The train station was ten minutes from the hotel on foot, but we covered it faster. The first trains left around five. Two were bound for the Marshes, four minutes apart: one with four stops, the other six. We boarded the carriage on track two. It was empty — we were eighteen minutes early — but waiting openly was unthinkable. The mob knew we were in Shortridge and were closing in. Worse, the local police were also hunting us. If they caught us first, we were dead.
My lungs and throat burned from the sprint. The air was colder and drier than the previous days. My fleece-lined coat helped, and Smith had been smart enough to snatch one of Mark's jackets when we fled, but neither protected us fully from the biting cold. As we caught our breath, the electric door at the back of the carriage slid open. Smith signalled for silence and peeked out — he was closer to the aisle.
"It's just the train attendant," he sighed, sitting back. Cautiously, I looked over the headrest to confirm the man entering the saloon wasn't a killer. Relieved, I sank into my seat.
"The train attendant!" I exclaimed bitterly. "Stingy bastard will throw us off when he finds out we have no tickets or cash to buy them! Even my badge won't stop him!"
"Don't worry, Officer. We can afford a ride or two," Smith said cheerfully, producing a few banknotes from his pocket.
"Where did you get those?" I whispered surprised.
"Well, after dinner yesterday while you were showering, I slipped downstairs to Mark's office and borrowed some money from the cash register. After what he did to us, he owed me that much," he said, eyes gleaming, a playful grin spreading across his face.
"I should've handcuffed you," I muttered, turning away so he wouldn't see me smile.
Our respite didn't last. Right after Smith paid for the tickets, we spotted four Arnavuts sprinting down the platform. One barked orders, directing the others to search. They suspected we were on one of the Marshes trains and split up. We didn't see them board, but we knew they were checking the carriage on track four while two others inspected ours. We bolted for the rear of the coach. As we reached the gangway bellows, one of the Arnavuts entered our compartment — a tall, broad-shouldered man with pockmarked skin and a paralysed left side of his face. He blocked our escape, drawing his gun and forcing us into a corner.
"You're in big trouble, Anglo-Saxon," he slurred through his thick accent.
"Excuse me, I didn't quite catch that. Could you repeat it, please?" Smith sniggered in his most snobbish Anglo-Saxon tone.
The Arnavut stepped forward and punched Smith in the face. At that instant, the door behind him slid open. The train attendant appeared in the doorway.
"What's going on here?" he asked, confused, taking in the scene.
The hitman spun and fired once, killing the conductor with a shot to the chest. Smith seized the moment of distraction, grabbed the fire extinguisher from the gangway wall, and smashed it into the back of the Arnavut's head. The mobster staggered, reached for Smith, then collapsed. We stepped over his body and jumped off the train. Smith started to leap onto the tracks to hide under the platform, but I called him back and pointed to the underground passage. A train to Seaside had just arrived at platform one. I urged him to hurry.
"Wait - but this train goes the opposite direction!" he exclaimed.
"Exactly. They won't look for us there! Get in!" I dragged him aboard by the sleeve.
Our train departed four minutes later. We hid behind the curtains, watching the mobsters search for us.
We reached Seaside an hour later and waited another hour for the next Marshes train — the one that took a longer route, avoiding Shortridge. It would take more time, but I refused to risk running into the Arnavuts again if they were still in the city.
We spoke little during the journey. Smith was struggling with the betrayal by Mark; the hurt showed beneath his usual bravado.
The Marshes greeted us with their usual grey unwelcoming chill. We arrived at Central Station during rush hour. A large, impatient crowd waited on the platform, shoving and shouting at disembarking passengers. An aggressive Gaul grabbed a young woman by the arm as she struggled with her luggage on the steps. She tumbled, splitting her eyebrow on the platform edge. A scuffle broke out between outraged witnesses and the rude man. I could have intervened, but I zipped up Smith's coat to hide my uniform instead.
Smith suggested tea in a nearby coffee shop. We took a corner table by the window.
"Despite everything, I must admit I had a great night's sleep, Officer. How about you?"
I watched him chew a biscuit as he spoke. I searched for sarcasm or mockery in his voice, but he seemed genuinely unaware of what had happened.
"No, I couldn't sleep," I replied curtly.
"Oh? Why?" He sounded surprised.
"Because someone was snoring!" I said, raising my eyebrows.
"I'm so sorry, Officer! You should've woken me!"
I said nothing – God knows I had tried.
"By the way, did anything strange happen last night," he paused. "Like me sleep-walking?"
He gazed at me. Steam from his hot tea curled between his parted lips. I saw his pupils dilate through the haze. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I read the knowledge in his irises. I saw it all reflected in his eyes: myself asleep, a hand pulling down my bathrobe, exposing my breast; that hand caressing me; my moans; the arousal my voice stirred in him. Blood rushed to my face.
"You filthy bastard! You weren't sleep-walking!" I hissed, lunging to scratch his face. Smith caught my wrists mid-air and pressed his lips to them, trying to soothe my rage.
"Do you realise what you did? That was sexual assault!"
I was seething, unable to free my hands, irritated by his hot breath on my skin.
"That's not true. Nothing serious happened. Besides, I'll never do anything you don't like. But you liked it. That's what's bothering you. You know it's true and you can't stand it." He caught my index finger between his teeth and sucked on it. I glanced around, worried someone might see. Thankfully, the other customers and the owner paid us no mind.
"I wondered how you'd react," he said, letting my wet finger slip from his mouth. "I hoped you would just give in and enjoy it. But I didn't expect you to respond like that - as if you knew exactly which strings to pull. And I must say, I loved … Oh my God, they didn't!"
Smith paled, staring above my head. I turned. A flatscreen TV on the wall showed the news. Photos of Smith and me appeared in the bottom right corner. The anchor announced that police were searching for an Anglo-Saxon convict who had kidnapped a Gaul officer.
"What the hell is this?! Why didn't the Marshes agency stop this from airing? Aren't they supposed to be on your side?!" I whispered, undoing my braid to hide my face with my hair.
"They never promised protection when I agreed to gather evidence. Besides, they probably don't know about you yet. This report will surprise them, too. We need to leave." Smith pulled Mark's coat hood over his head as more people entered the café.
We caught a tram leaving from Central Station. Once aboard, Smith cornered me so other passengers couldn't see our faces.
"Not so close, Smith," I pushed him back slightly.
"I have to. People are staring at you. They notice how beautiful you are and want a second look. By the way, I like it when you wear your hair loose." He pressed closer as the tram stopped and a group of young people shuffled chaotically to the doors.
"Where are we going?" I asked as the tram quieted, ignoring his intense stare.
"A safe place. We can stay there until I contact the Marshes police and hand over the USB drive."
We got off in a typical Marshes neighbourhood. Grey buildings rose on both sides of the tramway, their rooftops seeming to lean towards each other, creating an oppressive tunnel. The road spiralled in concentric circles — pavement, rails, and lanterns blurring together. The longer I stared, the more my head spun.
"How can anyone live here?" I shook my head to dispel the oncoming headache.
"I've lived here for three years since I arrived in Gaul. It's no worse than the place I used to own in Albion," Smith confessed.
We walked through narrow passages smelling of rubbish and sewers, deeper into the Marshes' shady underworld. I had known it existed, but I had never imagined setting foot here.
"You used to own? You sold it? Is that why you came to Gaul?" I asked, curious.
"No. There was another reason," he said pensively, then changed the subject. "Officer, can I rely on your confidentiality? The place I'm about to show you is my only refuge — no one knows about it. It's very important to me that it stays secret." He stopped in front of me, looking into my eyes, waiting.
"Smith, I just want this situation resolved so I can go home safely. Once it's over, I'll forget I ever met you," I said firmly, though an inner tremor betrayed the lie.
At first, I had seen him as a detainee to return to prison. But learning he was entangled in something far bigger — beyond my precinct's borders — I realised it wasn't my fight. I had no influence over the outcome. So, there was no reason to play hero and pursue him after he delivered the USB drive. The Marshes police would handle him.
"Well, in that case, we're here!" he exclaimed cheerfully.
Smith led me to an abandoned three-storey brick building — the last in a row of similar structures, enclosed by a tall spiky metal fence. The grounds were overgrown with dry trees and thorny dead rose bushes. The ground-floor windows were boarded up. Smith approached the fence and opened the rusty, creaking gate — the sound made me shudder.