Chloe: The Man with the Rucksack

The Man with the Rucksack

'Miss Halon, I'm Susan Feck, Director of Counter-Intelligence of the CIA. Thank you for seeing me.'

‘Oh, well.’ I say, with a small smile. ‘You hardly gave me much choice.’ The choices being come here, to Susan Feck’s office, or try to outrun eight fully armed men. It had been far too early in the morning for the latter.

‘And you know why you are here?’

‘There really is only one plausible reason.’

‘James Millar?’

‘James. Millar.’ I say slowly, agreeing. Then I sigh. 'What do you need to know?'

‘Well, Miss Halon. Pretty much everything.’

‘Everything?’

‘Yes. You may find certain elements of your – shall we say adventure? – more important than others, while I may find different elements more important. Do you see what I’m saying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ From underneath her dark mahogany desk she pulls out a notepad and pen.

‘So, if you wouldn’t mind starting from the beginning.’

Mentally I rewind, back to the start, back to the first page of the story. Back to the beginning.

'It was two weeks ago,’ I say. ‘Monday morning. I was waiting at my usual bus stop at eight thirty...'

It's one of those bizarre, bright sunny days with no clouds in the sky, and up there it looks so peaceful and warm. Down here it's freezing, windy and I’m surrounded by over flowing green bins that have yet to be emptied into a truck. The nearest one to me smells like rotting fish and cabbage. My face is being brutally attacked by my loose hair and I feel like any second now I'm about to be blown away into the clear blue sky. In all honesty, that wouldn't be too bad.

A man walks by me, in nothing but a t-shirt, jeans and a rucksack, checks the bus times, and then joins me on the wall. He gives me a little 'how you doin'?' nod with a smile,  and for a crazy moment I consider pulling the hair out of my mouth, sticking my hand out and starting a conversation, perhaps something along the lines of 'how can you survive with no jacket?', but I don't.

Instead we sit in the usual silence two strangers would sit in, and I watch as several brown leaves rustle past in some kind of hurried dance. They topple over each other onto the road and are promptly driven over by a lone car.

Eventually the bus turns up, snailing along the road like it's got all day. I take my usual seat by the front and the man, who gets on behind me, stands next to the newspapers. And we're off.

The streets trail behind us. It’s the same as always, and as always I don’t take it in. I stare out, lost in my blank thoughts, every now and then something popping through. Like how I still need to finish that report. Or in what way will Judy Hembridge bug me today? Have they fixed the coffee machine yet? Or – the highlight of my day – where will Brian pick up my lunch?

‘Bit quiet.’ I start, glancing around at the guy who boarded the bus with me. His voice is distinctly American.

‘Uh, yeah.’ I leave him reeling from my ingenious response to glance behind me where, sure enough, there are only four other people. It’s normally half full by now. Am I on the right bus?

I blink as my vision is obscured by a packet of Hula Hoops. I take them, confused, wondering if I’m meant to eat them.

But, alas: ‘Would you mind holding a few things for me?’ the guy asks. He’s unzipped his rucksack and is already pulling out several other things. ‘I think I put it at the bottom.’

‘Sure.’ I accept a book, and over the next thirty seconds he hands me an apple, another book, a smaller bag, something wrapped in tinfoil that smells really bad and some balls of scrunched up paper. I struggle to keep a hold of everything as the bus jiggles about.

‘Don’t worry.’ He says as the apple falls out of my hand and rolls away. ‘One more thing...' What feels like a brick is added to the pile. Then he turns his back on me, rummaging around at the very bottom of his bag.

'Got it...' he says, turning back.

I'm seeing things. I must be seeing things. He isn't actually - he can't really be-

But then he fires the gun, and I find myself lying on the ground, surrounded by the contents of his rucksack. The blast reverberates in the small space, and is quickly joined by more gunshots.

'So you were hit?' Susan Feck interrupts me.

'What?' I ask confused, my mind still on the memory.

'He shot you,' she says, slowly, like I'm insane. 'That's why you were on the ground.'

I take a moment. 'Oh! Oh right. What? No, did I say that?'

She sighs loudly and removes her glasses. 'Then why,' she says, staring me straight in the eye, 'were you on the ground?'

'Um,' and I feel myself blushing slightly at the memory, as I look at this perfectly sensible and well trained CIA agent. 'Well, I jumped, when he pulled the trigger, and… I fell off my seat.'

‘Right,’ she replaces her glasses and straightens up, writing a tiny note on her pad. ‘So he was shooting one of the four people behind you?’

‘Yes. Though, in the end he was shooting at all of them.’

‘Alright. Continue.’

‘So, I'm on the floor...'

'Look out!' I don't even think before I shout out, and he ducks, bending into the fastest crouch I have ever seen. The driver, who was leaning out of his little driving space via the little window, and also pointing a pistol at Rucksack Guy, gets hit by a stray bullet in the neck. He starts clawing at his throat like there's a noose tied around it.

'Hey,' it's the guy, Rucksack Guy. He's crawled into the little space that I'm half sitting in, arms covering my head. 'What's your name?'

'Jane,' I say, not taking my eyes off the gun he's waving in between us.

'Hi, Jane. Could you take the wheel?' At this moment, the bus lurches to the side. 'Driver's not really up to driving us anywhere.'

There's a bang, not from a gun - more like two large objects colliding. The bus sways harshly and we both tip over into the isle, where the firing that had momentarily stopped starts up again.

I crawl like I have never crawled before, clambering over the books that have slid down to the front. I open the door to the driver’s compartment - the current occupier falls out limply onto the ground, whacking me with his arm on the way - and clamber in. Just before the door swings shut behind me, I catch a glimpse of what is happening in the rest of the bus. Three out of the four guys are standing, all of whom are firing guns at Rucksack Boy. The fourth guy has disappeared, except for his shoe which I can just see poking out from under a seat. 

The bus is careering down the road, still going straight but banging every car there is. I grab the wheel just in time to turn the corner, blowing hair out of my face. My heart is beating wildly, I'm out of breath from the super crawl (and plain fear) and I have no idea what's going on, but...

There's no but. That’s it. I'm full of panic and there is nothing that can calm me down.

Rucksack Boy hits the door and the bus swerves to the side as I jump. He clings onto the window, still shooting, and then backs up to hide behind the luggage space.

'Jane, you're doing great!' he calls, giving me the thumbs up. 'Good job. All I need you to do now is take this bus to Cloven Street. You know where that is?'

'I...' He's still holding onto his gun, I see. Black and shiny, held in hands that are completely still. Glancing at mine, I can see they're trembling against the overly large steering wheel, shaking it ever so slightly. Looking back, I meet his electric blue eyes and I find myself sucking in a deep breath.

'Yes, I think so.'

He grins at me. 'Brilliant. Can you get us there?’ I nod. 'Great. Good luck to you.' And he's gone, fighting his way back down the isle. The mirror which shows all to the driver has been smashed, so all I can do is sit and listen to the firing, which soon fades out into punches and growls of pain...

'He killed them all.' I say quietly. 'All four. He reappeared down my end, and I drove the rest of the way. I got the doors open, which took a while, and we both stepped outside. And...’ And I was a complete crazy mess, sweating and stuttering and running two or three steps before remembering he was armed, but she doesn’t need to know that. 'And I asked if he was going to kill me.'

Susan Feck is nodding, scribbling away. ‘Did he say anything to you while you were driving?’

‘Only how lovely a morning it was.’

'And he then let you go?'

'He let me go,' I confirm.