ledge, where I hung by my fingertips, my feet pressed against a drain-pipe (fortunately at the place where it can take a man’s weight, which is to say where it is bolted to the wall). There was no question of dropping down. Not unless I wished to break my neck. As heights go I wasn’t that high up, but high enough to do myself an injury should I fall. Besides which, the landing was neither soft nor unimpeded. Concrete, dustbins and various household junk, including a supermarket trolley, which still seem to turn up in the oddest of places and despite the added precautions supermarkets now take to prevent their theft.

I was guilty of this particular supermarket trolley theft. The memory of it returned to me now. A silly little memory and I won’t bore you with the details. It’s just one of those private happy memories back when my relationship with Linda was still young and fresh. Before we labelled ourselves a couple and it went rapidely downhill after that.

I was hauled back into the present by the sound of my apartment door being forced open. And then nothing, no further sounds. Apart from the ambient ones all around me of street and traffic noise.

But from the apartment: no sound.

What was going on inside there? Who was inside? Only one person or several? My fingers were aching, beginning to feel the strain, despite my placing as much of my weight as I could on me feet pressed against the drain-pipe and wall. It really was a stupid hiding place. And, I realized, zero chance of being believed now. An innocent man simply doesn’t hide. Except of course they do. When they’re scared.

I was aware also that if anyone looked out of the bathroom window they would see my fingers. And this, in fact, is what happened. A man’s face suddenly appeared over the edge and looked down at me. It was not smiling. But neither did it look particularly mean. But somehow I knew it was.

“What are you doing there?” It said.

“Oh, just hanging around,” I said. I always attempt humour when I’m nervous.

“When you’re finished you and me need to have a chat,” it said, and disappeared.

Well, that was odd. On the other hand perfectly in keeping with the theme of the past night. Now it seemed I was presented with a choice again. Not much of one. I could continue to hang around out here, until I fell to certain injury. Or I could pull myself up and climb back into my apartment and see what this individual wants to chat with me about. I wasn’t entirely certain that the latter option was to be preferred, but on the other hand, where there’s mystery there’s also hope.

So I plumped for the latter option, and found myself continuing to hang around.

Huh.

A problem.

I had insufficient grip of the ledge in which to pull myself up with. It looked like I would be going with the first option after all. And then, as if he had read my mind, the face appeared.

“It occures to me that you might need a hand,” it said. “Or possibly two.”

“If it’s no trouble,” I said.

“No trouble,” it said. And two hands, attached, naturally you might say, to arms, appeared and hauled me inside. Once inside, he extended a hand to me, freed from its’ previous task, smiled and said, “Peter. Peter James”.

“Huh,” I said, shaking his hand.

“And you are – ?” Peter said.

I hadn’t wanted to give my name. But then I’m the sort of person who shuts the stable door after the horse has bolted.

“Stahl. Jack Stahl,” I said.

Carol Higgins’ husband, John, shook his head as he said, “Who could do such a thing? If he was here now, this minute, right this minute, I’d squash his face into his brain.”

“I’d hold him down,” Carol said. “More ice cream”, she added, this time addressing the child, as she took the empty ice cream container away from her. The little girl, her chops smeared with Chocolate ice cream, smiled a big yes.

Carol dropped the empty container in the bin and opened the freezer and took out the last tub of ice cream. “Last one, I’m afraid,” she said, and removed the lid and set it down in front of the girl, who immediately began tucking into it with gusto.

There was a loud noise from outside, the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass.

“Shit, what was that?” said Carol.

“I’ve no idea,” said John. “I’ll go see.” Which he did.

***

On the other hand, maybe I’m not lost. Follow the sound of the police car siren. It’s possible that it’s dealing with some other matter unrelated to me, the taxi and the abducted girl. But it’s a safe assumption that it’s not. If that came out correctly. Heck, you know what I mean. You’re a smart crowd.

***

The police car, siren blazing, lights a-flashing, sped on. Inside, at the wheel, was pc Plodder. This was not, of course, his real name; it was a nickname bestowed upon him by his colleagues who undoubtedly found it funny, or just slightly amusing, at least at first, now it had simply stuck, and if his real name were used, few knew who it was referring to. He was simply Plodder, pc Plodder, and he hated it. But what could you do? Once a name had been given to you, and accepted by all else, that was it, it was now your name, the name you were known by. Whatever other name might be on your passport, such as your real name, the one your parents lovingly gave you, is neither here nor there. He hated it even more when “plodder” was shortened to “plod”, as if Plodder was his real name and Plod his nickname. In a sense, this was so. The few times of the year – Christmas, Birthdays, the occasional wedding – when he saw his family and old friends from the neighbourhood, and they’d say, “Hey, Michael, how are you?” he’d wonder who Michael was for a moment, and one time, embarrassingly so, even looked behind to see who was standing there. This he hated the most, that his own name, when used, sounded wrong to him. So actually, Plodder was his real name. Not the one on his passport, not his legal name, but real by virtue of being the one that those he now spent the majority of his current life in the company of, knew him by.

Seated beside him, riding shotgun as it were, is pc McGinny, a true English hating Scot, which is odd when you consider he now lives in England and has done for many years now. When questioned on why, if he hates the English so much, he doesn’t live in Scotland, he replies that he hates the Scots more. When then quizzed why he doesn’t choose some other part of the world to make his home he spits out, “Because I’m British, you heathen bastard!”. The truth of the matter is he’s a miserable sod whose only happy when he’s unhappy. Just one of life’s little paradoxes. (Which incidentally, is yet another thing that Plod hates, that he is always, almost always, picked to partner McGinny. Some people are just born to lose.)

Plod took the corner too fast, skidded horribly, managed by some miracle to straighten the car and promptly crashed into the back of the taxi. Fortunately the little girl was no longer inside all trussed up and gagged, being inside one of the houses, free of ties that bind and gags that gag, chomping greedily down on ice-cream, instead. But unfortunately neither officers were wearing their seatbelts. McGinny wasn’t because he felt it wasn’t what real men did, and Plod hadn’t his on because… Well, he used to wear his seatbelt. But every time he did so, and when partnered with McGinny (which was most of the time) he’d get an ear full of McGinny-isms on the theme of real men don’t wear seatbelts. It seemed easier somehow to not bother with his seatbelt. Which is a shame for him, because instead of two broken faces against the smashed windscreen, they’d only be the one.

***

I reached the end of the street and turned into the next and am happy to report that I recognized it. Or rather, what the street contained. Unfortunately, that’s as far as my happiness extended for the sight that greeted me was a two car pile up involving one police car and one taxi. And a lot of nosy gawkers – or perhaps they were concerned citizens – crowding around it. I couldn’t see the girl. Maybe she was inside the taxi, or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she was hurt, or maybe she wasn’t. Either way, I could see that my wallet and phone, wherever they were, were lost to me now. So I performed an about turn and headed back the way I had just come. Because it was definitely time to get home, pack up my stuff and go. Go where I didn’t know, but gone was what I needed to be. Because I was now on the lamb, as I believe the expression is.

Except I’m not.

My wallet, it’s gone.

I’m patting my pockets frantically, digging my hands deep into them and coming out empty. Well not empty as such. Keys are present. Tobacco tin, lighter, accounted for. A piece of partly used kitchen towel, also present. One snail – snail? Why’s there a snail in my pocket? Oh, back on the garden wall, the poor blighter who couldn’t get in on the action with the two other snails and so went off to sulk. Well bud, you can’t sulk in my pocket. Here, try this garden wall, you never know the snails here might be more accommodating. With the frustrated snail deposited on the wall I return to the inventory of my pockets. All present and correct except for my wallet. That sad to say is still missing. It’s at times like this that I wished I kept my oystercard separate from my wallet. Not much of a consolation and absolutely zero once I’m home and slept.

I’ve lost my wallet, I say to the driver as I step aboard, but he’s one of the bastard sort. I consider refusing to get off the bus and kicking up a bit of a scene but a quick glance at the customers I decide it would be unfair to some and the others look to be on the verge of hostility already. My antics would be the mere firing pistol. So I step off the bus and watch it go. Great, no wallet and for that matter…

I route around in my pockets again. Shit. For that matter, no phone either. Where did I lose them both? If it was inside the taxi then goodbye anonymity and hello fugitive from the law. Just you try to proclaim your innocence now jack-ass. But there’s a good chance that it fell out as I was running away. Hopefully not immediately after I began running, so if I retrace my steps… damn! If I try to retrace my steps. And so, trying to recognize the roads I ran along, looking distinctly different now that my vision is not jogging about and blurred, I attempt to retrace my steps, keeping my eyes peeled for my phone. I don’t have much hope, but I might get lucky. It would be the first stroke of luck I’ve had all day if I do.

I haul down on the steering wheel  left, then right, swerving the taxi  around the person in the road. But the thunk of fleshy body against  metal body tells me that either I didn’t swerve soon enough or wide enough. My foot slams down on the brake pedal. The taxi’s wheels lock and there’s the smell of burning rubber as the taxi continues its’ forward momentum for a few feet longer.

***

Hilda Batty, a large plump black woman, woke up that morning feeling that it would be the last morning that she would ever do so. She didn’t like the word “gifted”, didn’t really hold with that sort of nonsense, and yet she couldn’t deny, not when she was being honest with herself, that she did see things happen before they did. It was, purely as an aside, how she knew that what you saw on the news or read in the newspaper, was more often than not a pack of lies. When she read a newspaper it was as if someone had been there first and highlighted all the lies for her. It got that she rarely bothered to pick up a newspaper any longer, she didn’t see the point. Being uninterested in lies and generally seeing things before they happened it sort of rendered them moot.

So Hilda awoke that morning feeling that it would be her last. She had seen a taxi in her dreams hurtling along too fast, the driver’s eyes though on the road in front were not really on the road, not seeing the road, his mind distracted with too many thoughts all cascading together. But she also saw that it, her death caused by his taxi – no, not his taxi, the taxi he’s driving – is the beginning of the end for him. As the result of that accident he stops, goes to her, sees that she’s gone, that he’s become a murderer – or, rather, a manslaughterer, if that’s a word. He turns back to the taxi, sees a small crowd of neighbours, some dressed for work, others still in nightwear. A child has looked inside the taxi and is now running back to his mum. The message spreads quickly, the man can see it spreading, watching the expressions on the neighbour’s faces changing from neutral to hostile. And so, even though he is not guilty of any crime and certainly not of the one that is in the minds of those neighbours, he runs. He runs away from them, turns and bolts it, urging his legs to move faster, no that’s not fast enough, move faster, dammit!

I see nothing but the dark street. But after a moment I hear the loud CRACKSHOT sound again. I’m still unable to decide whether it’s a car or a gun but I lean towards a car if only because statistically that is what it is more likely to be.

And then I see a car – a dilapidated old banger really – turn into the street. It stops. Only one headlight working, and that hardly above a dim flicker. I feel as if I’m in a scene from a western at high noon – if 3am is the new noon and the London backstreets are the new American West.

It’s just sitting there, it’s engine low and sickly sounding. And then the CRACKSHOT sound again as the engine splutters aloud. I’m sorry if it’s a cliche, I really am but statistically it was always more likely to be a car backfiring. I know guns are becoming a more common feature of English cities – or should I say “less rare” for they are not yet a common feature of our cities.

A door in one of the houses across the street flies open and a man comes out. He seems cross and judging from his bedroom appearance I can’t say I’m all that surprised. He sees me and heads straight over.

“Are you aware what time it is? There are people trying to sleep,” he said.

“Not me making the racket my old chum,” I said.

“What in god’s name –” he begins but doesn’t finish. Uh oh. He is looking behind me, into the taxi’s trunk. Straight at the trussed-up little girl.

“Let me explain,” I said. But he is in no mood to listen to me, jumping immediately to a conclusion and refusing to budge from it. He’s a big man, bigger than me by quite some distance, but all us men have a weakness and though it pains me and makes my eyes water to have to confess to exploiting that weakness it really was the only thing I could do. Oh I could have fled but only a guilty man flees. So I took my course of action, wincing as I did so and almost feeling the pain as much as he did so. Certainly I was in sympathy with him. I uttered a non-vocal apology, lifted the child out of the trunk and deposited her in the back of the taxi on the rear seat. I will have to free her from her bindings and gag later.

“I really am sorry,” I said, as I got in behind the wheel of the taxi and drove away. The old banger was no longer on my mind, which is unfortunate for it was tailing me.

I held my body taut, my ears straining to bursting and then I heard the unmistakable sound of a thud again; it was coming from behind and below me: from the trunk of the car.

Okay, here’s where I get out the car and go look. Except I don’t want to. Not alone, not in the dark, and how un-macho that makes me sound! Hmm, when you put it that way…

I get out the taxi and edge my way round to the trunk. I really am this furtive; this street seems to have grown darker! Now that has to be my imagination. It can’t actually have gotten darker. Actually yes it could if the council is after saving money, and councils are always after saving money. Not after saving you, the rate payer, money, I add, but them money so they can get their greedy mitts on even more but maybe I am being unfair, guilty of defamation here. Although in fairness I haven’t actually named names so can’t be guilty – GET A GRIP! TAKE A PILL FOR THE VERBAL DIARRHOEA, MAN!

I “get a grip” and sanity returns to my brain. I’m at the trunk now, and put my hand on the handle and prepare to open it. I heave in a deep breath and, with equal vitality, expel it. Then I open the trunk of the taxi.

At least, that is my intention. Only to find it’s locked. Good, is my first relieved thought. I tried but it’s locked. But then I hear the thud again, much louder this time, considering my position relevant to the source. And I’m over-whelmed with guilt: what if there’s a person, or an animal, inside, possibly suffocating. And here I am thinking of myself!

Hearing the engine  ticking over reminds me that the keys must be to hand, so I walk round and retrieve them, and return to the trunk once more. Okay, time to open the trunk. I slot the key in the lock, give it a half twist and the trunk cover pops up a fraction.

I step back quickly, a purely defensive move I hastily add. Nothing jumps out. And after a moment, or perhaps that’s three moments, I start to feel a little bit silly. Night-time spooks and the waning effects of alcohol on a browbeaten mind and all that. I step forward and open the trunk. It’s possible at this juncture that my mouth has dropped open into a gormless “O” for staring back at me is a little green-eyed, auburn-haired girl. She looks no older than ten years old. Or, for that matter, younger.

What the hell?