A bus journey. There’s a stowaway in the luggage compartment. I know she will cause deaths now, and later, in November. I draw my pistol, and approach the compartment. Others question my use of the weapon. I explain that she could be armed, I don’t know what to expect. My weapon isn’t loaded, but she won’t know that. I’m asked to wait, but I know I have to act.
I knock the door open. I can see her legs. She’s messing with something. I order her out, at gunpoint, onto a chair. She is small and cute and bespectacled. She doesn’t look like a mass murderer. She asks for a cushion. I send someone to get her one, wary of being distracted.
She begins to speak to herself, other voices, men’s voices. Other characters. She has multiple personalities. My pistol has changed, it is now a handheld crossbow, with a metal bolt loaded, with a hint of cream cheese.
She’s gone. I don’t know how or where. We check the cctv. I’m about to give up, when I remember she was messing with something I couldn’t see. I think she escaped on a fast forwarded tape. I suspect that the cushions are Al Qaeda style IEDs.
I tell everyone to get out.
We fast forward the tape, looking for her. No luck.
I am on a pavement. A large row of military books is behind me. I notice one, that my friend has recommended, is called UNT. I wonder where the C is. A corporal throws a rusted chain into the roof of a house, cursing the soul of the long dead prisoner it came from.