He doesn’t make a sound, only walks on behind me, both his gun and his eyes hot on my back.
“The least you could do is tell me who you are.”
No response. We walk on.
“I’m August Blackthorne,” I tell him. “I’m guessing you know that. But you should also know I’m a very nice person. And… there are people who care about me. I’m even seeing someone, and this would be really upsetting for him.”
An obnoxious snort-laugh breaks from him.
Clearly no respect for emotional ties. Let’s try a different tack.
“I think I know why you’re here. You want to put a stop to it. My universe-hopping. Is that right?”
My shoulder rings painfully with the slap of his open palm. I assume he’s telling me to turn down this alley. And fuck that for a joke.
“You don’t need to do this. I’ve got a plan. I’m really close to figuring this?—”
One of my feet stumbles beneath the other with the violence of his next shove, and my arm scrapes against the wall, mossy red brick biting deep into my skin. I swivel around, regaining balance with the thump of my other shoulder into the same wall.
“I’m not fucking going down there,” I snap at him. “So if you want to kill me, then you’re just going to have to do it right here, in the main street, in front of all these little kids, and families, and…”
The air evaporates from my lungs when he raises the gun right to the centre of my forehead.
This is it. This is how I die.
I force myself to lock eyes with him. I’m not going down like a coward. I’m going to haunt the fuck out of this bastard.
“Move,” he grunts in a weird, hoarse, half-whisper.
That’s all the hesitation I need. Muscles coiled in complete fight or flight, I dive on him, taking him by surprise, knocking the air out of him. His finger yanks the trigger when he goes down, and a spatter of broken brick flies across my temple. Screams go up. A metallic clatter rings out against the high buildings as the gun falls. I scramble for it, but even in his winded state, he lands a good punch to my stomach, sending me crashing to the pavement beside him. He rolls, scrambling for the gun.
And I bolt. I’m pretty sure a guy who can throw a punch like that is fitter and faster than me, but if I can stay where it’s crowded and lose him…
The Tube.
Back the way I came, I sprint two blocks as fast as I can, my stomach screaming at me from the punch I just took. Cars screech, people swear and shout as I dodge between them running towards the station. Thank Christ people in this country know to stand on the right on escalators. Sharp clangs sound with every hard step as I overtake them, but I’m only halfway down when a second set rings out behind me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Down and onto the concrete, I veer around the corner.Ah, fuck, which line, which line… I scan the board while I’m running. Next train in one minute. Victoria line.
A flash of pale blue off to my left alerts me to the direction, and I run for the turnstiles. There’s a queue, of course, but fuck this. I dive onto the thing, scrambling clumsily over the top,people shouting at me from both sides, then one voice louder, clearer above the lot. “What do you think you’re doing, mate?”
A conductor? I slip to the floor, scrambling back up on the dirty tiles, and vaguely see some guy in a black coat and hat.
“He’s got a gun!” I shout, flinging my arm somewhere behind me.
There’s an instant commotion, a slowing of things as everyone who heard me comes to terms with the horror of that statement. Then screams, every head turning so irresistibly my eyes can’t help but follow.
Boom!The bullet whizzes past me, smashing into the wall. It’s complete chaos—a hundred people scrambling for safety, vying to get out of the subway. I’m swept along in a wave of people who have no idea where the fuck they’re going, just trying to get away.
“August!”
But I can barely hear him in the crush of screams and seething terror. The train’s here, right on time, and news can’t have got to the driver yet because it stops at the platform. The doors gasp open and a hundred people pour onto it, spreading thick and fast to its corners. Half of us crouch down, shoulders, hips, legs crushing into me as I try to work my way up the carriage. People are crying out out, “Close the door! Close the door!” Shoving back and back and back.
Then, there’s a breathless silence, the carriage as full as it can be, the platform sweepingly empty.
Finally, that stark and sweet sound: “Doors closing. Please stand clear.”
Thwump. They’re closed. The train moves.
