It was a bus journey unlike the usual daily commute through Westminster. Not drastically different, but slathered with a generous helping of nerves, nevertheless. The same old man still sat right at the back, the Daily Mirror obscuring his face, leaving only his tweed cap visible. Last rays of the spring sunset pierced the double decker, the air outside already cooled since an hour before. Black little silhouettes against the cobalt-crimson canvas made for a calming sight, from the Tower Bridge. So the Sun was gradually consumed by the horizon.
But no, the hunched figure was still giving chase.
An intense feeling of nausea rose in the woman’s throat. That monster, whatever abomination it was, always managed to catch up, and reappear just when things were proceeding fine.
Time for a more permanent solution.
