Again, my head was a spinning bag of mush. Some rhythmic, treacly sound oozed through the air—music, I guess it was called. It played over the train station’s public address system. It must have been present before. I just hadn’t noticed it filling the gaps between train announcements.
And then I could feel the bench pressing hard against my back, digging deep into my thighs. The old lady who had been sitting next to me was gone. I was relieved to find myself alone. The station was empty, not a train or passenger in sight.
I must have left my brain behind in Root, because when I glanced up at the clock, I couldn’t remember how to tell time. It had something to do with the position of those fast and slow hands, but I might as well have been staring at a pile of runes.
A man stepped out from behind a support column. He was smiling, but not in a friendly way. A bulge protruded from his denim jacket that was obviously the barrel of a pistol.
His mouth moved and made noises, but it took a long while before I could process his sounds into meaningful words. He spoke with a thick brogue, but it was my head that was the problem. This was the worst post-Root hangover I had yet experienced. It left me feeling positively brain-damaged.
And then—suddenly—the music became Van Morrison, the clock told me it was four in the morning and the man started making sense.
“I said, you’ve run a long way, haven’t you, mate?”
I wasn’t sure I could talk yet, but words found their way out.
“What do you care?”
“I care about the price that’s on your head, mate. And ain’t it my lucky day? They just upped the ante. Somebody out there’s real anxious to find you. Got your face plastered over all of Europe.”
I kept staring at that lump in his jacket.
“Are you gonna shoot me?”
“Not if I can avoid it. You’re worth more delivered alive than dead. But it’s a decent enough bounty dead, in case you’re getting any ideas. Now get your arse off that bench and do exactly what I say.”
I stood slowly up, my body creaking and aching from all the abuse I had been inflicting on it lately.
“Where are we going?”
“Shut your face and walk towards that exit ramp.”
“Wait a minute. Why should I? If they’re just gonna waste me ... I mean … why don’t we just get it over with here?”
He shoved me hard. “I said get along. We’re going outside.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “Why should I go with you if they’re just going to off me?”
His eyelids flickered. “You don’t know that. Maybe they just want to talk.”
“Yeah, right. Sounds like I don’t really have any reason to go. You might as well shoot me now. Why don’t you? Are you scared?”
“Scared of what?” he chortled. “I’m not scared of no little yank twerp. Now get your arse moving.”
“You never killed a man before, have you?” My eyes scanned the station for some sign of activity, but there was absolutely no one here, not even a bum.
“I’ve cracked plenty of heads in my day. And I’d be happy to oblige and blow out your brains if you don’t get along! Even dead, you’re worth a decent wad of quid.”
He shoved me along. I moved as slowly and clumsily as possible, feigning an injured leg. Karla had warned me not to leave the station, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stall. The guy was getting pretty nervous and pissed off.
