The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1445 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

My whole body felt suddenly very sensitive, perhaps waiting for a bullet through the head or spine. I was very aware of the sunshine streaming through the windows of the car despite the tinting. I was stealing a police car and had a lunatic sitting behind me with a rather large machine gun. There was no way they could let him loose on the streets–he could create mayhem–however, I had a feeling I wouldn’t enjoy how they stopped him. Which meant one thing–I had to stop him first.

I still had a pistol stuck down the rear of my now sweaty trousers and just to emphasis this point a rivulet of salty water ran down my back and under the gun, which I could feel poking into my damp back. I could feel my bra sticking to my chest and under my breasts. My brain was working at a hundred miles a second but there seemed no easy answer–except that whatever happened, my existence in this world was going to end quite shortly.

I wasn’t going to dwell upon it, it stopped me thinking how I could minimise the numbers of other people who might end up sharing my fate. Oh well, everything has to end one day–might as well be today as any other–I’ve achieved more than I ever thought possible and known a happiness beyond anything I could have envisaged in my wildest dreams–yeah, today could be a good day to die.

Then I thought about Simon–was he safe? Would anyone else bring my children up as I’d intended to do, and what affect would my demise have upon them and the others in my family? I felt maudlin for a second then decided I was actually angry.

“Drive, bitch,” urged my unwanted companion.

“I have a name, you know,” I spat back.

He laughed out loud, “Like I care.”

“Sod you, I’m not playing this game you muscle-bound lunatic.” I went to get out of the car.

“If you don’t drive this car, I’m gonna shoot all of them and then you.”

“You can’t drive, can you?” I said, and laughed. I felt my life was only seconds from ending and it gave me a sort of bravado.

“Drive, bitch,” he said loudly, “Or I’ll kill you first.”

“Then what’ll you do? It’s a long walk from anywhere to here.”

“You won’t care, you’ll be dead, bitch.”

“If you call me that once more I’m going to get very angry and then you’ll be sorry.”

He roared with laughter and the car shook gently. I could see that the problem with his gun was that it had to be stuck out of a side window, it was too long to manoeuvre in the car.

“Bitch, I am gonna kill you,” He said very menacingly in a monotone.

“Maybe not,” I turned round and pulling the pistol from my trousers pointed at him. His reaction was to laugh, “Call that a gun?” he laughed and with a sudden movement he slapped it out of my hand. “Now you’re gonna die.”

My head was spinning–it certainly looked as if my luck had finally run out. Then he lurched forwards there was a loud bang and he stopped as blood and brains flew everywhere. He slumped backwards onto the seat, I grabbed the pistol and jumped from the car. One of the men in fatigues walked up and took the gun from my unresisting hand. He was carrying a rifle in his other hand. “Thanks for keeping him busy until I could get in a shot.”

The handcuffed coppers were releasing themselves and I stood there hyperventilating, then was violently sick. Two of the police were grumbling about the mess in their car. Someone had just died violently and they were worried about a bit of blood–okay, lots of blood. Bugger–I was covered in it too.

Jim walked over to me and I fell into his arms and began to sob. “It’s okay,” he said comforting me. “You were so brave–I am so proud of you.”

“I wasn’t brave–I couldn’t find the ignition switch,” I sobbed, and he laughed. “It’s not funny,” I protested.

“No, ’course not,” then he laughed again and I laughed as well.

He wiped the blood and goo off my face with a cloth and bottle of water he kept in his car. I agreed to visit the police station later to give a statement, then wandered off to the yard with all the containers. Jim followed me. “He’s not here.”

“How d’you know?”

“They searched it after the shooting finished.”

“How come they didn’t see muscles and his pea shooter?”

“Good point.” We both began walking and calling Simon.

After about quarter of an hour we’d walked to the opposite end of the yard and we began calling again. I felt so despondent, I’d really hoped we’d find him alive and well but as we walked back and fore along the lines of containers I began to think it got less and less likely.

I called, “Simon,” one last time and thought I heard a banging noise. It was probably from the industrial site echoing and Jim was wanting to get me home so he could get himself back to his office and his high-tech gizmos.

I yelled again and once more heard the bumping. It was coming from a container stacked three high and from the top one. I called again and the bumping responded and this time Jim heard it. “How on earth do we get up there?” I asked, because there was no way I could climb it.

“Stay here, I’ll get help.” With that he ran off, I shouted to Simon that we were trying to organise a rescue and he banged back, presumably to say he understood or to hurry up. Jim came running back with two uniformed policemen. They appraised the situation and went off, telling us both to stay there. Jim and I chatted, and called to Simon–there wasn’t much else we could do.

Suddenly a large motor started up and a crane thing started moving towards us making quite a lot of noise. A clamp thing was secured to the two ends of the container–I hoped we had the right one–and while we were moved out of the way–it picked up the large metal box as if it were a tin can and then lowered it down to the ground.

It took a further five or ten minutes as the locks were forced with crowbars and finally the doors were thrown open–inside it seemed to be filled with boxes and for one horrible moment I thought we had got the wrong one and my stomach did somersaults. Then banging emitted from within and we started to lift the boxes out–they were just a facade to hide Simon, who was sitting on the floor of the thing his hands behind his back trussed up with cable ties and his ankles similarly fixed, duct tape was across his mouth.

As soon as I saw him, I dashed in and hugged him, sobbing all over him. I pulled the tape off and he shouted–he wouldn’t need to shave those bits for a few days. “We couldn’t find you,” I sobbed.

“I’m so glad you did, can you get these things off my hands and feet, I’m bursting for a pee?”