Bye bye. 8.

Bye bye. 9.

At ten the shot was fired.

Bang!

791

Bang! John felt blood in his ears.

790

Bang! Cody felt a jolt of adrenaline burst through her body.

789

. . . Shit!

Michael Davies swerved violently.

Brakes and tires screeching. The sound bouncing off the walls of the tunnel. The underpass lights disorienting him completely.

Wheels mounting the curb. Passenger door scraping the central wall. Sparks.

Avoiding the figure standing in the middle of the underpass.

A big sway to the right, the car almost tipping onto two wheels.

Back down. Fighting with the steering. More skidding. But past her. Didn’t hit her.

“What the hell . . .”

In control of the car and out of the tunnel, Michael pulled over to the side of the road. Jumping out of the car, he looked back.

A figure. A woman. Dressed in a dark coat and carrying a suitcase (A suitcase? the police would ask, not a briefcase? So, a Samsonite, big, silver) was walking down the underpass away from him.

“Hey!” Michael shouted.

The woman stopped.

“Fucking idiot!” Michael shouted.

The woman looked around her; she appeared dazed, unsure.

She noticed Michael at the exit to the tunnel. For a moment the two looked at each other.

The woman took a pace toward him.

“Would you . . . ?” she started saying.

But the moment passed, the woman turned back and seconds later went through a service door.

Michael waited till the thumping in his chest had calmed and his breathing had evened out, then he got back into the car and drove the rest of the way home.

788

Bang! A man was hit by a train and a woman puked on the platform.

787

Bang!

Blood and God knows what else exploded over the back curtain and John fell to the floor.

There was chaos again.

A woman collapsed. No one caught her. Strong men turned white or were sick on the floor, or both. Some screamed and screamed.

Miles, standing at the back, his hands on the bar shutters, started trembling so hard that it made the shutters rattle like hail on a tin roof. The big bearded comic hyperventilated, puffing out “Oh Gods” with each shallow breath.

Somewhere in Miles’s brain came the instruction to take control of the situation.

He turned to catch the eye of a young bartender who he’d hired the day before to cope with the comedy night rush. She had her hands over her ears and her eyes screwed shut. Miles remembered telling her that the pub was busy but friendly. He hadn’t mentioned the possibility of someone shooting himself in front of her.

Miles turned back. The room resembled a road disaster. He felt his life dismantling around him. Never had he seen such a distraught collection of people. Stumbling and confused, holding on to each other, recoiling from the stage. Sickened by the horrible guilt. We’ve driven this poor man to such an act.

We’re animals.

786